The Great Oakdale Mystery. Scott Morgan
should he insist on probing private matters concerning me, any more than I should demand to know about his personal history? In fact, in many cases it would be to the advantage of the laborer if his employer were compelled to lay bare such secrets. A great many would be shown up as grinders of the poor, bloodsuckers living and growing fat upon the life-toll of others, unfeeling despots paying their workmen a mere pittance while they piled up riches by what those workmen produced. And some would be branded as dishonest rascals from whom their neighbors would shrink in abhorrence.”
“Jingoes!” exclaimed Hooker, fancying himself enlightened by the vehement words of the stranger. “I guess I know what’s the matter with you. You must be a Socialist.”
The man laughed. “That’s the usual term applied in these days to those who have courage enough to question the honesty and fair dealing of a certain greedy, selfish brand of employers. But I’m not claiming that all employers are of that sort. If they were, conditions in this country would be desperate indeed. But what’s the use in talking to you of such things; you’re simply a boy, and at your age problems of that nature had never troubled me for a moment. At your age,” he continued, something like a dreamy look of sadness creeping into his blue eyes, “I was as carefree and thoughtless as you are to-day. I’d give a great deal if it were possible for me to go back to that time.”
This statement served to convince Hooker that the stranger was carrying a secret locked in his heart, and that the secret was one which gave him no small amount of regret and remorse. Otherwise, why should a man in the very prime of his youth and vigor, a time to which Roy looked forward with eager anticipation, desire to blot out a portion of his life that he might return to the days of his boyhood?
The sad and dreamy look was gone in a moment, and the stranger asked:
“Have you lived long in Oakdale?”
“Brought up there,” answered Hooker.
“Then I presume you know nearly everyone in town?”
“Sure. In a little place like that everybody knows everybody else.”
The man’s next question gave the lad a start: “Do you know any people by the name of Sage?”
“What? Sage? I should say so!”
“Ah!” breathed the man. “There is a family by that name in Oakdale?”
“Yes.”
“How long have they been there?”
“Let me see. About three years, I think.”
“Where did they come from? Do you know?”
“Not exactly, though I believe they came from somewhere in New York State. Why, Fred Sage is my chum.”
“Oh, is he?” The stranger’s eyes were now bright with interest and his manner eager.
“You bet he is,” nodded Roy. “He’s a fine chap, too. We’re gunning together to-day. He’s the fellow I spoke of. I left him back yonder with his dog. Do you know the Sages? If you do, perhaps they might give you a recommendation that would help you get work.”
At this moment the report of a gun, only a short distance away, rang through the woods.
“That’s Fred – that’s him now,” cried Hooker. “I’ll bet he bagged that old biddy.” Then he lifted his voice and shouted: “Hey, Fred! Here I am, out in the road. Did you get anything?”
“I didn’t miss that time,” came back the triumphant answer. “It’s a partridge.”
“The one I was after, I reckon,” said Roy, with a touch of chagrin. “She must have run on the ground so that I lost track of her. Here comes Fred now.”
There was a sound of someone pushing through the underbrush, and Roy, facing the woods, waited for his chum to appear. In a few moments, followed by the dog, Sage came out of the woods, triumphantly holding aloft a dead partridge.
“The other one fooled me and I lost her,” he said; “but I got a good open chance at this old biddy. She didn’t get away.”
“She got away from me,” said Roy. “I’m sure that’s the one I chased, but she gave me the slip all right. I was so hot after her that I came near shooting – ”
He stopped abruptly, his mouth open as he looked around for the mysterious stranger. To his astonishment, the man had disappeared.
CHAPTER III.
THE HOME OF THE SAGES
“Well, what do you know about that?” muttered Hooker wonderingly. “He’s gone.”
“Who?” questioned Fred, reaching the road.
“The man – the man I was talking with. He was sitting right here on this stone when I came sneaking down through the woods, and I almost shot his head off. He rose up into view just in time. Where the dickens has he gone?”
In both directions a strip of road lay in plain view, but, save themselves, there was no human being to be seen upon it.
“When did he go?” questioned Sage.
“After you fired; while I was watching for you to come out of the woods. He was right here within five feet of me. I can’t understand how he got away so quickly without my knowing it. He must have put off into the woods on the other side.”
“What made him do that?”
“You’ve got me. He was a stranger around these parts, and said he was looking for work. There was something queer about him, too. He was a good, healthy looking specimen, and he didn’t seem like a hobo, though his clothes were rather rough. He talked like an educated man. Say, Fred, he asked about you.”
“About me?” exclaimed Sage in surprise. “Why, how was that?”
“Don’t know. He asked if there was a family by the name of Sage in Oakdale and how long they had been there. He must be someone who knows you, Fred.”
“Describe him.”
Roy did so as well as he was able, but his friend did not seem at all enlightened.
“I can’t imagine who he was,” said Fred. “The description doesn’t seem to fit anyone I know. Did he give his name?”
“No; I forgot to ask it. He talked like a Socialist or an Anarchist, although he didn’t look to be a very desperate character. And he seemed nervous and troubled about something or other, but perhaps that was because he fancied he had come so near getting himself shot. When he saw me, with the gun leveled straight at him, he turned pale.”
“I don’t wonder,” said Fred, with a laugh. “It was enough to give anyone a start. I don’t see what made him run away, and I wish he’d waited until I could have taken a look at him.”
“Perhaps he was somebody who knew you before you came to Oakdale.”
Sage frowned a bit. “It doesn’t seem likely, and yet, of course, it may be so. Well, we can’t fret ourselves about him. Let’s go on with the hunt. Spot is getting restless.”
For some time the pointer had been running back and forth in the road, turning at intervals to gaze inquiringly at his master and whine beseechingly. Apparently the dog was wondering why the boys should linger there, with the woods all about them and their success thus far giving ample evidence that there was plenty of game to be had for the hunting.
Absorbed once more in the search for birds, both lads seemingly dismissed all thoughts of the stranger and his puzzling behavior; but, had he possessed the faculty of reading his companion’s mind, Hooker would have been surprised to discover that, far from dismissing such thoughts, Sage was not a little troubled by them. Indeed, so deeply plunged was he in mental speculations that he failed to note when the dog next made a point, and he flushed the bird unexpectedly by the careless manner in which he stumbled forward through the underbrush. Taken thus unawares, he could not recover his self-possession in time to shoot, and, Hooker being in no position to fire, the game got away untouched, not a little to the disgust