Part 11 (1/2)

Madge was the first to act. In her hand was a large white and green striped umbrella. The girls had lately bought two of them to use out on deck as a protection from the sun, and Madge had caught up one of them as they started out. In the next instant she had climbed the fence that separated her from the field in which the teacher was running and was making for the frightened woman at the top of her speed.

But by this time Miss Jones was completely exhausted. Summoning all her will power, she staggered a few steps, then dropped to the ground, with the bull not more than four yards behind her.

On it came, its head lowered almost to the ground. Then a huge green and white monster loomed up before the animal, and with a snort of mingled rage and horror the bull stopped short in its tracks. The strange green and white object now lunging at full tilt was far more terrible than the small, red, flame-like object that fled its approach.

Rage conquering fear, the bull gave a dreadful roar and made a quick lunge at Madge. She sprang to one side but managed to thrust her umbrella full in the animal's face. With a rumble of defiance the bull dodged the umbrella and made another lunge at Madge. Its lowered horns never reached her. A rope swung skilfully forward caught the animal by the leg just in time. One swift pull and the bull went down. The owner of the animal had witnessed its charge upon Miss Jones and, rus.h.i.+ng across the field, had roped it. The artist who had attracted Miss Jenny Ann's attention had also come to the rescue, but it was really Madge with her green and white umbrella who had saved their chaperon from the bull's horns.

Miss Jones, who had raised herself to a sitting position, stared wildly about her, still firmly clutching the red parasol.

The artist sprang to her side and raised her to her feet. ”It was this that made the mischief,” he said, touching her parasol. ”I shouted to you to drop it.”

”But I didn't hear you,” defended the teacher faintly. Her two long braids of fair hair had become unfastened and were now hanging down her back, giving her the appearance of a girl. ”I heard some one calling to me, or I would never have entered that dreadful field.” Miss Jones eyed the artist reproachfully. ”Was it you who shouted my name?”

”Was it I?” repeated the young man in astonishment. ”Certainly not. I do not know your name.”

”My name is 'Jones,'” Miss Jenny Ann faltered weakly. She was still feeling dazed and weak.

”And my name is 'Brown,'” the artist answered, with an expression of solemn gravity. But the corners of his lips twitched in amus.e.m.e.nt.

There was a faint chuckle from Madge that went the round of the group and, despite the fact that the chaperon's narrow escape had been far from ludicrous, the whole party burst into laughter.

”I am sorry,” apologized the artist. ”Please forgive me for laughing.”

The farmer had in the meantime led the bull away, and now Eleanor and Lillian came running toward the group to see if Miss Jenny Ann were truly hurt. When they saw the whole party shaking with laughter, the two girls exchanged curious glances. ”Luncheon has been waiting half an hour,” Eleanor declared rather crossly. ”Do come and eat it. We would not have come after you if we had known that you were having such a good time.”

Madge glanced at their chaperon, then at the artist. He was evidently a gentleman, and she recognized that he was possessed of a keen sense of humor. It would seem rude and ungrateful to run away and leave him just as their luncheon was announced, when he had raced all the way across the meadow to a.s.sist in the rescue of their Miss Jenny Ann.

”Won't you come and eat luncheon with us?” asked Madge boldly, fearing their chaperon would be dreadfully shocked.

The artist shook his head. ”I'd like to accept your invitation if Miss Jones will second it,” he replied, looking at Miss Jenny Ann.

”You would he delighted to have Mr. Brown take luncheon with us, Miss Jenny Ann, wouldn't you?” Madge turned coaxing eyes upon their teacher.

”I should be very ungracious if I were not,” laughed their chaperon, the color rising to her brown cheeks. ”Mr. Brown will be a welcome guest.”

And five minutes later Mr. Brown was triumphantly escorted aboard their beloved ”Merry Maid.”

CHAPTER XI

AT THE MERCY OF THE WAVES

”Don't you think it would be perfectly lovely to have a mother as rich and beautiful as Mrs. Curtis?” asked Madge, as she tied a black velvet ribbon about her auburn curls and turned her head to see the effect.

She and Phil were dressing for Tom Curtis's sailing party, to which he had invited them the day before and which was to start within the next hour.

”Almost any mother is pretty nice, even if she isn't rich or beautiful,” answered Phil loyally. She was wearing a yachting suit of navy blue while Madge was dressed in white serge. Eleanor, Lillian and Miss Jones, clad in white linen gowns, were ready and waiting on the houseboat deck for the arrival of the sailing party. True to his word, Tom Curtis had brought his mother to call on the four girls the afternoon of the day before.

”I know,” answered Madge slowly. ”But sometimes, when I was a very little girl, I liked to think that perhaps I was a princess in disguise, and that Uncle and Aunt had never told me of it. I used to look out of the window and wonder if some day a carriage would drive up to hear me away to my royal home. That doesn't sound very practical, does it? But, when one has no memory of father or mother, one can't help dreaming things. Don't you think Mrs. Curtis is simply beautiful?” Madge abruptly changed the subject. ”Her hair is so soft and white, and she has such a young face, but she looks as though she were tired of everything. Persons who have that wonderful, world-weary look are so interesting,” finished Madge, with a sigh. ”I am afraid I shall never have that expression, because I never find time to get tired of things.”

”Come on, Madge,” laughed Phil. ”You can mourn some other day over not having an interesting expression.”

”Girls,” called Lillian, ”the Curtis's boat is coming.”

”In a minute,” answered Madge, giving a final pat to her curls.