On Track for Treasure (6 page)

A
MOST ANXIOUS EAVESDROPPING

D
on't move
, Frances thought. She was too nervous to even mouth the words to Harold, much less whisper them, so she hoped he could somehow hear her thoughts as he sat next to her.
Quiet as a mouse.
They were all quiet now, she and Harold and George, Jack and Sarah—not just to escape the depot matron's attention, but to listen to what Miss DeHaven was saying.

“. . . the youngest ones are less
troublesome
, to be sure. Of course, one must give their grimy little faces a good
scrubbing
before they come off the train so that they're rosy-cheeked and
presentable
, and if they cry a few tears, it's no matter.”

Frances could feel her face growing hot as she listened.

“Besides,” Miss DeHaven continued, “I daresay it's the weepy orphans who get picked first, especially by
sentimental
people who want these waifs to be
family
.” The more she talked, the less musical her voice sounded.

“. . . yes, and as for the older ones, they're just dreadful. Guttersnipes. Ungrateful for the chance to breathe country air and learn the value of hard work. My sister and her husband have taken in several of them, but they're wholly out of control—running away, spreading lies all over town, tormenting my poor nephew . . .”

Out of the corner of her eye, Frances could see Jack smirk a little, and she remembered his story about how the kids at the ranch had thrown potatoes at Rutherford Pratcherd after he punished them with beatings and cracked his whip at them.

“Terrible,” the depot matron was saying. “What can be done about them?”

“Place them elsewhere,” Miss DeHaven replied. “And I'm heading back to Whitmore to do exactly that. . . .”

So what Quentin had overheard was true, Frances realized. Miss DeHaven and the Pratcherds were going to take all the ranch children someplace else. There had been too many escapes, too many “troublemakers.” They could be replaced—maybe even by the children who were coming on the orphan train Miss DeHaven was waiting for right now.

Next to Frances, Sarah was nervously smoothing her braids. No doubt she—and Jack—were wondering the same thing Frances was, the one question that Quentin never quite answered:
Where will the ranch children be taken?

The women were speaking in lower voices now, and Frances and the others had to strain to hear them.

“. . . down to St. Louis, where they will be enrolled in Mr. Edwin Adolphius's school, and—”

“Edwin
Adolphius
?” the matron interrupted. “But doesn't he own a canning factory?”

Miss DeHaven paused and cleared her throat. “Mr. Adolphius runs an excellent
industrial school
for indigent youth.
Perhaps
there is also a factory.”

Frances couldn't believe it. She was itching to write down everything she'd just heard and wondered if she could pull out her book and pencil without looking suspicious.

But just then came the scuffle of running feet, the noise quickly getting closer. She looked up, and so did Jack.

“There you are!” Alexander called out when he saw them. He ran toward the bench, followed by Anka and Nicky. “You found George! We ought to get out of here like the blazes!”

“That stationmaster sure don't like the look of us!” Nicky added.

Frances stood up, her chest pounding in panic. She saw Jack try to put his finger to his lips, but it was no use. The boys' voices could be heard throughout the whole waiting room.

The depot matron stood, too. “You said you were waiting for your papa,” she said, her voice rising with suspicion.

“Whose pa?” Nicky asked.

The matron gasped. “You little liars!”

Miss DeHaven had turned and was staring intently at them. Frances felt an urge to hide her face, but she knew it would make things worse.

“You children . . . where did you
come
from?” Miss DeHaven asked.

Nobody said a word. Alexander and Anka backed away a few steps.
Should we try to escape?
Frances wondered. Nobody seemed to know what to do.

“Has no one taught you to speak when spoken to?” Miss DeHaven hissed. Then her gaze fell on Nicky. “Boy,” she said, “you speak with an accent. New York—the slums.”

Nicky was too stunned to answer.

But Frances glared back at Miss DeHaven. “We . . . we don't know what you're talking about,” she said, grabbing Harold's hand. “We were all just leaving.” Her heart was thumping hard and her legs were trembling. From somewhere outside a train whistle shrieked and it felt like a scream from deep in her brain.

Suddenly, Harold yanked his hand out of Frances's, his eyes wide.
“I think that's Papa's train!”
he yelled.
“We'd better run for it! Run!”
And just like that, Frances's little brother was off like a shot, hurtling straight out of the waiting room.

She and the other six children trailed right behind.

T
HE NOT-ORPHANS

“T
hat was close,” Jack whispered when he could finally catch his breath enough to speak.

The children had made it all the way outside the depot and had dashed around to the side of the building, out of sight from the front doors. They'd stopped for the sake of Nicky, who occasionally wheezed when he ran.

Alexander grinned. “That was some quick thinking, Harold,” he said, reaching down and ruffling the seven-year-old's red hair.

But Jack wasn't smiling. “You should know when to keep your voice down,” he told Alexander.

“How was I supposed to know that Miss DeHaven was there?” Alexander protested. “And besides, what could she do to us—rap our knuckles?”

“She can do plenty more than that,” Jack said. “You should have been there when she was talking to the depot matron. . . .” He and Frances and Sarah quickly explained to the others what they'd just overheard.

“She's awful,” Frances said with a shudder.

Anka nodded. “Her face has hate.”

“Do you think she recognized us?” Sarah asked. “Does she know we're the kids who escaped from the Pratcherds?”

“I don't know,” said Jack. “She was definitely suspicious. And she knows we're from New York.”

On one hand, Jack figured Miss DeHaven despised most kids, especially the down-and-out ones, and couldn't be bothered to remember every orphan train rider. On the other, there'd been a moment back in the waiting room when she'd looked him in the eye, and he was sure she knew who he was. Either way, it was better to stay out of her sight.

By now Nicky's wheezing had settled down.

“Let's head out now,” Alexander said. He turned and took a couple of steps in the direction of the rail yard, then stopped short. The stationmaster was right in front of him.

Jack spun around and saw three porters blocking the other direction.

“There you are,” the stationmaster said with a sneer. “We're here to escort you little wretches to your train.”

“What are you talking about?
We're
going to California!” Alexander sputtered as they were being marched back into the depot. The stationmaster had a steel grip on Alexander's arm and Jack's, too, and the rest of the kids were being firmly led along by the porters.

“I know orphan trash when I see it,” said the stationmaster, “and I will not have you gangs of street urchins in my depot picking pockets and begging.”

“But we're not—” Frances tried to protest, but the stationmaster went right on talking.

“And it just so happens there is a lady here
right now
whose job it is to take care of cases like you. Get you kids out of here, send you someplace where you'll be useful and not such a blasted nuisance. There's a train about to come in. . . .”

They were in the depot lobby now, and Jack couldn't even hear his own stumbling footsteps over the din—hundreds of tapping feet that in the echoing hallway formed the rhythm of a grim march. Marching him to his doom, he thought.

The stationmaster continued, “It's a train full of other orphans like you. The lady here says she can fit you on. Might even get a sandwich. Then you'll be someone else's problem. . . .”

The crowd surrounding Jack seemed to blur as he recognized the figure down at the head of the corridor—the way she stood perfectly still in her fashionable dress with the puffed sleeves. The lobby tiles were highly polished, and Miss DeHaven stood in her own dark reflection.

Jack looked around frantically. Was there another door to the outside? Anything?

“Jack!” Alexander whispered next to him. “We'll make a run for it. Come on!”

“Run for
what
?” Jack hissed. “There's nowhere to go!”

Alexander glared at him, but Jack just shook his head. The lobby was too vast, and all the other corridors were too far away for all of them to attempt an escape.

Still, Jack's mind kept racing as he searched for a way out. They were about to walk past the holy folks, the ones with the signs who were handing out leaflets and apples. Jack noticed the man and the older woman—his wife, Jack supposed—standing with their hands clasped, softly singing a hymn.
PRAY
WITH
US
, the sign read. Jack stared hard at it.
Pray
, he thought.
Pray for a way to get out of this mess. . . .

Then he wrenched his arm free from the stationmaster's grip.
“No!”
he yelled.

“What did you say, boy?” the stationmaster growled.

“No, we're not orphans!”
He pointed to the praying couple. “We're with them!”

The man and woman ceased with their hymns and looked up, blinking. Behind them, the young women and the teenage boy stared with wide eyes.

“Y-yes,” Frances began. “We
told
the station matron our papa was here!” She pulled her arm free, too. “That's our family right there.”

The porters exchanged confused looks. One of them let go of Harold and George, who rushed over to Frances and Jack, nodding in agreement.

“Liars!” spat the stationmaster. “You're lying little wretches!” He shot a look over to Miss DeHaven, who was marching toward them now, her face set in a strange, tight smile. “Now, here's the lady; you're going with
her
—do you understand?”

“No!” Jack yelled, but the stationmaster grabbed his arm even harder. At the same time, the porters seized Frances and the two youngest boys again. “I told you . . . ,” Jack protested.

“That's enough. Let's go,” said the stationmaster.

“No,
that's
enough,” said a deep voice. It was the praying man. “Lay your hands off God's children!”

T
HE FAMILY THAT PRAYS TOGETHER

T
o Frances it seemed as if everything stood still after the praying man spoke.

Jack stood with his mouth half open. The stationmaster's eyes bulged in surprise, and Miss DeHaven paused midstride. But Frances could still feel her own breathing, could hear herself exhaling slowly.

And then the man said, “The boy is telling the truth.”

“Indeed he is,” the woman next to him added.

Suddenly, Frances's arm was free. The porter had let her go. She looked around to see that the other kids were no longer being restrained, but they were looking to her and Jack to see what they should do. So Frances took a few tentative steps toward the couple. Jack and Alexander did the same.

The stationmaster straightened up. “Just what's going on here, Reverend Carey?” he asked the man.

“I might ask you the same thing,” said the Reverend.

The woman—Mrs. Carey, Frances guessed—picked up one of the apple bushels and held it so that Harold and George could choose apples. Which they did, gladly.

“Er, we've had a problem here in the depot with waifs and runaways,” the stationmaster said. “And we have our ways of dealing with them.”

“And you thought these children needed to be . . . dealt with?” the Reverend replied.

“Excuse me, Reverend,” said the stationmaster. “We didn't realize they were with you. Er . . . they
are
with you, is that right?”

Reverend Carey looked over to his wife just then, who nodded back. “I assure you,” he said. “These children are not alone in the world.”

Frances thought it was interesting how he answered the question without
really
answering it. She never knew a preacher to be clever—the ones who ran the orphanage back in New York gave dull, glum sermons on Sundays. But Reverend Carey seemed sharp.

“Though they are certainly spirited,” Mrs. Carey said, looking kindly down at George.

The young women behind them smiled gently. Frances wondered if they were the Careys' daughters. They had the same thick, chestnut hair as the Reverend, and both had chins like Mrs. Carey. The teenage boy, who looked to be about eighteen, resembled Mrs. Carey, too. Like her, he had stick-straight hair the color of clay.

Miss DeHaven approached. “Mr. Barron,” she said to the stationmaster. “
Kindly
explain what is
happening
.”

Mr. Barron looked baffled. “You said these children were orphans, but . . . the Reverend here . . .”

One of the porters spoke up. “Ma'am, Preacher Carey and his wife have been coming to the depot for years. Once a month or so they come from downstate Missouri to spread the good word and speak out against salooning.”

It was just as Frances had thought—the Careys preached about the evils of liquor. Well, from what she'd seen of the drunks on the Bowery, there was good reason to do so.

The porter continued, “They're decent folks, the Careys. They've got a whole passel of children, I believe, all different ages.”

The other porters nodded at this. The stationmaster shrugged, and Miss DeHaven narrowed her eyes.

“Very well,” she said, her eyes darting up at the lobby clock. “Mr. Barron, the train I'm meeting arrives very shortly.
Some
of the orphans on that train will find immediate placements here in Kansas City. . . .”

At the mention of
placements
, Frances's stomach lurched. She knew that those kids would be lined up, and strangers would come and choose them—even separate them from their siblings—and they'd go off to unknown fates.

Miss DeHaven continued, “And then the remaining children and I will board another train at twelve thirty-five and continue west.
So
, Mr. Barron, if you discover
any
orphans here in the depot before then”—she shot a look straight at Frances—“then there will certainly be room for them to join us.”

And with that, she turned and strode away down the corridor, glancing once more at the clock.

The stationmaster tipped his hat in the direction Miss DeHaven had gone. “I'll be sure to check,” he called. “Sometimes we mistake people's children for beggar orphans. And sometimes . . . it's the other way around.”

He said that last part loud enough for all the kids to hear. Then he walked off across the lobby. The porters, shrugging, followed him.

Frances felt almost limp with relief.

“Thank you, mister,” Jack said. “I mean . . . Reverend.” He approached the minister to shake his hand.

After a moment, Alexander stepped up, too. But instead of shaking his hand, he hung back. “Reverend?” he asked. “Why did you suddenly just . . .
help
us?”

“I noticed you all when you first came in here,” the Reverend replied. He motioned dramatically toward the water fountain. “You helped each other when you were thirsty, and I could see that you were good children who deserved mercy.”

“It was as simple as that?” Frances asked.

“Sometimes it is, child,” said Mrs. Carey. She nodded gently at Frances, then turned to exchange a beaming smile with her husband.

Frances felt a twinge of doubt. The Careys seemed like the sort of folks who did nice things but who were awfully proud of doing them. It didn't necessarily make them nice themselves.

Just then Harold nudged her to hand her an apple. “These are the best!” he said, biting into his. Anka and George were helping themselves as well. Nicky and Sarah stood off a little way, still hesitant. The Careys' son and daughters stared back, their faces blank. As for the Reverend and Mrs. Carey, they were now putting their heads together in discussion.

Frances looked over at Jack. She could tell he had the same thought she had:
What next?

Then she heard Mrs. Carey ask her husband, “Do we have enough for eight more train fares?”

The Reverend nodded and smiled at Frances and her friends.

“Eight children,” he said. “A blessed number! In the Bible, eight is the number signifying abundance. We're very fortunate today.”

Frances couldn't imagine how she and the other kids were anyone's good luck, but the Careys seemed to think so.

Mrs. Carey turned to Alexander. “Have you all got your things? If so, we'll get right on the eleven twenty-five to Bremerton.”

Alexander stood there, looking a little stunned. “Er . . . what's in Bremerton?” he asked finally.

The Reverend clapped his hand on Alexander's shoulder. “Why,
home
, of course!”

Frances glanced down at Harold and saw his mouth drop open at the word
home
. She squeezed his hand anxiously.

“Dear,” Mrs. Carey said to her husband with a chuckle, “we really ought to learn their names first.”