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Devotional
Hindu Dance
A Return to
the Sacred

Sabrina D. MisirHiralall
 Devotional Hindu Dance

“Dr. Sabrina D. MisirHiralall is a rare combination of academically based religious

studies, education, and philosophy scholar who is an accomplished practitioner of
Kuchipudi Hindu dance with a faith-based approach to Hinduism. She brings
these qualities to bear on the topic of restoring Hindu dance from a corruption by
colonialism to a postcolonial religious and devotional experience that more closely
relates to the origins of Hindu dance. Through historical recounting and self-­
study, Dr. MisirHiralall makes a case for restoring the sacred in Hindu dance. All
who read this text will benefit from understanding the need for a postcolonial
awareness that comprehends the complexities of religion and culture.”
—Michael D. Waggoner, Professor of Postsecondary Education, University of
Northern Iowa, and Editor of Religion & Education

“Through a postcolonial self-study, Dr. Sabrina D. MisirHiralall challenges con-

ceptions of Hindu dance as “culture” as she reclaims Hindu dance as a form of
sacred devotional practice, with ontological rather than just epistemological impli-
cations. In this book, Devotional Hindu Dance: A Return to the Sacred, Dr.
MisirHiralall also challenges Cartesian assumptions of the split between mental
and physical realms. She illustrates how embodied knowledge and movement can
illuminate important distinctions between religion and culture.”
—Vanessa de Oliveira Andreotti, Professor and Canada Research Chair in Race,
Inequalities and Global Change, The University of British Columbia, Canada

“Devotional Hindu Dance: A Return to the Sacred stands at the cutting-edge of

numerous directions in the study of religion and with our work as public intellec-
tuals to cultivate the common good. Within her creative matrix, Dr. Sabrina
D. MisirHiralall is part of the energy of de-colonialism which deepens and unveils
the ocean of wisdom from the study of Hinduism. Indeed, she is doing something
urgent and necessary: providing a pathway for all of us to follow into the work of
constructive and regenerative engagement with and within the traditions of
Hinduism. As a Hindu scholar/practitioner, Dr. MisirHiralall grounds this trail-
blazing work within her ancestral rooting as a scholar and practitioner of Hindu
sacred dance. Drawing upon the theopoetics of sacred embodiment and the devo-
tional rhythms of dancing for the Divine, in combination with a dynamic decolo-
nial approach, Dr. MisirHiralall provides us with a text which allows the reader to
encounter Hinduism in an unexpected and original fashion.”
—Christopher Fici, Instructor, Religious Studies Department, Iona College, and
Co-Director of Sacred Ecology Forum, USA
 Sabrina D. MisirHiralall

Devotional Hindu
Dance
A Return to the Sacred
Sabrina D. MisirHiralall
Montclair State University
Montclair, NJ, USA

ISBN 978-3-030-70618-0    ISBN 978-3-030-70619-7 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-70619-7

© The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of
translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on
microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval,
electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now
known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information
in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the
­publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to
the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The
publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and
­institutional affiliations.

Cover pattern © Melisa Hasan

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
 Om Satchitananda Rupaaya
I dedicate this text to the feet of Satchitanand (Supreme Being).
My accomplishments are only through the blessings of Satchitanand.
Matridevo Bhava
I offer salutations to the feet of my mother.
Pitridevo Bhava
I offer salutations to the feet of my father.
Acharyadevo Bhava
I offer salutations to the feet of my Guru.
Atithidevo Bhava
I offer salutations to the feet of Guests, who are the readers of this text.
—Taittiriya Upanishad
I especially dedicate this text to my mother,
Choondai “Sonadai” Misir Hoobraj.
Mommy, may your soul always have the blessings of Satchitanand.
Thank you for all of the sacrifices you made for me throughout my entire life.
Please forgive me for my flaws and bless me always.
I love you, mommy.
 Preface

Every morning when my mother awakens, she prays to the Supreme

Being. I remember being a little girl and sitting on my mother’s lap as she
prayed in the morning. My mother took me to mandir (temple) every
Sunday morning during my childhood. Furthermore, my mother drove
from New Jersey to New York weekly to take me to and from dance classes
when I began my formal Hindu dance education as a young girl. I am
beyond grateful for all of the sacrifices my mother made to ensure that I
know and love the Supreme Being. Overall, I grew up in a devotional
home with an atmosphere of love. I remember a plaque that hung in my
mother’s kitchen in my childhood home. The plaque stated, “A house is
made of brick and stone but a home is made of love alone.” This best
describes my home. I have always lived in a place sanctified with love for
family who unite to worship the Supreme Being.
The COVID-19 pandemic of 2020 caused many mandirs (temples) to
close their doors to the public for the safety of devotees. Several mandirs
began to hold satsanghs (religious gatherings) through a virtual platform.
My brother, Pt.1 Bhisham Malcolm “Jito” Misir, held a weekly Sunday
morning satsangh on YouTube. I decided to create a Facebook account,
which granted me access to attend many virtual satsanghs. I soon began to
attend the Dharma Vani satsanghs of the Radha Krishna Mandir in

1
This term is difficult to translate. Essentially, a pandit is a religious leader who officiates
pujas (religious worship) and provides spiritual counsel to devotees. Pandits are similar to
priests, ministers, and pastors, but yet these terms do not adequately define the term
“pandit.”

vii
viii PREFACE

Georgetown, Guyana, where Pt. Rudranauth Sharma, my Raksha

Bandhan2 brother, serves as the pandit. Also, I started to witness the live
virtual satsanghs of the Hindu Dharmic Sabha Mandir, Inc. of the United
States, where my mamoo3 Seetaram “Sonny” Ganesh along with my
Raksha Bandhan brother Shakey Deo Sukhai sing bhajans. On Tuesday
evenings, I would sing the Shri Hanuman Chalisa virtually with members
of the Shaanti Bhavan Mandir, where Pt. Manoj Deokarran Jadubans, Pt.
Dipak Rambharose, and Pt. Ravi Rattan serve as pandits. Pt. Hardat
Ashwar shared 150 Days of Shanti Satsangh virtually from the Bhavani
Shankar Mandir of Brampton, Ontario in Canada. I always had a desire to
dance at satsanghs when I hear devotional music, particularly when the
pandits chant mantras and sing with hearts of devotion. However, dance
no longer occurs regularly at satsanghs, even though dance once had a
crucial role. Being a virtual attendee at the satsanghs granted me the
chance to dance to my heart’s content in the privacy of my own home.
During the virtual satsanghs, I would dance and dance and dance.
I soon began to think about the problems with dance that I encoun-
tered throughout my lifetime within a Hindu community. I danced at
several religious and cultural events, where I often felt reduced to a cul-
tural object of entertainment. It is evident to me that viewers of the dance
need to develop a basic understanding of the origin and purpose of Hindu
dance. Viewers ought to view Hindu dances with a sacred gaze (Morgan,
2005). Moreover, Hindu dancers must develop a framework of Hindu
dance based on Hindu scriptures. I frequently see Hindu dances by danc-
ers that habitually betray the sacredness of Hinduism, which disturbs me
significantly. I acknowledge that my role as an educator is to shed light on
the sacredness of Hindu dance and help individuals develop religious lit-
eracy of Hinduism.
I focus primarily on teaching non-Hindus in my first text Confronting
Orientalism: A Self-Study of Educating Through Hindu Dance
(MisirHiralall, 2017), which develops directly from my larger dissertation
research. In this current text, Devotional Hindu Dance: A Return to the
Sacred, I place attention on teaching primarily Hindus about Hinduism
2
Hindus frequently celebrate a special day called Raksha Bandhan. On this day, a sister may
adopt a brother by tying a symbolic thread known as a rakhi around the brother’s wrist. A
rakhi is similar to a friendship bracelet. The sister honors the brother in many ways. The
brother promises to protect the sister always.
3
“Mamoo” is the term used to describe an individual’s mother’s brother. This term essen-
tially means uncle.
 PREFACE ix

through Hindu dance. I do not mean to create a dichotomy between non-­

Hindus and Hindus. In fact, I urge non-Hindus to read this text because
they will learn about Hinduism. Hindus ought to read my abovemen-
tioned text, since it provides foundational insight on Hinduism. The rea-
son I developed these undeniably intertwining projects as separate texts is
because each text has a distinct pedagogical goal. Non-Hindus do not
approach the text with a theological perspective based on Hinduism.
Thus, I focus on teaching Hinduism academically in Confronting
Orientalism: A Self-Study of Educating Through Hindu Dance
(MisirHiralall, 2017) as I shed light on the problems that I encountered
when dancing primarily among non-Hindus. Hindus maintain a faith-­
based theological stance that stems from Hinduism. Therefore, my goal in
this current project is to enrich the education and worship of faith-based
Hindus while simultaneously teaching non-Hindus about Hinduism.
Moreover, I focus on addressing the current problems with Hindu dance
education in this text.
As I wrote this text, I developed more insight into who I am, where I
come from, and where I am going. These are philosophical questions that
I will always ponder throughout my life’s journey. I am first and foremost
a child of the Supreme Being. In my first text, I state,

If asked who am I, I would answer first by saying that I am a child of a

Supreme Being. For me, as I think of a Cosmic Father and a Cosmic Mother
who are both Ardhanarishvar (One), I would say that I am a child of Shivaji
(The Śiva-purāṇa, 1969), the Supreme Being in Hinduism who is the
Cosmic Father and Durga Devi Ma (Vijnanananda, 1986) who is the Cosmic
Mother. This means that everything else beyond being a cosmic human
daughter is temporary for this life span. I do not aim to say that I am a celes-
tial being but rather what I am saying is that foremost, I acknowledge that I
come from a Supreme Being and hope to merge back to a Supreme Being
upon death. I strongly believe that my life has a meaningful purpose that is
tied to my ancestry, which is why I was born into the home chosen for me
by the Supreme Being. (MisirHiralall, 2017, p. 1)

I come from the Supreme Being and hope to attain moksha (liberation) as
I merge back to the Supreme Being upon death. This text is my attempt
to serve as a representative of the Supreme Being. I humbly ask the
Supreme Being to please bless me throughout my life. The Supreme Being
guides me through the journey of life. I seek the blessings of my parents,
in-laws, and my deceased father. My father’s soul always spiritually blesses
x PREFACE

me. I request the blessings of my brother, who is a Brahman-born pandit,

and my bouji (sister-in-law). I ask for the blessings of my husband. I appeal
to my ancestors and my family members to bless me. I seek the blessings
of my Diksha Guru and my Gurumaa.
I began to write this manuscript when I was pregnant with my first
child Devin D. Hiralall. I worked on several drafts of this text during my
pregnancy and also while caring for my newborn baby. I am incredibly
blessed that I was able to place attention on my scholarship while being a
new mommy. My son was a wonderful baby, who allowed me to pursue
this text. I also had the help of my supportive husband, Dinesh R. Hiralall,
who provided me with quiet time to engage in my research. I am very
thankful to my husband for supporting me with my life goals.
In addition, I must acknowledge my professors and colleagues who
provide endless support for my scholarship. Tyson Lewis is a lifelong men-
tor of mine who inspires me to pursue my goals as a scholar. Even though
I graduated from the doctoral program with my degree, Tyson still advises
me, teaches me, and helps me to navigate academia. David Benfield, pro-
fessor emeritus of the once-joint Department of Philosophy and Religion,
read this manuscript in draft form. His feedback helped me significantly.
David is a lifelong mentor who always asks me critical questions that help
me to gain clarity on my scholarship. Krishna Kishore Dasa (Christopher
Fici) conversed with me about Diksha Gurus and Siksha Gurus as we dis-
cussed the Guru-shishya educational system.
I am grateful to all of my students, who endlessly encourage me to
pursue my scholarship. It is rare that educators meet students who do not
leave them upon graduation. I am very privileged to be a student who has
lifelong mentors and also fortunate to be a lifelong mentor to many stu-
dents who have not left my side. My professors display genuine care for me
and I too sincerely care for my students. Life has taught me that there is a
need to move past the “us” versus “them” mentality that divisions of reli-
gion and culture frequently cause. Social harmony is possible if all of
humanity focuses on caring for the well-being of one another with love.
Interreligious and intercultural relations play a crucial role in uniting
humanity.
With this in mind, I ask that you please read this text critically with a
philosophical lens that aims to understand Hinduism and move beyond
the illusionary boundaries of Hindus and non-Hindus plus the East and
the West. I offer this text as a guide to understand Hinduism through
Hindu dance in a manner that unites humanity. My hope is that this text
 PREFACE xi

will enrich the faith-based practices of Hindus and also non-Hindus will
consider how they may participate in Hinduism among Hindus with sen-
sitivity to Hinduism in mind while maintaining fidelity to their own reli-
gious and/or philosophical identity. On this note, I humbly present
Devotional Hindu Dance: A Return to the Sacred with a heart filled with
love and devotion.

Colonia, NJ Sabrina D. MisirHiralall

References
MisirHiralall, S. D. (2017). Confronting Orientalism: A self-study of educating
through Hindu dance. Rotterdam: Sense Publishers.
Morgan, D. (2005). The Sacred Gaze: Religious Visual Culture in Theory and
Practice. Berkeley: University of California Press.
The Śiva-Purāṇa. (1969). Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.
Vijnanananda. (1986). The Srimad Devi Bhagawatam. New Delhi: Oriental Books
Reprint Corp.
 Contents

1 Introduction  1

2 Religion and Culture in the History of Hindu Dance

Education 29

3 Defining Devotional Hindu Dance 61

4 Basics of Learning Devotional Hindu Dance 95

5 Conclusion117

Index 133

xiii
 About the Author

Sabrina D. MisirHiralall defend

ed her dissertation in the Pedagogy
and Philosophy program at Montclair
State University. Dr. MisirHiralall
published a book entitled
Confronting Orientalism: A Self-
Study of Educating Through Hindu
Dance. In the text, Dr. MisirHiralall
focuses on how she uses Kuchipudi
Indian classical Hindu dance to edu-
cate primarily non-­ Hindus about
Hinduism with postcolonial realities
in mind. Dr. MisirHiralall aims to develop a de-Orientalized postcolonial
pedagogy to confront Orientalism and the long legacy of colonization.
Together with Dr. Christopher Fici and Dr. Gerald Vigna, she edited
Religious Studies Scholars as Public Intellectuals for the Routledge in
Religion Series. In addition, Dr. MisirHiralall published several journal
articles in peer-reviewed journals.
The RangPravesam marked the start of her dance career. She had the lead
role in Krishnarpanam and holds the title of Natya Tilakam, which was
given to her by dance guru, Smt. Sadhana Paranji. She was the solo fea-
tured performer in Contemplative Kuchipudi Dance at Montclair State
University in April 2013.
Dr. MisirHiralall taught in elementary schools and also worked as a
literacy consultant. At New Jersey City University, she taught

xv
xvi ABOUT THE AUTHOR

undergraduate and graduate students in the Elementary and Secondary

Education Department. She also taught for the Philosophy and Religion
Department. In addition, she taught philosophy courses and student suc-
cess courses part time at Middlesex County College (MCC). Dr.
MisirHiralall received the Adjunct Faculty Excellence in Teaching Award
in 2015 from MCC. In the past, she has taught at several institutions,
including Rutgers University, Bergen County Community College, and
the University of South Carolina Aiken. She teaches as an online adjunct
professor in the Educational Foundations Department and the Religion
Department at Montclair State University. She also teaches philosophy
and religion courses online for Three Rivers Community College and St.
John’s University. She serves as an associate editor for the blog of the
American Philosophical Association.
Dr. MisirHiralall is frequently invited to lecture and dance in higher
education, as she presents on Hinduism with postcolonialism in mind. She
is a member of the American Education Research Association, the
American Academy of Religion, and the American Philosophical
Association.

Books
2018 Editors, MisirHiralall, S., Fici. C., Vigna. J. Religious Studies
Scholars as Public Intellectuals. New York: Routledge Studies in
Religion Series.
2017 Confronting Orientalism: A Self-Study of Educating Through Hindu
Dance. Rotterdam, The Netherlands: Sense Publishers.

Peer-Reviewed Journal Articles

2018 Dillard-Wright, D. and MisirHiralall, S. Too Much and Too Little:
Understanding the Water Crisis in the Indian Subcontinent.
Environment, Space, Place, 10/2: 128–146.
2018 (Un)Dressing to Unveil a Spiritual Self. Journal of Aesthetic
Education, 52/3: 23–42
2017 The Theological Misappropriation of Christianity as a Civilizing
Force. Journal of Research on Christian Education, 26/2: 79–104.
2017 The Postcolonial Pedagogical Challenge of Creativity. Religion and
Education, 44/2: 1–18. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1080/1550739
4.2017.1335561
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR xvii

2016 Re-Envisioning Contemplative Pedagogy Through Self-Study.

Teacher Learning and Professional Development, 1/2: 84–96.
2015 Mindfulness as a Pedagogical Tool: Kuchipudi Indian Classical
Hindu Dance. The Arts in Religious and Theological Studies (ARTS)
Journal, 27/1: 33–39.
2014 The Postcolonial Reality of Using the Term ‘Liturgical’ to Describe
Hindu Dance. Journal of Research on Christian Education,
23/2: 154–175.
2013 Dance as Portrayed in the Media. Journal of Aesthetic Education,
47/3: 72–95.
 List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Here, I offer devotional mantras (prayers) before engaging in

Kuchipudi dance during my RangaPravesam 9
Fig. 1.2 Here, I stand in a dance pose at Bayonne High School before
my RangaPravesam after engaging in the contemplative dressing
process for the event. Even before I began to dance on that day,
I felt that I experienced a heavenly realm. It was as if a profound
sense of peace filled my entire being as I prepared for the dances 11
Fig. 3.1 My dance posture portrays my sacred Ghungaroos, which I
dance with 80
Fig. 4.1 Here are a few of my dedicated philosophy students at the
lecture and dance presentation at Middlesex County College in
New Jersey. From left to right: Miles Firestine, Rigo Gutierrez,
myself, Ben Lander, Elyse Gabel, and Shenne Dugtong 105

xix
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dorothy Dale
to the rescue
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Dorothy Dale to the rescue

Author: Margaret Penrose

Illustrator: Walter S. Rogers

Release date: January 6, 2024 [eBook #72644]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Cupples & Leon Company, 1924

Credits: Richard Tonsing, David Edwards, and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOROTHY DALE

TO THE RESCUE ***
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is
granted to the public domain.

DOROTHY WAS AHEAD, LEADING

HER HORSE UP THE NARROW TRAIL.

“Dorothy Dale to the Rescue.” Page

200
 DOROTHY DALE

TO THE RESCUE

BY
MARGARET PENROSE
AUTHOR OF “DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY,” “DOROTHY DALE AND
HER CHUMS,” “DOROTHY DALE’S ENGAGEMENT,” “THE MOTOR GIRLS
SERIES,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
 BOOKS BY MARGARET PENROSE

12mo. Cloth. Illustrated

THE DOROTHY DALE SERIES

DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY
DOROTHY DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL
DOROTHY DALE’S GREAT SECRET
DOROTHY DALE AND HER CHUMS
DOROTHY DALE’S QUEER HOLIDAYS
DOROTHY DALE’S CAMPING DAYS
DOROTHY DALE’S SCHOOL RIVALS
DOROTHY DALE IN THE CITY
DOROTHY DALE’S PROMISE
DOROTHY DALE IN THE WEST
DOROTHY DALE’S STRANGE DISCOVERY
DOROTHY DALE’S ENGAGEMENT
DOROTHY DALE TO THE RESCUE

THE MOTOR GIRLS SERIES

THE MOTOR GIRLS
THE MOTOR GIRLS ON A TOUR
THE MOTOR GIRLS AT LOOKOUT BEACH
THE MOTOR GIRLS THROUGH NEW ENGLAND
THE MOTOR GIRLS ON CEDAR LAKE
THE MOTOR GIRLS ON THE COAST
THE MOTOR GIRLS ON CRYSTAL BAY
THE MOTOR GIRLS ON WATERS BLUE
THE MOTOR GIRLS AT CAMP SURPRISE
THE MOTOR GIRLS IN THE MOUNTAINS
Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York

Copyright, 1924, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY

DOROTHY DALE TO THE RESCUE

Printed in the U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Bad News 1
II. Joe Disappears 8
III. Called Home 16
IV. On the Trail 24
V. Captured 32
VI. More Trouble 38
VII. A Letter from Garry 47
VIII. The Search 55
IX. In the Tree 62
X. A Clue 71
XI. Dorothy Reaches a Decision 78
XII. A Guess 84
XIII. Derailed 90
XIV. The Warning 104
XV. Disappointment 109
XVI. Dorothy Hopes Again 116
XVII. Some Rascals Reappear 123
XVIII. Playing a Part 133
XIX. An Old Friend 140
XX. Real News at Last 146
XXI. Two Scoundrels 154
XXII. A Surprise 163
XXIII. Gone Again 185
XXIV. A Wasted Bullet 194
XXV. The Storm 202
XXVI. A Gentleman 209
XXVII. What Was That? 215
XXVIII. A Voice in the Mountain 221
XXIX. The Dastardly Plot 229
XXX. Captured 237
DOROTHY DALE
TO THE RESCUE
 CHAPTER I
BAD NEWS

“Everything about the old Bugle office seems so changed,” said

Dorothy Dale slowly. “I feel sort of——”
“Homesick?” giggled her chum, Tavia Travers.
“Exactly,” retorted Dorothy. “That gorgeous big printing press
which has taken the place of the one we used to have——”
“The old one-lunger Ralph had charge of?” Tavia again interrupted
airily. “It was funny, wasn’t it?”
“I think it was a dear,” declared Dorothy loyally. “It used to print
the old Bugle in pretty good shape, anyway.”
“Good gracious, Doro, any one would think you were in mourning
for the old Bugle office,” cried Tavia, exasperated. “If you want the
old one-lunger back, I am sure you can get it, provided it has not
gone to adorn an ash heap somewhere.”
Dorothy smiled, but her eyes were wistful. The two girls had
returned to Dalton and were now staying at Tavia’s home. They had
just visited the offices of the Bugle, the paper formerly owned by
Major Dale and which, for a number of years, had been the chief
source of income of the Dale family.
The girls were impressed by the great changes that had taken place
in the newspaper office. A fine new printing press had been installed,
the offices renovated and modernized until all trace of the rather
dingy and shabby quarters of the old Bugle had been lost.
Small wonder that Dorothy Dale, for whom the paper had always
held a peculiar fascination, felt taken aback by the great change that
had taken place during her absence. It was like losing an old and
dear though shabby friend and finding a prosperous but unfamiliar
stranger in his place.
“Do you remember that first assignment of my journalistic
career?” said Tavia, with a giggle. “I thought I was cut out for a star
reporter that time, for sure.”
“That was the obituary assignment Ralph Willoby gave you, wasn’t
it?” returned Dorothy, with a reminiscent chuckle. “My gracious, how
many ages off that time seems, Tavia!”
“Yes, we are growing old and gray,” agreed the flyaway sadly. “I
wonder you haven’t taken to cap and spectacles long ere this, Doro,
my dear. I am sure I can see white hairs gleaming in the sunlight.”
“I hope not. I don’t think Garry likes white hair,” said Dorothy
demurely.
“Speaking of snowy locks, hasn’t Mr. Grant a stunning head of
them?” said the irrepressible girl. “I simply adore that pepper and
salt effect, don’t you, Doro?”
“I guess so,” said Dorothy absently. Her mind was still busy with
the Bugle offices and the changes made there.
“I wish the Major had not sold the Bugle, Tavia,” she said wistfully.
“I can’t forget how I used to help get out the old paper and—I would
like to do it again.”
“Good gracious, hear the child!” cried Tavia, making big eyes at
her chum. “Not hungering for a career at this late date, are you,
Doro? What do you suppose Garry would say to your making a
reporteress of yourself?”
Dorothy dimpled and her eyes began to shine as they always did at
mention of Garry Knapp.
“I suppose he wouldn’t approve,” she admitted. “He is just old-
fashioned enough to think that the man ought to be the only
moneymaker in the family.”
“Well, why not, as long as he can make enough?” demanded Tavia
airily. “That is really the important thing.”
“Tavia, how you talk!” Dorothy rebuked her. “You know very well
you would marry Nat White if he lost every cent he had in the world.”
“Just the same, I hope he doesn’t,” replied Tavia, making a face at
her more serious friend. “I like him very well just the way he is. But it
will be nice when he gets white hair and whiskers like Mr. Grant,”
she added pensively.
Dorothy frowned, then laughed. There was no use taking Tavia
seriously, and, besides, she very rarely meant any of the flippant
things she said.
The Mr. Grant whose hair and whiskers Tavia so openly admired
was the new owner of the Bugle and a dignified old gentleman whom
Major Dale held in great esteem. To hear Tavia refer to him so
flippantly rather shocked Dorothy. But then, Tavia was Tavia, and
there was no use trying to change her.
“I wish the Major had not sold the Bugle,” Dorothy repeated, with
a sigh. “It seems, somehow, like turning against an old friend.”
The two girls walked on in silence through the lovely spring
sunshine, each busy with her own thoughts. They were very happy
thoughts, for both Dorothy and Tavia had every reason to be happy.
During the past winter the chums had become engaged to the “two
dearest fellows in the world.” Nat White, Dorothy’s cousin and
Tavia’s “bright particular star,” to use the latter’s own phrase, was
expected in Dalton that afternoon. At the thought that Nat might
even reach her home before Dorothy and herself, Tavia quickened
her pace, eagerly urging the thoughtful Dorothy along with her.
Garry Knapp, Dorothy’s wild and woolly Westerner—again Tavia’s
description—had returned to his beloved West to cultivate his land
and raise the “best wheat crop anywhere near Desert City.” Dorothy
was fully in sympathy with this ambition. The only part of it she did
not like was the long miles that separated her from Garry and Garry
from her. It was not so very long since she had seen him, yet it
seemed to her like an interminable space of time.
“I bet I can guess what you are thinking about,” said Tavia, reading
Dorothy’s wistful expression. “Are you on?”
“I never bet,” replied Dorothy primly, and Tavia hugged her.
“You blessed Puritan! Just for that I’ll tell you, anyway.”
“You needn’t bother,” said Dorothy hastily, for she was sometimes
afraid of her friend’s intuitions.
“Oh, but I will! You were wishing like all possessed that you could
be in my shoes for one little hour.”
 Dorothy flushed and took refuge in an admonishing:
“How you do put things, Octavia Travers!”
“You were thinking that if your darling Garry were coming instead
of Nat, you would be fox-trotting madly along this road instead of
pursuing your course with every evidence of decorum,” persisted the
outrageous Tavia. “Now ’fess up. Ain’t I right?”
“Maybe—all except the fox-trot,” agreed Dorothy, with a laugh. “I
prefer the waltz myself.”
“Um—dreamy stuff, lights low, soft music,” drawled Tavia. “I
imagine that would just suit you, Doro dear. As for myself, give me
jazz every time!”
“When do you expect Nat?” asked Dorothy, jolted out of her
dreamy abstraction.
“Right now, any minute. We are liable to bump into him at any
corner,” replied Tavia vigorously. “My goodness, Doro, my heart is
palpitating frightfully. I wonder if one ever dies of such things.”
“You won’t, that one thing is sure,” said Dorothy, looking with
admiration at her chum’s flushed face and dancing eyes. “Just now
you look like nothing so much as an advertisement for health food.”
“How unromantic,” Tavia reproached her. “And just when I was
pining gracefully for poor Nat, too.”
“Here he comes now!” cried Dorothy, and Tavia whirled around to
see a tall figure coming swiftly toward them. Nat waved his hat
boyishly and broke into a run. He reached them just as they turned
the corner of the street on which Tavia lived.
“Hello there, coz!” he said, pinching Dorothy’s pretty cheek, then
turned to Tavia.
“Not here in the street, you silly boy,” Tavia said, as the young man
bent over her. “We are almost home. Can’t you wait?”
“Not long!” returned Nat ardently. Then, as they slowly
approached Tavia’s house, he turned to Dorothy, his manner serious.
“I am afraid I have bad news for you, Dot,” he said, reluctantly
adding, in response to Dorothy’s startled glance: “It’s about Joe.”
 CHAPTER II
JOE DISAPPEARS

Dorothy’s face went white and she gripped Nat fiercely by the arm.
“Tell me what it is!” she gasped. “Nat, don’t try to keep anything
from me!”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to, Dot, old girl,” said her cousin gravely.
“That’s why the Major wanted me to break the news to you.”
“Oh, Nat,” wailed Dorothy, “don’t keep me waiting! Tell me what
you mean! What is the matter with Joe?”
They reached Tavia’s house. Nat pulled the two girls down beside
him in the porch swing, an arm about Tavia and his hand gripping
Dorothy’s reassuringly.
“He has disappeared, Dot,” said the young fellow gravely. “But you
mustn’t——”
“Disappeared!” cried Dorothy, interrupting him. “How could he,
Nat? Where would he go?”
“Why, the whole thing is preposterous, Nat!” cried Tavia. “A boy
like Joe wouldn’t do such a thing—in earnest. He must just be
playing a prank.”
“A rather serious prank,” replied Nat soberly. “And one I wouldn’t
recommend any youngster to try.”
Dorothy felt dazed. That Joe, her young and mischievous though
dearly beloved brother, should disappear!
“Nat, did he—did he—run away, do you suppose? Was there a
quarrel or anything?”
“Not a thing, as far as I can find out,” returned Nat. Then he
paused, but finally added slowly, as though he were reluctant to
cause his cousin any further pain: “But there was a rather curious
coincidence.”
“Nat, you are so provoking!” cried Tavia impatiently. “Do come to
the point! Can’t you see Doro is ready to collapse with fright?”
“There has been a fire in Haskell’s store——”
“Good gracious, listen to the boy!” cried the flyaway scathingly. “As
though that could have anything to do with Joe!”
“It may have a good deal to do with Joe; or with his disappearance,
at any rate,” said Nat quietly. Once more Dorothy reached her hand
out pleadingly toward him.
“What has this to do with Joe?” she asked faintly.
“We don’t know, Dot. And, of course, it may not have a thing to do
with him. It seemed rather an odd coincidence that Joe should
disappear on the very day that Haskell’s toy and stationery store
burned down.”
“It was the largest store of its kind in North Birchlands,”
murmured Dorothy, hardly knowing what she said. “And you say Joe
disappeared at about the same time? Oh, Joe, foolish boy, where are
you now? What have you done?”
Dorothy buried her face in her hands and Tavia rose from her
place beside Nat and encircled Dorothy in a strangling embrace.
“Never you mind, Doro Doodlekins,” she cried stoutly. “We’ll find
that young brother of yours or know the reason why!”
But Dorothy was not to be so easily consoled. For years, since the
death of her mother, Dorothy Dale, young as she was, had taken the
place of their mother to her two younger brothers, Joe and Roger.
The boys were good boys, but mischievous, and Dorothy had spent
many anxious moments over them.
The adventures of Dorothy, Tavia and their friends begin with the
first volume of this series, entitled “Dorothy Dale: A Girl of To-Day.”
At that time the Dale family lived in Dalton, a small town in New
York State. Major Dale owned and edited The Dalton Bugle and
upon the success of this journal depended the welfare of his family.
Stricken desperately ill in the midst of a campaign to “clean up”
Dalton, the existence of the Bugle was threatened, as well as the
efforts of the better element in town to establish prohibition.
 Dorothy, a mere girl at that time, came gallantly to the rescue,
getting out the paper when her father was unable to do so, and in
other ways doing much toward saving the day.
Tavia Travers, her most intimate girl chum and as different from
Dorothy as night from day, had helped and encouraged the latter in
her great undertaking. Since then the two girls had been inseparable.
Later Major Dale had come into a considerable fortune so that he
was no longer compelled to depend upon the Bugle for his livelihood.
As a result, the Dale family moved to The Cedars, a handsome estate
at North Birchlands, where already lived the Major’s widowed sister
and her two sons, Ned and Nat White, both older than Dorothy.
At Glenwood School Dorothy started on a different life. Her school
adventures were many and interesting, and in these Dorothy and
Tavia never failed to take a leading part.
In the volume directly preceding this, entitled “Dorothy Dale’s
Engagement,” Dorothy met romance in the person of handsome
Garry Knapp, a young Westerner who dreamed of raising wheat on
his ranch near Desert City. True love followed its proverbially rocky
course with the two young people, but the death of Garry’s Uncle
Terry and the legacy of a considerable fortune left him by the old
man magically smoothed the path for them.
Now we find Dorothy again in Dalton with Tavia, looking forward
to her next meeting with Garry Knapp and, despite all her common
sense and will power, missing him desperately in the meantime.
And to her here had come Nat with this terrifying news about Joe.
What was she going to do? How was she going to find her brother?
She turned to Nat again pleadingly.
“Tell me all about it, Nat; every little thing. Perhaps that will help
me think what I should do.”
“I’ve told you all I know about Joe——”
“But about the fire?” Dorothy interrupted him impatiently. “How
did it start? What made it?”
“An explosion in the back room, I believe,” returned Nat, his
usually merry face clouded with anxiety. “Nobody seems to know
what made it, but there is a general impression that there was some
sort of explosion. People in the neighborhood say they heard a loud
noise and a few moments later saw smoke coming out of the store
windows.”
“About time somebody sent in an alarm, I should think,” began
Tavia, but Nat silenced her.
“You would think somebody sent in an alarm if you could have
glimpsed the number of engines rushing to the rescue,” he retorted.
“I don’t think there was a firehouse in North Birchlands, even the
smallest and humblest that was neglected.”
“Yet they failed to save the store,” murmured Dorothy.
“It was a fierce fire and by the time the firemen turned a working
stream on it, the whole place was gutted.”
“Was anybody hurt?” inquired Tavia, and Dorothy turned startled
eyes on Nat. It was the first time she had thought of that possibility.
“Mr. Haskell was pretty badly burned,” replied Nat reluctantly.
“The old codger would dodge back into the flames in a crazy attempt
to save his account books. They were burned up, of course, and he
came very near following in their footsteps.”
“They haven’t got any, as you know very well, Nat White,” said
Tavia flippantly, but instantly her face sobered as she looked at
Dorothy. Her chum was white and there was a strained expression
about her mouth that made her suddenly look years older.
“You shouldn’t have told her that about Mr. Haskell,” Tavia
reproached Nat. “It wasn’t necessary to go into all the gruesome
details.”
“She asked me,” Nat defended himself, adding in a more cheerful
tone: “Anyway, there isn’t anything gruesome about it. Nobody was
seriously hurt, not even Mr. Haskell. They took him to the hospital to
dress his burns, and the old fellow will probably be up and around as
chipper as ever in a few days.”
But Dorothy shook her head.
“If they took him to the hospital he must be pretty seriously hurt,”
she said, and Tavia gave an impatient flounce in the swing.
“Good gracious, Doro Doodlekins, there’s no use looking on the
worst side of the thing!” she cried. “Let’s presume that Mr. Haskell is
all right and that Joe will turn up, right side up with care, in a few
days.”
 But Dorothy was not listening to her. She turned her white face to
Nat who was watching her anxiously.
“Nat,” she said slowly, “you don’t suppose Joe’s disappearance
really has anything to do with the fire, do you? I mean,” she said
quickly as she saw the frown of quick denial on Nat’s brow, “you
don’t think that—by accident—he might have—you know he always is
getting into all sorts of scrapes.”
“It is merely a coincidence, Dot,” repeated Nat, hoping that the
words sounded more reassuring to his cousin than they did to him.
He knew that they had not when Dorothy caught up his words,
turning toward him with an angry light in her eyes.
“Then it is a very unfortunate coincidence,” she cried. “You know
as well as I do, Nat, that when a thing like this happens and then
some one runs away, his name is always connected——”
“Hush, Doro!” cautioned Tavia, for Dorothy had unconsciously
raised her voice. “A stranger approaches on foot. Methinks he is a
messenger lad.”
The “messenger lad” handed Dorothy a yellow envelope for which
she signed tremulously.
“A telegram!” she whispered, looking from Tavia to Nat. “I—oh,
Tavia, I am almost afraid to open it!”
 CHAPTER III
CALLED HOME

“Let me do it, Doro,” cried Tavia. “It won’t do any good for you to
sit there trembling like a leaf!”
She held out her hand for the telegram, but for answer Dorothy
quickly tore open the envelope.
“It is from Ned,” she cried, as Tavia looked over her shoulder. “He
says Joe has not been found and there has been no word from him.
Oh, I can’t bear it any longer,” she cried desperately. “What shall I
do?”
Tavia put an arm about her chum again, but, as though the contact
had galvanized her to action, Dorothy rose swiftly to her feet.
“I must go home at once,” she cried, turning toward the front door.
“I will go in and pack my bag if you will ’phone for a taxi, Nat.”
Tavia caught hold of her skirt, holding her back.
“But what good will it do you to go to North Birchlands, Doro?”
pleaded the latter, unwilling to have Dorothy’s visit so rudely
interrupted. “You can keep in constant touch with North Birchlands
by telephone and telegraph.”
“But—don’t you see—I must be there, right on the spot!” cried
Dorothy, shaking off Tavia’s detaining hand. “Please don’t stop me,
Tavia. I hate to go, but it isn’t my fault. Will you tell that taxi man to
hurry, Nat?”
Nat promised, and in a few minutes Dorothy, hatted and cloaked
and bag in hand, returned to the porch, ready to go. What was her
surprise then, to find Tavia there before her. And Tavia also carried a
bag!
 “Wh-where are you going?” stammered Dorothy, and Tavia
chuckled.
“With you, you ridiculous Doro,” she said. “Do you suppose for a
moment I would let you go without me?”
“But your mother——”
“Oh, Ma will let me do anything I want to,” retorted Tavia, with a
careless shrug of her shoulders. “She is lying down, so I didn’t even
ask her. Just left a note pinned to the pincushion. When she sees that
she will think for sure I have eloped.”
Dorothy hesitated, a tiny frown on her forehead. She could never
become quite accustomed to the queerness of the Travers household.
Everything in her own home had always been so orderly and
comfortable and normal.
But with Tavia it was different, had always been different, and
probably always would be different. For Tavia’s mother was
extravagant, lazy, and often actually untidy. Tavia, left to the
guidance of her mother, might have had a hard time of it.
But Mr. Travers was different, and though he had never made a
great success of himself financially, he was genial, good-tempered
and lovable. In fact, Dorothy had often, without wishing to be unfair
in the least, attributed Tavia’s good traits to her father.
But now this action of Tavia’s leaving home at a moment’s notice
to return for an indefinite stay at North Birchlands with only a
scrawled note pinned hastily to a pincushion to announce her
intention, seemed all wrong.
“But I want to say good-bye to your mother and tell her how sorry I
am that I have to cut my visit short,” she protested.
Tavia shot her a laughing glance that was still shrewd and far-
seeing.
“She wouldn’t thank you for it, Doro, my dear,” she said, with a
hint of sadness underlying the light words. “Ma never allows any one
to interrupt her afternoon siesta. Anyway,” she added, dismissing the
subject as a taxicab rolled up to the door, “I left word about you in
the note—said you left regrets and all that sort of thing. Come on,
Doro, make it snappy.”
 Dorothy sighed as she handed her grip to Nat and slowly followed
the flyaway Tavia to the cab. There were times when she wished
Tavia would not use so much slang and always be in such a
tremendous hurry. It wore on one’s nerves occasionally.
Once in the cab Dorothy sank back in a corner while Nat and Tavia
conversed in low tones. She was thinking of Joe and what must be
her first action upon reaching The Cedars.
She would go down town, of course, to inspect Haskell’s store, or
what remained of it. She would talk to people in the neighborhood
and find out if any one had seen Joe in that vicinity at the time of the
fire.
But surely no one could have seen him! Joe could have had
nothing to do with that catastrophe! Dorothy thrust the horrid
thought from her mind, only to have it return again with the
question: Then how explain Joe’s mysterious disappearance, and just
at that time, too?
Perhaps the boy had been hurt. Perhaps they had taken him to a
hospital where they had been unable to identify him.
She spoke this thought aloud, and Nat immediately put her fears to
rest, on that score at least.
“The first thing the Major did was to ’phone the North Birchlands
Hospital and two or three others in the vicinity,” he said. “They had
brought in no one remotely answering Joe’s description.”
“Then where is he?” cried Dorothy desperately.
It was just as well that they reached the station at that moment
and that they were forced to run for the train. The hustle and
excitement served temporarily to divert Dorothy’s mind from her
trouble.
Tavia kept up a lively chatter for the major part of the train trip to
North Birchlands so that Dorothy had little time to indulge her
unhappy thoughts.
It was only when they entered the living room of The Cedars and
faced the Major and Mrs. White that Dorothy felt the full gravity of
the situation.
She kissed her Aunt Winnie on the cheek and then went over to
her father, kneeled down beside him and took his hand between her
own.
Tavia’s eyes softened as she took in the tableau, and with a
significant gesture she turned to Nat. The two left the room and Mrs.
White softly followed them. Father and daughter were left alone.
“You haven’t heard anything, Daddy?” asked Dorothy, anxious
eyes upon her father’s face. It seemed to her that the Major looked
strangely old and haggard.
Major Dale shook his head. He had brightened at sight of his
daughter, but at the mention of Joe his face clouded heavily again.
“I don’t understand it, Dot,” he replied. “Joe was always such a
straightforward, dependable lad, despite the little pranks he was
always playing. Wouldn’t be a boy if he didn’t have some mischief in
him. But a good boy at that—a good boy——” His voice trailed off and
his eyes sought the window restlessly.
Dorothy became truly alarmed. Her father was ill, she could see
that—although the Major would be the last man to admit such a
thing. His health had not been robust for some time and now the
shock of this thing had been too much for him.
With an effort Dorothy pulled herself together and spoke
encouragingly.
“Of course he’s a good boy, the best in the world,” she said.
“Wherever he has gone, we can be sure it isn’t very far. We will have
him back in a day or two. You just watch and see!”
The Major smiled and rested his hand for a moment on Dorothy’s
bright hair.
“I hope so, Dorothy,” he said, adding with an unconscious
wistfulness that touched Dorothy deeply: “Everything seems more
hopeful now that we have you back, my dear. I can’t seem to do
without my little daughter any more.”
“You won’t have to do without me ever, Daddy dear,” said Dorothy,
and there were tears in her eyes and in her voice. Then, fearing that
she had betrayed her anxiety over his changed appearance, she went
on in her ordinary tone: “Don’t you think you could snatch a little
rest, dear? I imagine you haven’t been sleeping very well lately.”
Major Dale stirred impatiently and again his restless glance sought
the window.
 “I don’t want to sleep,” he said on a querulous note that Dorothy
had never heard before. “I won’t close my eyes again until we have
found that boy.”
With a heavy heart Dorothy left the room and went in search of
Roger, the youngest of the family and Joe’s shadow. The two boys
were almost always together, for Roger worshiped his older brother
and followed unquestioningly wherever he led.
Roger was in Joe’s abandoned room staring moodily out the
window, and when he saw Dorothy he flung his arms about her neck
and wept wildly despite a manful effort to control his grief.
Dorothy patted his small shoulder and waited until he
shamefacedly wiped away the tears with a grubby hand, leaving a
track of dirt from the corner of one blue eye to the opposite corner of
his still-tremulous mouth.
Then she drew the lad down on Joe’s bed and gently questioned
him.
“Joe wouldn’t let me go downtown with him that last day,” said the
little lad, his lip trembling as if with an old grievance. “He said he
was going to meet Jack Popella——”
“Jack Popella! That boy!” cried Dorothy, springing to her feet. “Oh,
Roger, are you sure?”
 CHAPTER IV
ON THE TRAIL

Roger looked chagrined and more than a little frightened. The

fright was caused by his sister’s vehemence, the chagrin because he
had unwittingly “told on” Joe. In the code of Roger no crime was as
bad as that of “telling tales” on one’s mates. He had spoken before he
thought. It is so hard for a small boy not to speak before he thinks!
But Dorothy was on her feet now, her cheeks blazing, and he knew
he would have to tell her the truth, not keeping back any of the story.
Roger gave a resigned sigh and braced himself to answer questions.
But Dorothy asked only one of him. That was a reiterated and
breathless:
“Roger, are you sure?”
Roger nodded miserably, and to his surprise Dorothy turned
suddenly and left the room. Roger stared after her wide-eyed. He was
still miserable, but he was intensely curious as well.
“I wouldn’t be in Joe’s shoes, not for anything!” he assured
himself, as he returned to the window. “And I suppose he’ll just
about murder me when he finds out I went and told on him. It was
his fault, anyway,” he added, in an effort at self-justification. “I told
him he oughtn’t to go with that fresh Popella kid, and so did Dorothy.
My, but I—I wish Joe would come back!”
Meantime Dorothy rushed upstairs. Meeting Tavia outside the
door of her room, she brushed past her almost rudely. If it had not
been so late she would have gone downtown immediately.
The fact that Joe had been with Jack Popella on the day of the fire
augmented her fears immeasurably. Popella was a young Italian lad
with a not very savory reputation, and Dorothy had been alarmed
when, on several occasions, she had seen Joe with him.
 She had tried reasoning with the boy, had pointed out the fact that
one is very often judged by the company one keeps, but Joe had
refused to take her admonitions seriously.
“You talk as if I never went with anybody else, Dot,” he had said on
one of these occasions. “And I never have anything to do with him
except just when I happen to meet him. I can’t help saying hello
when he talks to me.”
This argument had silenced Dorothy, and it had also almost
convinced her that she had nothing to fear in that direction. Almost,
but not quite, for Joe still was seen quite often in the company of
Jack Popella.
To see this lad and question him was Dorothy’s one, all-absorbing
desire just now. But to do this she must wait till the next day, and the
hours stretched interminably between.
She flung herself into a chair, her chin cupped in her hand, staring
moodily at the floor. Tavia came in and perched on the edge of the
bed and regarded her chum curiously.
“Yes, I am human,” she said at last, in a mechanical tone. “I speak,
I walk. If you were to pinch me I might shriek.”
Dorothy looked up with a frown. It was the first time she had
noticed her chum’s presence in the room.
“What are you raving about?” she asked.
“I was merely trying to call your attention to the fact that I am
human,” said Tavia patiently. “By the way you brushed past me in
the hall, I assumed that you thought I was a chair, a bedstead, or
even a humble hatrack.”
“Never a hatrack, Tavia dear,” replied Dorothy, smiling despite
herself. “You are far too plump and pretty.”
“I admit the latter but deny the former allegation,” said Tavia
calmly. “Why do you think I follow the dictates of Lovely Lucy
Larriper so faithfully if not for the purpose of keeping my figure
intact?”
Dorothy did not answer. She had lapsed into her former mood and
Tavia regarded her chum thoughtfully. Then she deserted the foot of
the bed for the arm of Dorothy’s chair.
 “Come on, Doro, snap out of it!” she urged. “Nothing ever has been
gained by surrendering to the doleful dumps. Suppose Napoleon had
been discouraged!”
“Perhaps he was—at Waterloo,” returned Dorothy. But she added
quickly in response to Tavia’s impatient gesture: “Now don’t you go
lecturing me, Tavia Travers. I will have the doleful dumps or any
other kind if I feel like it.”
Tavia felt that her chum was keeping something to herself, but
though she questioned her discreetly—and otherwise—she could gain
no information from her other than the fact that she expected to go
downtown early the following morning.
“Well, buck up, anyway, Doro, and get ready for dinner,” Tavia
said finally, as Nat’s voice was heard below calling to the two girls to
“join the family in the dining room.” “It won’t help Joe any for you to
starve yourself to death.”
“Listen!” cried Dorothy, suddenly jumping to her feet. “Isn’t that
Ned talking to Nat? Maybe he has news of Joe.”
Dorothy was out of the room and rushing down the stairs before
Tavia had time to more than blink her eyes. She followed her chum
in time to see the latter pounce upon Ned with desperate eagerness.
“It isn’t any use, Dot, I’m afraid,” she heard Ned say reluctantly. “I
have followed up every possible clue—there were not very many, at
that—and none of them seems to lead to Joe. He has disappeared as
completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up.”
They went in to dinner after that, but they made very poor
business of eating; all except Tavia, that is, who never allowed
anything to interfere with her appetite.
Once, looking across at the Major, she did stop long enough to say
in an undertone to Nat:
“Major Dale looks dreadfully, doesn’t he, Nat—like a ghost at a
feast?”
“If you call this a feast,” Nat grumbled. “Seems more like a funeral
to me.”
After dinner Dorothy sought out her Aunt Winnie and, drawing
her into a corner, spoke to her about her father. Mrs. White patted
the girl’s hand gently and sought to evade Dorothy’s questions.
 “Your father’s general health seems unimpaired my dear,” she
said. “But of course he is frightfully worried about Joe.”
“It is more than worry that makes him act as he did at dinner,”
persisted Dorothy. “He hardly touched a thing. Aunt Winnie, he is on
the verge of a breakdown, and you know it as well as I!”
“Perhaps I do, my dear,” sighed Mrs. White. “But I don’t see what
we can do about it.”
“Except find Joe,” replied Dorothy softly. “We must find Joe!”
Early the next morning Dorothy dressed herself in her street
things and slipped out of the house without awakening Tavia. What
she had to do she wanted to do alone, and she feared her chum’s
persistent curiosity. No one should know that Joe had been with Jack
Popella on the day Haskell’s store burned down and the day when
Joe himself had disappeared if it was possible for her to keep the
knowledge to herself!
She did not even stop to have breakfast at home, for fear her Aunt
Winnie would question her concerning her errand downtown.
Feeling absurdly guilty, she slipped into a small restaurant in the
downtown district in the vicinity of Haskell’s store. She questioned
the yawning waitress as adroitly as she could about the fire, but the
woman could give her no particulars.
Mechanically Dorothy gulped down the overfried egg and
underdone bacon, thinking longingly of home as she did so. How
different the morning meal would be at The Cedars.
She had started on the second piece of bacon when the door
opened and—in walked Tavia Travers!
Dorothy gasped and nearly upset the cup of coffee at her elbow.
She stared at though she were seeing a ghost.
Tavia came straight up to her table, color bright and eyes dancing.
“So you hoped to escape me, fair one?” she said, sinking into a
chair and motioning to the waitress. “You should have known better
by this time, Doro, my dear. Were you not aware that I always sleep
with one eye open?”
“You must have had them both open wide if you saw me leave The
Cedars this morning,” replied Dorothy crossly. “I didn’t want to have
even you with me this morning, Tavia.”
 “Business of my becoming horribly offended and leaving the place
in a huff,” drawled Tavia, as she ordered a ham omelet from the
indifferent waitress. “But I am going to disappoint you, Doro darling,
for the reason that you will be very glad of my company before you
get through. I intend to befriend you at all costs, even at the expense
of my honest pride.”
“Oh, Tavia, you are too ridiculous!” sighed Dorothy. “I can’t be
angry with you, no matter how hard I try. Only, if you are coming
with me you will have to hurry with your breakfast.”
“Have a heart, Doro. The ravening wolves have nothing on me!”
But under Dorothy’s insistence Tavia finished her breakfast in a
very short time, and after Dorothy had paid the check the two girls
left the place and turned in the direction of Haskell’s store.
Half way down the block it loomed before them, a charred and
gutted ruin. Dorothy uttered an exclamation and grasped Tavia’s
arm.
From the wrecked store a skulking figure emerged, turned, and, at
sight of Dorothy and Tavia, darted down the street.
“Jack Popella!” gasped Dorothy. “What is he doing here?”