The GIRL In the TRAILER

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LXVII, Issue 12801, 24 July 1939, Page 3

The GIRL In the TRAILER

by SYLVIA | \ CARSON H

M C«H<* f- I *’* S, »”■

CHAPTER XIII ]t W as sweet-— the sweetest thing , ))nl had ever happened to Jerry Prandon. He forgot that Mercedes •L too voung, that she was heiress tJ’a proud Kentucky name and a large fortune, while he was a peunii PS a wanderer. X 011 (. of that mutinied at the moment. The only important thing in lif i, was Mercedes’ nearness, the sweet, hot pressure of her young

lips. She drew away from him after a

time, laughing joyously at the expression of awe on his lean face. “fin utterly shameless,” Mercedes announced brazenly, snuggling down In the protecting curve of his arm. “But I’ve been wailing for you to Kiss me. And, oh Jerry, I was so afraid you’d keep putting it off. "If I’d realized the effect that white plume in my hair was going to have. I would have left it undyed long ago,” Jerry chuckled. “One ~la nc e at it, and plop! the gill is in my arms.” "You did your part, too,” she said accusingly. "Yes. darling.” Jerry’s arm tightened about her. “You see. I’ve been trying not to love you.” “Why?” She looked up into his face with her rosebud lips softly parted. “Because you’re only seventeen, sweetheart. Because it isn’t fair for a man to encourage a young girl. Because with your grandfather hating me ” “But he doesn’t,” cried Mercedes. “After you left last night, Grandad and I discussed it all, and he agreed to look into your claim,” Jerry drew in a deep breath and nodded soberly. ‘Tm committed to it now. There can’t be any backing down. I’ll just have to prove my claim to the estate to be worthy of you.” “The doesn’t matter to me,” Mercedes said with flue contempt. “If you love me ” “Your grandfather will probably cut you off without a penny if you persist in your folly of loving me and I can’t prove my claim.” “What do I care? I’d just love trallering. You could still write stories, couldn't you?” “Yes, I could still write stories,” Jerry admitted. “But you may as well, understand that they’re easier to write than to sell. The wife of a wandering writer needs to know how to take a hitch in her belt and do without food at long intervals' between sales.”

Mercedes tensed. “That’s the first time you’ve said anything about being married.”

"My intentions,” Jerry told her gravely, “are strictly honourable. .If and when I prove my claim to the; Crandon estate, you are hereby respectfully asked to become my wife.” "Then that means we’d better hurry and make it happen.”

Jerry nodded. “You’ve hit the Pail on the head.” He stood up. ‘There are certain preliminary steps which necessitate a drive into the city. After that, I think I’d better plan to drive to Ashton and see how the land lies.”

s Mercedes got up with him. “I suppose I’d better be getting home before Grandpa starts looking for me.”

Jerry agreed with her emphatically. ‘Let’s give him no more cause to resen t me than we have to.” He held out his arms to the girl. “One tost kiss to seal the pact?” he asked gently. “Then we’ll be- very, very dignified and distant until I have a ri ght to go to your grandfather proP. e il> and ask his permission to Piarry you.’’

* er cedes clung to him in another 8n “ kiss—a companionable sort of klss > soul-satisfying, Her eyes were misty when she re * a ' vay from Jerry again, but she eel bravely and climbed down >°ni the trailer, moved across the Uglrwaj and went up the path to the 01 Q house without looking back. latching her go, Jerry knew that fo 6 Was the', only girl in the world Self m ’ knew why he had held him ‘ J aloof fror n casual romanitc ennslements in the past. He had girl* 1 '- 8 Relieved there was such a waiting for him somewhere. Now at he had found her, he felt the asunuag urgß t 0 be about the busi _ in ° £ mak l ns a place for himself 8 " oldd which- he would not be j l l ni aiUed to ask her to share with theh PUt the Photograph back in rUnk ’ smiJiu S tenderly at the Wa9° Very tllat t^le knitted bootee missing. Mercedes must have

taken it with her. He got his hat, then stepped out of the back door of the trailer, swung the door shut and secured it loosely with a hasp. Going around to the shabby car parked in front, he got in and drove dreamily away toward the city to institute certain inquiries which he hoped would eventually result in some proof of his claim to the Crandon estate. It took his most of the day to conclude his business in the city. At a newspaper office he went through back numbers of the paper at the time Gerald Crandon had fled from Kentucky, and found a rather full account of the incident dramatized over the radio. But there was no picture of either Mr or Mrs Crandon, nor was there the slightest hint of the fate which had befallen them or the child they had expected. From the newspaper morgue he went to the telegraph office, where he filed a long, day letter to his foster parents in Indiana, requesting a reply to be sent to Ashton.

He then went to a garage, where 'he had his car greased- and oiled, filled with gas, and where he inquired about the road to Ashton. He was informed it led past the old Weatherford place, so all he had to do was to hook up his trailer and start driving when he got ready to g,o. . It was dusk as he drove back slowly to his trailer home, parked by the side of the highway. He would have a talk with the old judge, he thought, to clear up the legal aspects of the situation, and at least one more meeting with Mercedes before leaving to claim what he now firmly believed was hi?, birth- ’ right. | A square of white paper showed under N the hasp on the rear door, as I . he drove up. j He jumped out to get it, leaving his headlights burning, thinking Mercedes must have slipped over and left him a note. Standing there in the half-darkness, he read the threatening message: Get out of Kentucky and don’t come back if you want to keep on living. It was signed: “Gejald Crandon, Jr.”

CHAPTER XIV Jerry stood full in the glare of his headlights reading the preposterous message over and over. Preposterous, because a threat like this belonged back in the Dark Ages. The words were crudely printed with a soft pencil on cheap paper, the signature a wavering scrawl. Folding the paper and putting it in his pocket, Jerry walked back to his car and shut off the headlights. He crossed the road and went up the path leading to the Weatherford house. He felt that the threat signed “Gerald Crandon, Jr.„ was something the old judg.e should see at once. As for himself, he was inclined to disregard it, although he realized the dangerous possibilities of such a message. The judge was alone in the library with a tall glass at hand when Jerry was ushered in. He stood up with old-fashioned courtesy and said: “Come in, Mr Crandon, and join me.” “Thank you, sir. I'll be delighted.” Jerry tactfully refrained from mentioning the judge’s changed attitude since their last meeting. When they were comfortably seated, Jerry said: “I suppose your granddaughter has told you something about what happened this morning.” Judge* Weatherford leaned forward with twinkling eyes and tapped Jerry’s hnee. “I dropped in on Blake Feaster at noon and he was reclining with a piece of beefsteak on his eye. Mercy told me he drew a knife on you. I assure you I took him severely to task for such an ungentlemanly action.”

Not knowing how, t much or how little Mercedes had told her grandfather, Jerry hardly knew how to proceed. He sipped the cold drink placed.for him and asked cautiously: “Did she tell, you about the re-porters—-and the pictures they insisted mi taking of me?” “She told me about the reporters. My granddaughter, Mr Crandon, is a difficult young lady to control.’’

“As I’ve discovered,” Jerry agreed. Then he went on: . “The reporters, naturally, insisted on construing her presence at my trailer as romantically as possible.” The judge laughed and waved his