"It was that man--hiding in the barn! Who can he be?" asked Alice, pausing a moment.

"Don't stop! Come on!" commanded Ruth, in fear.

"But we ought to see who it is," insisted the younger girl. "Or at least watch where he goes. Sandy ought to know."

"Well, we'll go tell him; but don't stand and watch that man. He might do you some harm."

"How could he--away off there; and he's running away, besides," spoke Alice. "I think I would know him again. I had one glimpse of his face, as he turned. It was a mean, cruel-looking face, too."

"It wasn't one of those men who tried to get Russ's patent; was it?"

asked Ruth.

"No, neither one of them was lame. And they are both locked up, I think. This is some other man. There, he's gone--at least I can't see him any more."

Either a depression in the field over which he was running, or some hollow between hummocks, now hid the man from view. Then, too, night was falling, and the shadows were dusky.

"We had better go and give the alarm," said Ruth, pulling gently on her sister's arm, to urge her forward. Together they hastened to the house, where, pantingly, they told what they had seen and heard.

"Some tramp, likely," said Sandy, as catching up a club he ran toward the barn. Russ, Paul, and some of the other male members of the theatrical company followed. Alice wanted to go also, but Ruth would not let her.

Nothing came of the search, however, though it was carried far afield. The men came back soon.

"Some tramp, sure," reaffirmed Sandy. "This part of th' country is getting too thick with 'em. Something will have to be done. But I don't see where he could have hidden himself. You say the noise was just like the one you heard before?"

"The same," answered Alice, "and it sounded in the same place--just as if someone had fallen, and then came a groan."

"Maybe the man did fall and hurt himself," suggested Ruth. "And that, likely, was what made him limp."

"Well, I wish he'd limp away from here and stay away," complained Sandy. "I can't see, though, how he managed to hide himself in the barn. There's something strange about that place."

There was, but even Sandy had no suspicion of how very strange the matter was connected with the old structure.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Ruth, when the chase for the man was over, "I'll be afraid to go to that barn dance now."

"Nonsense!" said Alice. "We'll all be there--and so will Russ," she added with a sly laugh.

"As if that made any difference!" answered Ruth, quickly.

"Oh, it _might_," and Alice seemed very innocent, but there was laughter in her eyes.

In spite of the fact that there were many men and boys at the barn dance, Ruth could not help looking around nervously now and then during the course of the little play, several scenes of which took place in the old building. But there was no further alarm, and no unbidden guests were discerned in the bright glare of the powerful lights.

The scenes went off very well, especially the dancing ones, but the "city folks," as the farmer lads and la.s.sies spoke of the members of the theatrical company, were at rather a disadvantage when it came to doing some of the old-fashioned dances. They had not practiced them in years, particularly Miss Dixon and Miss Pennington.

"The idea of doing the old waltz and two-step," complained Miss Pennington. "It's like running a race."

"Indeed it is, my dear," agreed her chum. "Why can't he let us do the Boston Dip, at least; or the one-step glide. I hate the continuous waltz."

"So do I. Let's try it, when you and I dance together."

"We will!"

But Mr. Pertell, who was overseeing the carrying out of the barn dance, at once cried sharply:

"Hold on there with that camera, Russ! That won't do, Miss Pennington--Miss Dixon. We don't want the new dances here. Not that there is anything the matter with them," he hastened to add, as he saw the defiant looks on the faces of the two former vaudeville players; "but this is supposed to be an old-fashioned country dance, of the style of about twenty-five years ago, and it would look queer in the films to see the dip and one-step introduced.

"Now do that part over, and keep on with the Virginia Reel. Go ahead, Russ. And everybody get a little more life into this thing. Be lively! Hop about more! Shout and sing if you want to--it won't hurt the film. Go ahead, fiddler!"

Once more the violin wailed out its tune, and the play went on.

"I wonder what I'll have to do next?" complained Wellington Bunn.

"This is getting worse and worse. I've had to dance with a big country girl, and every time I take a step she comes down on my foot.

I'll be lame for a week."

"It's awful--this moving picture work," agreed Mr. Sneed, who seemed never to get over his "grouch." Then he went on: "It's dangerous, too. Suppose this barn should catch fire? What would happen to us?"

"Ve vould get out quick-like, alretty!" said Carl Switzer, as there came a lull in the dance. "Isn't dot der answer?"

"I wasn't asking a riddle," grunted Mr. Sneed. "But something will happen; you mark my words."

"Yah, I hope it happens dat ve haf chicken for dinner on Sunday!"

laughed the German, who always seemed good-natured.

Some other scenes for the play, in which the background of the barn was needed, were made, and then work was over for the evening.

Some of the young persons from neighboring farms asked to be allowed to stay and dance more, and this was allowed. Ruth and Alice, with Russ and Paul, also remained and had a jolly good time, making friends with some of the country girls and boys.

"I've got something new for you, Miss Alice," said the moving picture manager a day or so later, coming up to Ruth and her sister as they sat on the farmhouse porch. Mr. Pertell had some typewritten pages in his hand, and this generally meant that he was getting ready for a new play.

"What is it this time?" asked Alice. "Have I got to fall overboard out of any more boats?" for that had been one of her recent "stunts."

"No, there's no water-stuff in this," answered the manager with a smile. "But can you drive horses?"

"Mercy, no!" cried Alice.

"Oh, I don't mean city horses. I mean these gentle country ones about the farm."

"Oh, I've driven the team Sandy uses to take the milk to the dairy,"

confessed Alice. "I could manage them, I suppose."

"Those are the ones I mean," went on the manager. "In this play you are supposed to be a country girl. Your father falls ill and can't cut the hay. It has to be cut and sold to pay a pressing debt, and no hired men can be had in a hurry. So you hitch up the horses to the mower and drive them to cut the gra.s.s. It's only for a little while.

Think you can do it?"

"Well, I never drove a mowing machine; but I can try. I don't know about hitching up the horses, though."

"Better practice a little with Sandy, then," the manager advised.

"He'll show you how."

He gave Alice some written instructions, and then went over Ruth's part in the play. Alice, resolving to learn how to hitch up a team, went out to find Sandy.