It is a far cry from the savagery of the illicit mountain still to that consummate luxury of civilization, an ocean-going steam yacht. Yet, in actual space, the distance between these two extremes was not great. The Josephine, all in snowy white, save for the gleam of polished brass-work, and flying the pennant of the New York Yacht Club, glided forth from Norfolk Harbor in serene magnificence on the same day that The Bonita chugged fussily over the same course. The yacht was setting out on the second stage of her leisurely pleasure voyage to Bermuda. The skipper had been instructed to follow the coast southward as far as Frying Pan Shoals, for the sake of rounding Hatteras. Afterward, since the weather grew menacing, the craft continued down the coast to Cape Lookout, where anchor was dropped in the Harbor of Refuge.

The island that lies there is a long, narrow, barren strip of sand, dotted thickly with dunes. Only a coarse marsh grass grows, with dwarfed pines and cedars. In this bleak spot live and thrive droves of wild ponies, of uncertain ancestry. It was these 97 creatures that just now held the attention of two persons on the yacht.

Under the awning in the stern, two girls were chatting as they dawdled over their morning chocolate. The younger and prettier of these was Josephine Blaise, the motherless daughter of the yacht-owner; the other was Florence Marlow, her most intimate friend.

“Dad told me I could have the runabout ashore,” Josephine was saying, with a sudden access of animation. “We’ll go along the beach, as long as the going’s good, or till we scare up the ponies.”

“I do hope we’ll see them digging holes in the sand, so as to get fresh water,” Florence exclaimed.

But Josephine was quick to dissent:

“They don’t dig for water,” she explained, with a superior air. “They dig the holes in the beach when the tides out, and then the tide comes in and fills the holes, of course. When it ebbs, the ponies go around and pick out the fish, and eat them.”

Florence stared disbelievingly.

“Oh, what a whopper!” she cried.

“Captain Hawks told me himself,” Josephine asserted, with confidence. “He knows all about them—he’s seen them wild on the island and tame on the mainland.”

“Same ones, probably!” was the tart retort. “I 98 thought the doctor lied ably, but he’s truth itself compared with that hairy skipper of yours.”

Josephine tossed her head.

“We’ll run ’em down and observe their habits, scientifically, and convince you.”

A glance shoreward showed the car awaiting them. As they descended the ladder to the launch, a yelp sounded from the deck, and a bull-terrier came charging after. Florence regarded the dog without any evidence of pleasure.

“Does the pest go, too?” she asked, resignedly.

Josephine pulled the terrier’s ears fondly, as it cuddled close against her skirt.

“Chubbie deserves an outing after the bump he got from that horrid man yesterday,” she said.

The girls exchanged glances, and laughed over some secret joke. When, presently, they were seated together in the runaabout, with Josephine at the wheel, the bull-terrier squatted in dignity on the small back seat. The level sand formed a perfect roadway, and the car darted smoothly and swiftly between the twin barren spaces of land and sea. As they swept forward, the girls watched alertly for a glimpse of the ponies among the dunes, but there was nowhere any sign of a living thing, save the few hurrying gulls. They had gone perhaps twenty miles, and were beginning to fear disappointment, when, without warning, a drove of 99 the horses came galloping over the crest of a little rise, a half-mile beyond. As the car ran forward, along the ribbon of sand below the higher ground, the ponies suddenly perceived it, and halted with the precision of a troop of cavalry. Near at hand, now, the girls could note details, and both observed with interest the leader, which stood a little in advance of his troop, at the end near the approaching machine. He was a handsome creature, with lines as suavely strong as an Arabian’s. He stood with head held high, tail streaming, a fore-hoof pawing challengingly at the sand. Only the thick, shaggy bay coat showed the barbarian, rather than the thoroughbred. The mares, a score of them in one orderly rank behind him, were crowding and lashing out nervously, as they watched the strange monster racing so fast on the ocean’s edge. Some of them nickered curiously. But the stallion rested silent, until the automobile halted, hardly fifty yards away. Then he tossed his head proudly, and blared a great trumpet-note of defiance. Josephine instinctively answered with the horn. The mechanical cry broke harshly, swelled and wailed. The eerie response terrified the mares; it perplexed and alarmed their lord. But he showed no dismay. For a moment still, he remained motionless. His noisy challenge rang forth once again. Since the invader on the sands below kept silence, nor made any 100 movement toward attack, the leader seemed to feel that his prestige was safe enough; that prudence were now the better part. He sounded a low call, and set off at a gallop along the ridge top. The rank of mares pounded obediently at his heels.

“Oh, after them, Josie!” Florence cried.

In a moment, the car shot forward. The horn clamored again. The fleeing horses looked back, then leaped to new speed before the monster that threatened them with unknown terrors. As the car increased its pace, the ponies strove the harder. Their strides lengthened, quickened. The stunted marsh grass beat on the low bellies. Despite their desperate striving, the runabout drew closer and closer, reached abreast of them. The excitement of the chase was in the sparkling eyes of the girls. The dog, scrambling up and falling in its seat, yelped madly. Here, the beach broadened to a sharper ascent of the ridge. Josephine shifted the wheel. The car swung in a wide curve and drove straight toward the panic-stricken troop, as if it would soar up to them. Fear took pride’s place in the leader’s heart. He sounded a command. The flying drove veered, vanished from the ridge top. The muffled thudding of hoofs came faintly for a minute against the sea wind. Then, as the car came to a standstill, the girls listened, but heard no sound. 101

“It was bully fun!” Josephine said. “I’m sorry it’s over.”

“After that run, they may be thirsty enough to dig for water,” Florence suggested, with a laugh. “Let’s climb up, and take a look round from the ridge.”

But a glance from this point of advantage made it clear that the peculiarities of the ponies in drinking or fishing were not to be explained to-day. They were visible still, to be sure, but a mile off, and the rapidity with which the moving mass diminished to the eye was proof that they were still in panic.

“We might as well get back to the yacht,” was Josephine’s rueful comment. “There’s not another single thing to see, now they’re gone.” She ran her keen gaze over the dreary waste of the island with a little shiver of distaste. Then her glance roved the undulant expanse of sea. She uttered a sharp ejaculation of surprise.

“There is something, after all,” she called out, excitedly. “See—over there!”

Florence looked in the direction marked by the pointing finger.

“It’s a canoe,” she hazarded, as her eyes fell on the object that bobbed lightly in the surf, two hundred yards from the shore. “I can see the man in it. He’s lying down. Funny!” 102

But Josephine, wiser from much experience on shipboard, now saw clearly, and the sight thrilled.

“It’s a life-raft,” she declared, with a tremor in her voice; “and there’s a man on it. It’s a—real—castaway. Come!”

With that, she set off running down the steep slope of the ridge toward the sea. Behind her came Florence, startled and alarmed. The dog barked exultantly once, then leaped ahead, only to return and circle the slower playfellows joyfully. They came to the water’s edge, and halted, perforce. Josephine saw the raft, as it rode on a breaking wave. It was perceptibly nearer. She dared hope it might be brought within reach. With deft motions, the flannel skirt was tucked within her belt, leaving her legs free. Florence, somewhat reluctantly, made the like adjustment. The bull-terrier, disheartened by this immobility, sat on its haunches, and regarded the two doubtfully, perhaps prudishly disapproving. From time to time the raft showed for a few seconds; only to vanish again behind the screen of spume. But it advanced shoreward, steadily. The body of the man was distinct—prone, motionless. The girls watched and waited in palpitant eagerness. The dog, sensing the tension of the moment, began to hasten to and fro, snuffing and whining. Suddenly, the two cried out in the same moment. They saw the raft floating fast and 103 smoothly toward them on the crest of a breaker. They dashed forward, knee-deep, to meet the charge. The huge mass of the wave pounded upon them, almost swept them from their feet. The angry waters boiled about them. It was up to their waists now. The flying spray lashed their faces and blinded them. When, at last, their vision cleared, the raft had vanished. They caught sight of it again, presently. It was floating from them, already fifty yards distant.

Nevertheless, the girls, though discouraged, did not give over their hope of rescue. Not even when another wave thrust the raft fairly upon them, so that their hands clutched the tubes, then tore it ruthlessly from their puny grasp, and flung it afar. The dog, accustomed to sporting in the surf with its mistress, rushed to seize this flotsam, but the powerful jaws could find no hold. As the dog approached, swimming, Josephine put her hand to its collar, and so supported it while they waited anxiously for the raft’s return.

It came more quickly than before. It was, indeed, as if fate finally relented, for the raft was borne this time on a smaller wave, almost with gentleness, as it seemed. Yet, the gentleness of appearance was only mockery. When the two girls laid hands on it with all their strength it swerved violently, wrested itself from their clutch. Josephine cried out 104 in despair. She saw the dog, released by her effort, plunging forward. A rope dragged in the raft’s wake, a remnant of the lashings. The dog lunged viciously, and its jaws locked on the rope. Immediately, then, the bull-terrier began swimming toward the shore. There was no progress. But the going of the raft was momentarily stayed. Josephine saw the opportunity and shrieked to Florence. The two sprang, and caught the raft again. It rested passively in the grasp of the three. The dog continued swimming, its face set resolutely shoreward. The girls, up to their breasts in water, stepped forward, tugging lustily. The three advanced slowly. The raft moved with them.

It was a struggle that taxed the strength of each to the uttermost. Those three puny creatures fighting against the might of the ocean for the body of a dead man! Dead the man seemed, at least, to the girls, who, after one glance into the drawn and ghastly face of their burden, dared not look again. The undertow writhed about their legs, jerked at them wrathfully. Waves crashed upon them with shattering force. Once, Florence was hurled from her footing, but her hands held their grip on the raft. The wrenching shock was sustained by Josephine and the dog. They gave a little, but with fierce, stubborn resistance. Florence regained her feet. The rout was stayed. The pitiful combat between 105 pigmies and Titans was on again. There was good blood in the three. A fighting ancestry had dowered them with the courage that does not know defeat when it is met. Their strength was exhausted. Yet, they battled on. A great comber smashed against them. It snatched the raft from the weakened hold of the girls, threw it far up on the sand. The dog shot in a wide arc through the air. They could hear its grunt as it fell. But the jaws were still locked. In the same instant, the beast was firmly set, hauling at the rope. The raft was held for a little by the dog alone, against the waters as they sucked back. Then, the girls tottered to aid. They fell to their knees in the shallows, and clung frantically. The waves hissed away from them.

They feared the coming of a larger breaker to undo their work. Josephine perceived to her astonishment that the man was not fastened to the raft, except by the vise-like gripping of his big hands. And, too, she saw now that he was living. She guessed that he was stupefied by exhaustion, yet not swooning. She shrieked to him to unclench his fingers. It may be that his dulled brain understood in a measure; it may be that he was come to the very end of his strength. Anyhow, as she put her fingers to his, there was no resistance. The grasp that had withstood the sea’s fury, yielded at once to the soft pressure of her touch. The two girls 106 summoned new energy to the task. The dog let go the rope, and, whining curiously, caught a trouser leg between its teeth, and aided. Somehow, the three contrived to roll and push and pull the inert form to a point of safety. Then, they sank down, panting.

Josephine stirred first. With a gasping sigh, she struggled to a sitting position. The dog at once stood up, and shook itself with great violence. The drops splashed over the face of Florence, and she, in turn, opened her eyes, groaned deeply, and sat up, with a wry smile of discomfort.

“What’ll we do with the corpse?” she inquired, in an undertaker’s best manner.

The funereal suggestion, so sincerely offered, provoked Josephine to a weak peal of laughter.

“Better wait to worry over that till he’s dead,” she answered briskly, if somewhat incoherently. “And he will be, if we don’t watch out. There should be a flask in the motor. Run and get it, Flo. I’ll chafe his hands.”

“Run!” the other exclaimed. “If I can crawl it, I’ll be proud.” Nevertheless, she got to her feet, stiffly, but readily enough. “And sprinkle water on his face,” she called over her shoulder. “It might cheer him anyhow, after having had it all over him by the ton.” Both girls in the first reaction 107 from the stress of their war against death were brimming with joyousness, notwithstanding fatigue.

While Josephine rubbed the rough hands as strongly as she could between her own tender ones, the dog drew near. When the girl looked up, she saw that her pet was licking the man’s face. She called out in sharp rebuke. At the same moment, the castaway’s eyes unclosed. For long seconds, he stared, unblinking. Then, abruptly, his voice sounded in a low drawl of wonder:

“Hit’s thet-thar damned man-faced dawg!”