Ordinarily, Captain Ichabod Jones enjoyed being crooned to sleep by the weird sounds of the winds as they beat about the corners of his cottage. Now, his mind was filled with a memory of last frantic cries uttered by men, women and children as their clinging hold was loosed from the derelict, the sturdy frame of which he had heard strike on the rocks, as she went to her grave in the sea. Now, he heard the clamors of despair, voiced in the shrieking of the gale. He tossed uneasily upon his bed, offering ever and anon a prayer to the God that rules mad waters to have mercy upon those even then fighting a last grim battle with death.

The first gray gleam of dawn showed a tinge of storm red, radiant and calm above the wildly tossing surges of the sea.

Uncle Icky got out of his bunk, built a fire in the stove and set his coffee to boil. Then, of a sudden, he forgot his preparations for breakfast. His sharp ears had caught the far-away chug-chug of a naphtha-driven craft. He listened, and knew that the boat was making its way toward the Island.

"Well, I'll be blowed," said the Captain to himself—and the rooster. "What fool skipper would come down this shore, even on the inside, in such a kick-up as is goin' on? He shore must be plumb daffy, or arter an M.D. for a mighty sick human. I'll try an' hail him as he passes; but the Lord knows he can't pass to the wind'ard o' this-here Island till she ca'ms a heap, an' if he tries to go to lee'ard he'll shore as shootin' take up on the oyster rocks, an' stove her through to her vitals."

Captain Ichabod was right. No land lubber, unacquainted with the dangerous currents and powerful surf breaking over the bar at the Inlet, could pilot a craft safely past the little Island in good weather—let alone the doing of it in this tail-end of a gale. Uncle Icky rushed from the cottage, lantern in hand. He tried to wave a warning to the foolhardy adventurer who was thus darting down at breakneck speed on the mill-race of the ebb tide to certain destruction.

Captain Ichabod ran with his lantern to the far point of land, and waved it frantically in warning. The wind-driven spray of the surf soaked and chilled him to the bone. But he swung his light in desperate earnestness, though his efforts seemed of no avail, for the launch swept on toward its doom. Ichabod now could see that it was a palatial yacht, of trim build, with a prow that cut the waves like a razor. But, too, he knew that, after rounding the point, the tiny vessel would meet the full fury of the sea, and must be destroyed.

Day broke. In the increased light, the old man cast his lantern aside as useless and swung his arms as a semaphore. The yacht, buffeted by the tumbling seas, swept within hailing distance. Captain Ichabod yelled to the man who was at the tiller to keep her off. In answer, there came three shrill, pitifully wavering blasts of the whistle—a salute that was derisive, the absurd response of a madman. And the man at the wheel waved his hand in pleasant salutation and grinned in a most amiable manner. Captain Ichabod stared aghast. Then, he realized that the man at the helm must be a maniac.

The yacht was in the breakers. The first wave spilled clear over her. Ichabod, watching from the shore, shuddered. He believed her already lost in the coil of waters. But, to the Captain's amazement, the yacht eddied and tossed, dived and floated again. Then, at last, it was swept on the rocks. The hull broke in two under the impact, and the racing waves swept over the wreck.

Out of the ruin of the yacht, the surge bore a mattress, on which rested the seemingly lifeless body of a beautiful young woman. Captain Ichabod saw the strange raft sweep toward the strand. He rushed to seize it, and pulled it beyond the power of the tide to snatch it back into the maw of the ocean. Thereafter, he worked over the girl to save her from death by drowning.

It was a long time before she showed signs of life. But, after a time, the breast began to rise and fall in the perfect rhythm of health. Captain Ichabod, wild with anxiety, could hear the breathing of this woman whom he had saved from the sea. He was glad. He stood working over her in desperate haste. And then, presently, the lashes of the girl unclosed, and she stared wonderingly into the face of this old man, who stood over her with so much tenderness in his expression. The girl, suddenly arousing to consciousness, spoke anxiously:

"Doctor, tell me, where am I?"

Ichabod felt himself embarrassed. He spoke emphatically.

"No, Miss, I hain't no doctor—that is, I hain't no medical M.D., but folks says I'm a right smart o' a water doctor fer fever an' sich, but in yo'r case, I's a-takin' o' the water out instead o' puttin' it in or rubbin' it on, an' you lacks a heap o' havin' a fever, but arter I gits ye ter the shack I'll warm up yer little cold frame an' vitals with a swig o' brandy. That is, if ye has come to 'nough ter swaller."

The young woman was now breathing normally. The Captain raised her in his arms and bore her to the shack—across the threshold of which hitherto no woman's foot had stepped. The room was warm with the heat from the cook-stove, which had been left with the drafts open. He laid the girl on his bed, and then brought to her a glass of old brandy, salvaged years before from a wreck, and held intact by him during all this time as if for just such an emergency.

It was with difficulty that he aroused the victim of the wreck sufficiently to swallow the liquor, but in the end he was successful. Then he removed her outer garments, and wrapped her in woolen blankets.

Yet, even after it was plain that the heart was working normally once again, since there was a delicate flush showing in the girl's cheeks, the Captain was puzzled by the mental vagueness. She did not show any revival of intelligence, although she seemed to recover all her physical powers. He came to believe that she must have been injured on the head, by a blow from some bit of wreckage. But, though he went over her skull with deft fingers, he could find no trace of a bruise. He finally decided that her mental condition must be merely the result of the strain undergone by her, and that it would be remedied by an interval of sleep. So, he tucked the blankets snugly about her, and then left her alone, that he might see what could be done toward bringing the marooned skipper from his perilous place on the wrecked boat.

While Captain Ichabod was busy with the rescue of the girl, there had come a lull in the storm. The wind had hauled around to the southwest, and was now blowing a stiff breeze off shore, which, taken together with the fast-running tide still on the ebb, had caused the seas to lessen in the Inlet. Under these improved conditions, the Captain decided to make a try at relieving the castaway from his sorry plight.

He launched the red skiff, and set out to row toward the wreck. He was encouraged in the difficult task by the frantic gestures with which the victim of the storm called for succor. Captain Ichabod reflected grimly that this fellow who had disregarded his warnings must be plainly a maniac. Yet he was sufficiently sane to have a normal desire to be saved from death. He guessed that perhaps the yachtsman had been temporarily unbalanced in his mind when in the grip of the raging waters—then, afterward, had regained his self-control, and with it a wholesome desire to live.

Captain Ichabod managed to bring the skiff up under the lee of the wreck. He threw a rope to the man, and bade him make it fast. The order was obeyed. Ichabod then directed the yachtsman to collect his valuables and come aboard the skiff. The castaway lost no time in obeying. Presently, carrying a small black bag, he seated himself in the skiff, and Ichabod turned the boat's nose toward the shore, and bent to the oars, in haste to get back to his patient, and so to complete his list of rescues for that eventful day.

During the short interval of time consumed in going from the wreck to the Island, the stranger made anxious inquiries as to the fate of the girl. He had thought that she was dead. When he heard from Captain Ichabod that the girl still lived he was obviously startled and surprised, but, too, he showed every symptom of intense pleasure. He displayed anxiety as to what the girl might have said. Then, when he learned that she had said nothing at all, he appeared greatly relieved. He seemed pleased to learn that she was still unconscious.

Ichabod, wonderingly, thought that he heard the stranger say:

"Thank God!"

The boat was no sooner beached than the man who had been rescued leaped ashore, still carrying in his hand the small physician's bag. He raced toward the cabin, as if he felt that life or death depended on his haste.

Captain Ichabod suddenly felt very old and worn. He had used too much energy in this work of rescue, and now the reaction set in. He dawdled over the securing of the skiff. Then he made his way with lagging steps toward the cabin. He pushed open the door, and was startled to behold the man he had rescued kneeling beside the couch of the girl. At the noise of the opening door, the man sprang to his feet.... Ichabod wondered as he glimpsed an object that shone like silver, and then was slipped cautiously into the man's coat pocket.

Captain Ichabod approached the bed upon which the girl lay motionless. He noticed on the forearm a tiny drop of blood. He wondered also over this, then solved the puzzle to his satisfaction by thinking that a mosquito had left this trace of its attack. He was confirmed in the opinion by the fact that there was a white blotch beneath the touch of crimson.

Captain Ichabod tried to question the man he had saved, but found every answer baffling and unsatisfactory. The yachtsman refused any sort of information. His reticence angered the old man, and he at last spoke his mind freely, with something of suspicion engendered by a new thought concerning that curious drop of blood on the girl's arm.

"She acts ter me like a woman chuck-er-block with Bateman Drops or opium. A heap o' that kind o' truck is used by the women about these-here islands o' the Sound, an' I've seed a heap o' the effects o' it in the years past, but the good Lord knows it's a spell since Captain Icky has seed a woman a-hitten dope, as new-fangled folks calls it."

The man who had been rescued by Ichabod started violently as he heard the word "dope." He cast a probing glance on the old man, but spoke never a word.

"Thar is one thing fer sartin," continued the fisherman, "if it hain't dope that is a'lin' o' her, it's somethin' that calls fer an M.D., an' if she hain't come to her senses in an hour, I'll put the rag on the skiff an' run up to Beaufort an' bring back Dr. Hudson to pass on the case. Thar has never been a death o' a human in Ichabod Jones' shack, an' Lord have mercy, the first passin' sha'n't be a woman!"

The condition of the girl continued such that Ichabod felt it necessary to summon the physician. He must make the trip in his sailboat to Beaufort, the nearest town along the coast. The yachtsman now approved the idea.

When Captain Ichabod went to make ready his boat for the trip to town, the yachtsman followed him, and then presently, walking down to where the wreckage had come ashore, proceeded to right and clear of dÉbris a little cedar motor boat, which had come ashore from the wrecked yacht, practically unharmed, except that the batteries were wet.

In the absence of Captain Ichabod, the stranger removed all the wire connections in this small boat, and placed the batteries over the stove to dry. When they were in fact thoroughly dried, he waited patiently for the departure of Captain Ichabod in search of a physician. Presently, the old man set out on his errand of mercy. The stranger yachtsman grinned derisively as he saw the boat slip into the smother of storm-tossed waters.