WHEN I reached the place, the prow of the Violetta had already run aground, and the stern had swung about, dragging the attached tree trunks after it, so that the yacht lay in something like its former position, parallel to the shore, but further off, the shelve being here more gradual. Moreover, she was now on a windward shore, the waves of considerable height and force, and, being balanced, so to speak, on her keel, she oscillated, descending now on this side toward the shore, now on that side away from me, through an arc of some forty degrees. The situation I beheld with mingled emotions, both soothed and lacerated, soothed on account of Professor Simpson's condign punishment, lacerated on account of Mrs. Mink. Their cries were heard above the tumult. They clung to the landward rail, which went up and down like a teeter, or a ducking stool, regular as a pendulum, terrific, but distressing.

“For goodness' sake, doctor, do something!” cried Mrs. Mink; and Professor Simpson shrieked: “Can you not assist? I entreat! I adjure! Do not——”

He was interrupted.

Something had to be done.

The two tree trunks attached to the stern had been driven about, so that the butts rested on the bottom, in the midst of the surf. Being dragged back and forth by the motion of the yacht, and at the same time tossed by the surf, the result was a somewhat complicated motion. To get through the surf was no great difficulty, for two hundred and odd pounds of determination. But to draw the butts together, to climb them beyond reach of the surf, to maintain the uneasy position so gained, astride those two insane, rotatory, and indecorous poles,—wabbled, danced, dandled, jerked about in the air by that eccentric and careening-viaduct, whose leaps, halts, and rebounds resembled the kicking of a restive mule or a series of railroad collisions—this was achievement, this was a goal and effort worthy of a man!

I succeeded. Clinging to the logs with hands and knees, I looked up. Mrs. Mink and the professor hung over the shattered rail above me. I shouted:

“Come on! I'll meet you.”

“But I can't walk that!” she called back. “It doesn't keep still.”

“Walk it! No!” I roared. “Creep it, madam! Shin it! Roll it! Come anyway, and don't fall off.”

She laughed.

Admirable woman! For self-possession, spirit, and sense, where is her equal? She mounted, clung, approached. I clasped her, slid back to the edge of the surf, lifted her, rushed, waded, forced my way to land. She was wet. I was winded. I admit both. Stretched on the ground I felt particularly indifferent to any accident, to anything whatever, that might happen to Professor Simpson. Suddenly I was aware of him. Cast up by an ebullient wave, he sprawled on the shore and sprang to his feet, crying,

“A miraculous escape! I would not have believed myself so agile.”

Mrs. Mink looked from one to the other of us, and began to laugh.

“I am delighted,” he said, shaking himself, “my dear Rebecca, to see you in such composure.”

I got up. I spoke with dignity.

“Do I understand, sir, that you've profited by your treachery?”

He looked disturbed.

“Mrs. Mink has—nevertheless I am not without——”

I interrupted and turned to Mrs. Mink.

“You approved of this gentleman's behaviour?”

“What behaviour? Well! It was bright of him, anyway.”

“You knew of the agreement between us?”

“Of course, you were going to propose to me next. Fiddlesticks! You've done that before? What made you let him come first? You shouldn't let people run over you.”

“You were to reserve your decision, madam.”

“Humph! I didn't agree to that. Perhaps he's willing to begin over again.”

Professor Simpson started.

“Mrs. Mink speaks in jest. It would be unprecedented, impossible.” We paused.

“Well?” said Mrs. Mink.

“Well, madam?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I see you like men of strenuous action, Mrs. Mink,” I said. “Would it, do you think? would it insinuate me somewhat into your favour if I were to take this axe and strenuously chop Professor Simpson's head in two symmetrical but characteristic parts?”

Professor Simpson looked aghast.

“Fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Mink.

“Not feasible, you think? Perhaps not. Suppose, then, I were to cut a switch and apply it to Professor Simpson's attenuated legs. Could you candidily recommend that, Mrs. Mink?”

“I will not submit, sir!” he cried. “I will not submit!”

Mrs. Mink turned and walked rapidly away.

“Professor,” I said, taking out my waterproof match-safe and extracting several matches, “you will take these matches and see that Mrs. Mink is comfortable. Our rescuers will find us in time, no doubt. Until then you will respect my privacy. I seek no revenge and offer no congratulations. I don't inquire into your standards of integrity. I don't see, unless your system of ethics is fundamentally unsound, how you can reconcile to morality this reward of victorious evil. But I leave it to your casuistry.”

It seemed to me this was a poisoned arrow well planted. I had set him a problem likely to irritate his exact mind. I picked up the axe and walked up the shore in the opposite direction.

The afternoon was growing late. I kindled a fire to dry my clothes, felled a banana tree, and ate bananas. Across the bay I could make out the smoke of the other camp fire. The Violetta still swayed back and forth, but not so violently, on her keel. The wind still blew, but the air was warm. I sat by the fire and took inventory of things in general.