The heat wave had not broken in the morning. At eight o’clock South Ridgefield sweltered beneath a rising temperature with no promise of relief.

“The poor babies!” thought Virginia. “It is hotter than ever; but the picnic will help them.” She remembered how warm it had been at the hospital on the previous day and fell to thinking of Joe Curtis, and her eyes grew soft and dreamy as she wished that he was going on the river trip.

The high temperature had caused Obadiah to spend a restless night and he was peevish and irritable when Virginia told him of the plans for the day. “You should not have mixed up in such matters without consulting me,” he snapped. “It is indiscreet and may lead to your embarrassment. That hole up the river used to have a most unsavory reputation.” He paused as if seeking for other objections, and then went on. “You might get a sun stroke.”

In a moment she had her arms about his neck and kissed him. “There it is, Daddy. Thinking of me as usual.”

“How can I help–,” he grumbled.

She gave a joyous laugh and interrupted him. “I knew that you would want to help, too, Daddy. You may–allow Mr. Jones and Mr. Kelly to come to the picnic. It will be an outing which they will enjoy.”

Obadiah drew away from her caresses. “Don’t interfere with my office,” he snarled. “I was greatly embarrassed when I returned on the afternoon of the concert and found no one there. I spoke to them both about it.”

Virginia flushed with feeling. “Did they tell you that I asked them to come?” she demanded, and when his face admitted it, she continued, “Regardless of the permission you gave me in this very room to ask any one I wished to the concert, you criticised me, Daddy, to your employees. If you objected to my actions, why didn’t you come to me?”

The unwonted stand of his daughter made Obadiah ill at ease. He flushed angrily and then regained control of himself. “There, there, don’t get excited. I didn’t say much–a mere nothing.” He drew her towards him but she held her head stiffly, looking straight ahead. He kissed her cheek and whispered, “Don’t be cross, dear. Of course Kelly and Jones may go to your picnic, if you want them.”

She turned to him. The look of injury was gone. “I was cross, Daddy. I did wrong, and I beg your pardon.” She raised her lips for him to kiss and gave a little laugh in which there were memories of sadness.

That morning there was unusual activity on the South Ridgefield river front. The peace of Hog Creek was disturbed by the clang of shovels, the ring of slice bars, and the hissing of steam. Billowy clouds of smoke curling from the funnel of the Nancy Jane mixed with the river mist and gave variety to the smells emanating from the slaughter houses on the further shore.

As the sun dissipated the fog, the Nancy Jane left her anchorage, and, with much puffing and squeaking, breasted the sluggish current of the Lame Moose River. To the youth of the town, the reappearance of the craft was a matter of supreme interest, and, grouped along the bank, they gave voice to their pleasure in cheers. So, it is painted, the rural New Yorkers greeted the maiden voyage of the Clermont.

The Nancy Jane hove to and made fast at her appointed tryst with the babies. Thereafter, Mr. Quince, bearing the pole with the iron hook as arms, acted as a landing party, and dispersed groups of youth who displayed a disposition to visit the ship without invitation.

Dr. Jackson came aboard at an early hour, and caused a truck load of cots to be arranged in two long rows down the center of the deck. Upon these he prepared comfortable beds of blankets.

Mr. Quince viewed these activities in the light of his personal experiences. “I have seen ’em dance and sing and fight on the Nancy Jane but I hain’t never seen nobody sleep much, leastwise, if they was sober.” Suspicion entered his mind regarding the intentions of the physician. “You hain’t a thinkin’ of pullin’ off no booze party in these prohibition times, air yer?” he demanded. “I don’t want no law on me. I’m a respectable man and I runs a respectable boat.”

The distrust cast upon his efforts to relieve suffering disgusted the doctor. “You attend to your business and I’ll attend to mine. You can kick when I start something wrong,” he protested.

“All right, old hoss, I have warned yer. There’s a cop on the bridge a watching yer, now.” Mr. Quince pointed to where a policeman leaned lazily over the bridge rail and inspected the Nancy Jane with the mild curiosity aroused by its re-advent upon the river.

The absurd suggestion of the riverman irritated the doctor to redoubled energy. Jumping on the bank, he seized a carboy of lime water which he wrapped in a blanket and brought aboard, endeavoring to protect it from the sun’s rays by concealing it beneath a cot.

Mr. Quince’s worst suspicions were confirmed. He called to his follower. “Sim, come here!”

The lad approached. He was coolly attired in a worn shirt, overalls and a broken straw hat.

“Sim, be my witness.” The manner of Mr. Quince was dignified, as befitted one taking part in a legal ceremonial. He turned towards the busy medical man, a law-abiding citizen virtuously facing one of criminal desires. “I hereby warns yer agin’ putting any licker on this yere boat,” he cried in a stern voice.

“Oh, shut up,” shouted the aggravated Doctor. “Don’t be a fool.”

“You heard him and you heard me, Sim. Now I got the goods on that feller if we git pinched,” and, with an effort to engrave the matter upon the mind of his follower, the riverman concluded in the accepted tone of Hamlet’s ghost, “Remember.”

“Ayah,” responded the indifferent Sim.The arrival of members of the picnic party prevented further discussion of this matter.

Down the steps from the bridge they came, a sisterhood of the tired, the worried, the anxious. The cruel strokes of labor and poverty were relentlessly erasing the softness of youth. The bearing of children and unceasing toil had destroyed their figures, and already the weariness of age was creeping into their movements.

Yet this was no gathering of the sorrowing. Upon each breast rested, in gentle embrace, the fulfillment of womanhood. Their pledge to the perpetuation of their kind, their duty to the responsibilities and opportunities of dawning centuries. The pride of motherhood was upon worn faces as coverings were adjusted about soft cheeks and tiny eyes twinkled and fat hands made spasmodic efforts to grasp something where nothing was. Coarse and strident voices dropped to a musical tenderness as they harked to the mysterious language of baby land.

Even as the first mothers arrived, came Virginia followed by Serena and Ike, carrying food. Mr. Vivian appeared, bringing monstrous ice cream freezers. Mrs. Henderson headed a small procession consisting of a man bringing oceans of milk and another with perfect bergs of ice.

The mothers charged upon Dr. Jackson, the familiar friend of their households, in noisy confusion. In sharp and emphatic tones, he brought order out of this feminine chaos in a manner pleasing even to that marine disciplinarian, Mr. Quince, who had watched the arrival of his passengers with great astonishment. Two lines of kicking, struggling, emotion swept infants were stretched upon the cots, and lifted their voices in a chorus which sounded above the hiss of steam from the boiler.

Mr. Quince was an adaptable man, and, regardless of his amazement at the character of his cargo, he rose to the occasion. Boarding his ship, he inspected the rows of infants. “Wisht I’d a knowed these yere kids,” he worried. “I mought a picked up some old trunk checks at the railroad station.”

“What for, Mr. Quince?” asked Virginia.

“Some of these yere kids a lyin’ around careless like is agoin’ to git mixed up and start the allfiredest fight amongst these women folks. Nothin’ makes a woman madder and want to fight quicker than to lose a kid.” Mr. Quince spoke in the tone of one accustomed to hailing the main top in the midst of storm, and his voice carried authoritative anxiety to the ears of every mother.

A scene of confusion ensued. The dire prophecy of the riverman caused each mother to seize her offspring and press it to her breast. The infants, having expressed acceptance of their new surroundings by falling asleep, were disturbed and made known their objections in loud wailings.

“Who stirred up those babies?” Dr. Jackson demanded, angrily.

“He did,” chorused the mothers, indicating the worthy seafaring man. “He said that they would get mixed up.” The hostile eyes of the matrons watched Mr. Quince as if suspicious that he might attempt personally to bring about the fulfillment of his prediction.“Nonsense,” shouted Dr. Jackson. “You mothers ought to know your own babies by now, and, if you don’t, you certainly know the clothes they have on.”

This assurance had a calming influence and quiet was slowly restored. For a time Dr. Jackson appeared about to reprimand the riverman, but hesitated, probably fearful of again being placed on record.

Mr. Quince perceived the evidences of his personal unpopularity with great coolness. Unabashed, he remarked, “You’re gettin’ all het up a layin’ around here with your kids. There’s nothing to it but a heap of sweating. Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute, please,” begged Virginia. “I think that some one else is coming. Won’t you blow your whistle, Mr. Quince?”

At this request, real embarrassment descended upon the skipper. After scratching his head reflectively, he went aft to the engine room, or, more accurately, climbed across to the rear barge and entered into conference with Sim. After a period of argument and persuasion, that young man took a slice bar and pounded at the lever of the whistle. A great cloud of steam hissed forth, from the midst of which came a thin wailing note very like in volume those advertising the presence of hot roasted peanuts.

Above the noise came a cry of “Whoa, hold on.” Kelly, followed by Mr. Jones, gallantly guarding Miss Knight, lest she inadvertently plunge headlong into the waves below, descended from the bridge. The stenographer was fittingly garbed for the occasion in flannel trousers, silk shirt, serge coat and yachting cap.

“We can go now, Mr. Quince,” cried Virginia, making herself heard with difficulty above the roar of escaping steam.

“We hain’t a goin’ yet awhile,” bellowed the commander of the Nancy Jane. “The durned old whistle is stuck and a lettin’ all the steam out of the old biler.”

Dr. Jackson and Kelly repaired to the engine room to inspect conditions. In a moment the medical man returned, and, procuring his surgical case, hurried back towards the hissing boiler.

“It’s de fust time ah evah seed er Doctor called fo’ er enjine,” Ike told Serena. “Maybe it got de pip.”

“It soun’ mo’e lak de croup,” chuckled Serena.

With characteristic energy, the doctor applied a bandage to the whistle which so confined the steam that Sim was able, with sundry taps of a wrench, to abate “the hemorrhage of vapor,” as the medical man termed it.

There followed a pleasant period for friendly conversation, disturbed only by the cries of infants, the scrape of the shovel, and the clang of the furnace door.

During this time, the skipper sat on a box and pensively viewed the slow movement of the needle of the steam gauge. Finally he became energetic. Climbing upon the bank, he cast off the forward hawser of the Nancy Jane. Noting the eyes of the passengers to be upon him, he assumed a care free air tinged with a certain dignity, as if the handling of the Nancy Jane, a perplexing problem to others, was a trifling matter to him. Likewise, he entered into explanations, ostensibly for Sim’s benefit. “I’ve cast off the bow line. I’m agoin’ to let the current swing er out, then we’ll start ahead and you cast off that stern line.”Before the eyes of the marveling mothers, Mr. Quince assumed a position at the extreme front of the boat, on a small deck beyond the railing. He held the pole across his body, as the balancing stick of a tightrope walker, and watched the current swing the Nancy Jane away from the bank.

Sim waited, motionless as a statue, with a grimy paw on the throttle.

“Let ’er go,” sang Mr. Quince, as from the bridge of the Leviathan, his powerful voice echoing against the bluffs far up the river.

With much groaning and creaking the engine took up the play of its gearing, and choked down with a grunt as the paddles of the water wheel stuck in the clay bank.

Seizing their babies, the mothers arose and screamed. The infants also gave tongue.

As one man, Dr. Jackson and Kelly sprang to their feet. “Sit down,” they shouted.

“Is de biler gwine blow up?” Serena asked Ike, nervously.

“Dat ole enjine jes balky. Dat’s all,” he reassured her.

In this moment of marine disaster, Mr. Quince displayed great coolness and judgment. “Look out,” he shouted to Sim, and leaped ashore with great agility. From this position of vantage he commanded, “Stop ’er!” He then displayed wonderful presence of mind by casting off the stern line. Returning on board, he seized his pole and pushed the Nancy Jane out into the river.

Once more, upon signal, the engine strained and a large chunk of South Ridgefield soil splashed into the river. The relieved paddle wheel caught the water and the Nancy Jane headed up the Lame Moose for Elgin’s Grove. Mr. Quince plied his pole diligently, and, exerting his good muscles, shoved his craft into the channel it should follow.

The journey to the Grove was accomplished without notable incident. The sun shone upon the shallow water at such an angle that Mr. Quince was able to view the bottom of the river through the transparent liquid as a pathway stretching before him.

During the voyage the heat was not oppressive, and the infants slept while their mothers enjoyed a restful holiday. This peace was threatened only when an impromptu orchestra consisting of Sim on the harmonica and Ike on a pair of improvised bones showed a disposition to render some of the frivolous airs of the moment for the edification of the ladies.

Elgin’s Grove lay cool and inviting as the Nancy Jane stood in towards the shore. The shallowness of the water made it necessary to reach the bank by a narrow gang plank, thoughtfully provided by the steam boat commander. As soon as this was in position, Virginia led the party ashore where the farmer cordially welcomed them with the original remark, “Ain’t you folks afraid you’re lost?” The supplies were landed amidst much boisterous excitement by Kelly, assisted by Mr. Quince, Sim and Ike.

Mr. Jones escorted Miss Knight ashore, bearing her parasol. She joined Dr. Jackson and Virginia, who were making plans for the general welfare.

Suddenly the mill owner’s daughter turned to the stenographer and, smiling sweetly, said, “Mr. Jones, may I depend upon you to see that the cots are brought up from the boat?”

Mr. Jones bowed with great dignity. “You will always find me at your service, Miss Dale,” he responded, in dulcet tones. The day was rosy to him. The system of exercise, to which Kelly had unfeelingly condemned him, was having its effect. He felt better than he had for years. Likewise it appeared that his dreams were coming true. That very morning Obadiah had come to him and, in quite the approved manner of addressing private secretaries, saving a certain undue sharpness of tone, had said, “Jones, I wish you and Kelly to accompany my daughter on a picnic which she is giving today. The boat leaves the bridge at ten o’clock, I believe.” Now, too, had his employer’s daughter, aware of correct usages when private secretaries were about, singled him by name to assist her. It was of course to be regretted that this picnic was charitable in its nature and attended only by vulgar persons, but from the intimacy of such an occasion, it was but a step to the dances and dinners of his heart’s desire.

Filled with joy, Mr. Jones cast aside his coat and ran across the greensward with the grace of a fawn. He shouted for Kelly and Ike, and in a moment had gathered about him the strong men of the party. He issued his instructions in the terse, certain words of a leader of men. Under his cheery encouragement, cots, with a man at each end, moved rapidly from the boat to their appointed place beneath the trees.

Perceiving the flushed face and the speed of the stenographer’s movements, Virginia bestowed upon him a glorious smile of approval and called, “Oh, Mr. Jones, what a help you are to me!”

The private secretary became proud nigh unto the bursting point. He redoubled his efforts, and in a moment all but the last cot was ashore. Kelly uplifted the far end and bawled for aid.

Instantly, Mr. Jones was at hand to seize upon the shore end of the cot. A leg caught upon a stanchion. The stenographer jerked at it. “Get a move on you!” he commanded Kelly.

“Wait, you cheese! What’s your hurry?” retorted the bookkeeper, as he attempted to withdraw the cot from the stanchion to release the leg.

“Come on!” urged the strenuous Mr. Jones, turning and facing Kelly. The leg was freed. “Hustle, you big lobster! Can’t you lift your clumsy feet?” persisted the driver of men.

Before this admonishment Kelly advanced with alacrity.

Mr. Jones moved backwards, blindly, but with haste.

“Look out!” sounded Kelly’s warning; but alas, too late.

In his hurry Mr. Jones missed the gang plank and plunged backwards from the scow into three feet of mud and water. The screams of frightened women rent the air. A cry for the police arose from Mr. Vivian, while from the lips of that seasoned sailor, Sim, rang that terrifying cry, “Man overbo-o-o-ard.”

Mr. Quince sprang into action at the alarm as a fireman at the stroke of the gong. With a mighty leap he landed on the bow of the Nancy Jane. Seizing his pole, he ran along the edge of the barge with the agility of a cat towards the circling waves which alone marked where the private secretary had disappeared. Mr. Quince reached forth tentatively with his pole, as Mr. Jones, having scrambled to his knees beneath the flood, emerged coughing and scrambling from the water.

The head of Mr. Jones came up, the pole of Mr. Quince went down. They met.

“Wough!” The stenographer lifted his voice in anguish and seated himself upon the river bottom, his head protruding above the surface of the water.

Undiscouraged, Mr. Quince, with practiced hand, continued to seek for Mr. Jones with the iron hook.

“Get off of me with that thing. It hurts,” protested the moist private secretary.

Regardless of these objections from his victim, Mr. Quince would have persisted in his efforts with a diligence certain of reward had not Kelly reached down from the bank, and, seizing the dripping and miserable stenographer by the hand, pulled him ashore.

Mr. Quince desisted from his fishing operations only when his prey was beyond his reach. Turning to Ike who had regarded his life saving with profound approval, he boasted, “I’d a got him by the britches sure, if he hadn’t a bin a settin’ down.” He rested upon his pole and his eagle eye swept the river, flashing brilliant in the sunshine. Into his face, but recently lighted with enthusiasm, came a look of dissatisfaction, of disappointment, as he confided his woe to the chauffeur. “There hain’t nobody ever gits drownded in the old Lame Moose,” he complained. “Hain’t ’nough water to drownd a weasel.”To Ike came comprehension of the troubled soul of the river-man, and he endeavored to comfort him. “Dey am’ ’nough water in dis yere river to slac’ de thirst o’ er g’asshopper,” he agreed.

Loud conversation took place among the mothers as Dr. Jackson announced his purpose of serving sustenance to those infants whose habit it was to resort to artificial sources for nourishment. Much attention was given to the sterilization of bottles, the measuring of milk, and the addition of lime water thereto. The medical man took the opportunity to deliver a lecture upon the feeding of infants with some reference to their early care and discipline, and Virginia took base advantage of her position as picnic manager to hold the babies while they enjoyed bottled refreshments. She would have also kissed each recipient of her favor had she not been sternly repressed by Dr. Jackson, much to the amusement of Mrs. Henderson.

“Let the child kiss the babies if she wants to, Doctor,” urged the widow.

“No,” he refused with firmness. “Kissing is dangerous. Now that we have prohibition, if we could get rid of smoking and kissing, things would be about right.”

“Are you engaged, Doctor?”

“No, certainly not. What made you ask me that, Mrs. Henderson?”

“I wonder why I did, myself, Doctor. It was a foolish question.”

At the close of the infantile banquet, the mothers returned their offspring to the line of cots, where, protected by mosquito netting, they straightway relapsed into slumber.

Kelly, who had returned alone from the depths of the woods into which he had departed with the dripping Mr. Jones, was greatly interested, and addressed Miss Knight. “Watch those kids pound their ears! They sure eat sleep as soon as they hit the hay.”

The nurse looked at the bookkeeper inquiringly. “What are you? Wop, Guiney, Polock or Sheeny?”

“Why?”

“You must hate the English language. I thought that you must be foreign.”

His eyes were dancing when he looked at her and said, “My name is Kelly, Miss Knight.”

“That explains it,” she laughed.

The bachelor farmer who owned the grove watched the pleasant scene from a seat upon the well curb. Resting upon the damp planking, he philosophically sucked upon a black pipe, and gave ear to the prevalent wisdom on baby feeding. He modified this, no doubt, in his own mind, in the light of his own experience as a successful stock feeder.

With that social spirit always noticeable in his character, Ike joined the agriculturist and entered into casual conversation. “Dis is er fine grove you got yere, Misto Elgin.”

“It’s by long odds the best grove on the river.”

“Yas’r.” The chat languished until reopened by Ike on other lines. “You has er fine view, Misto Elgin, an’ you has got fine trees an’ you has got fine aiah.”

The farmer chuckled. “If you’d a bin ’round here yesterday afternoon when I cleaned out the well I’ll bet the air would have made you sick at your stomach, boy.”

“How cum?” Ike demanded sharply, his eyes rolling white with anxiety.

“The old hole was full of dead reptiles and varmints. I got a skunk, a rabbit, two frogs and three snakes out and a couple of things so far gone I couldn’t tell ’em. Gorry but they stunk.”

“You ’spec’ dey mek dat water bad?” pleaded Ike, in a voice pathetic in its intenseness.

“Water with things like that in it is deadly pizen, I cal’late,” the farmer told him, with a shudder at his own repulsive memories.

Ike leaped to his feet hurriedly. Fear lifted him “’Scuse me, Sar,” he murmured, as if he had been suddenly taken ill. A moment later, discovering the medical man resting in the shade of a great tree, the negro approached him with an air of indifference tempered with respect. For all that he knew this might be a dreaded “night doctor”–one of those fearful beings who steal about in the late hours of the night despoiling sepulchers and seizing late strollers for the benefit of science. It is obviously unwise to irritate such characters, lest evil befall one.

“Dis is er fine day, Doc,” Ike suggested.

“Yes.”

“Doc, do pizen hit er man suddin?”

The physician glanced lazily at the negro. The spirit of mischief seized him. “Look here, boy,” he cried, in a threatening manner, “I warn you as a friend as well as a medical man to keep away from poison. You are so tough, so ornery, so low down good for nothing and lazy, that poison would have to work slow under your hide and you would die a lingering and painful death.”

Without another word Ike departed. The verdict had been handed down and sentence passed. Before him lay a dreadful death. He sought solitude in which to pass his few remaining hours and to prepare for his fearful end. Stumbling along, he came upon the ice cream freezers and the lunch baskets. Serena and Mr. Vivian sat among them, engaged in debate regarding the preparation of certain types of cake in view of the high cost of eggs.

To Ike’s mind, this was the kitchen. His home, his place of retirement, should logically be back of this. Within him burned increasing fear. Upon self-examination, he discovered that peculiar symptoms beset every part of his body. Unquestionably the fatal hour approached. The time of paroxysms and fits was at hand. Trembling and almost blind from apprehension, the chauffeur circled the refreshments and the culinary argument. He came upon a shady nook. The tall brush had been pulled aside and fashioned into a rude canopy which, with the tree branches overhead, afforded a double protection from the sun. Within it, his confused eyes made out that which appeared a couch decked forth with old blankets and gunny sacks. Ike sank upon this with a moan of anguish and, with his kinky head buried in the crook of his elbow, awaited the final agony which would herald the passing of his soul.

With that love for solitude and self-communion, so common to unusual minds, Mr. Quince had not mingled with the ladies. While technically a member of the picnic party, he was not one with it in spirit, in taste or in aspiration. Those who go down to the sea in ships give but little heed to infant culture. Therefore, he strolled about the circumference of the festivities instead of in their midst and thus came upon the recumbent Ike.

“What’s the matter now?” he demanded in the rough manner of a man hardened by contact with nature in her wildest moods.

Ike emitted a dismal groan.

Mr. Quince, ever one of action, promptly applied that treatment deemed peculiarly efficacious in the treatment of those intoxicated. He seized the negro by his shoulders and shook him violently. “Come up!” he roared. “Git a move on yer, yer lazy bum.”

“Lemme go!” protested Ike, astounded at the administration of such radical restorative measures to one about to shuffle off. “Ah’m er dead man. Ah’m er gwine to pass away.”

Mr. Quince registered intense interest. “Yer don’t say?” He scratched his head reflectively and brought the cold light of reason to bear upon the problem. “Whatcher talkin’ about,” he went on in tones of regret. “Yer hain’t dead”; and concluded more hopefully, “Leastways not yit.”

“He’p,” moaned Ike, apparently in intense agony.

Mr. Quince pensively spat a stream of tobacco juice across the bier of the dying one. “Maybe that doctor mought give yer some dope,” he suggested, with great deliberation.

Ike’s answer was a sepulchral groan.Dr. Jackson, with the utmost possible composure was receiving from a group of mothers that feminine adulation usually accorded the members of his profession.

Mr. Quince slowly approached them. “That black boy is er dying over there,” he hailed, as an officer ex-changing casual greetings from his bridge with a passing ship.

The doctor leaped to his feet with a startled look. So did the mothers as well as every one else who was sitting down. They moved in a body to the side of the expiring chauffeur. About his couch they grouped, as it is painted that courts gather by the bedside of expiring monarchs to receive the royal farewell.

Before the assembled multitude, Ike moaned and groaned in anguish of mind and body.

Dr. Jackson examined him. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Ah done drink poison,” Ike whined. “De col’ chills is er runnin’ down ma back an’ ma laigs. Ah’s gwine ter die.”

Serena drew near. Her extensive acquaintance with the young man made her skeptical in all things concerning him. She examined his surroundings with interest and cried, “Ef dat fool ain’ got no bettah sense an’ to lay hisse’f out on ma ice why ain’ he got col’ chills?”

Lifting a sack, Dr. Jackson exposed the smooth surface of a block of ice.

Ike sprang from his chilly couch.

Serena made indignant outcry. “Howcum yo’all mek er coolin’ boa’d out er ma ice when ah needs it fo’ lemonade? Ah fin’ out mighty quick ef you is er dyin’ when ah surves de fried chicken.”

Disgust developed among the mothers; but Ike took no note of popular feeling. His was the joy of a reprieved man as his pains flew away before the reassuring laughter of the medical man.

“Let’s have something to eat,” suggested the chuckling practitioner, when he had completed this cure by faith.

As if by magic, the luncheon was spread, and how those blissfully contented mothers did eat and make the woods ring with the merriment of their holiday. The fun was given greater impetus by the reappearance of Mr. Jones who, pending the drying of his own more luxurious apparel, was clothed in garments of rural simplicity loaned by the farmer.

Embarrassment spoke from every feature of the stenographer as, in the midst of laughter, he approached the festive spread.

Virginia perceived his sad case and beckoned him to her side. “Here is Mr. Jones,” she announced. “He suffered for the cause and shall be our guest of honor.” With her own hands she arranged a place for him and saw that he had food enough for two men. This she made sweeter with smiles of approval and appreciation.

The private secretary said but little. Yet the day became beautiful, and once again joy rested in his heart.

In the coolness of Elgin’s grove, the afternoon of the hottest day South Ridgefield ever experienced passed lazily. The mothers chatted and laughed and some took naps; but best of all the babies ate and slept in comfortable rotation as the hot hours passed.

Upon repeated urgings by Mr. Quince the tired party re-embarked upon the Nancy Jane after supper. The riverman explained gloomily, “I hain’t got no use for this old river after dark. The government hain’t hangin’ no lanterns on the snags in the Lame Moose, and I hain’t got nothin’ to steer by but the lightnin’ bugs.”

Regardless of the skipper’s attitude, the departure was delayed because a postprandial nap of Sim’s had allowed the steam to get low while the commanding officer persuaded the passengers to return aboard.

Becoming aware of this condition, rough language was used abaft the beam, as the Captain addressed the crew. Mutiny was evidently rampant, as the crew was heard to invite the Captain to return home on foot if dissatisfied with its efforts. Then came arbitration, and, after a time, above the noise of argument, the hissing of steam sounded in increasing volume.

The shadows of night lay upon the waters as the Nancy Jane left Elgin’s Grove. Since it was too dark for the navigator to procure his accustomed view of the river bottom, he peered into the gloom with anxious eyes. Upon the banks the tops of the trees showed clear against the evening sky; but the shadowy mass below was of a nature to baffle the judgment of all but the most experienced pilots.

Mr. Quince was not baffled. He laid the Nancy Jane upon a course down the middle of the stream, and, laying aside the tiller, he retired to the engine room where, in a voice which reached every ear upon the lightless deck, he conversed with the engineer regarding the more intimate details of navigation. “How much steam have you got on the old tea pot?” he asked, and when Sim told him, complained, “That hain’t enough to make this yere turtle crawl home.”

“It’s all this leaky kettle kin hold,” objected the engineer.

Mr. Quince made technical explanations. “Steam is a blowin’ out of the safety valve. That’s where yer air losin’ power. I cal’late the old flat iron is er slippin’. I’ll fix ’er.”

The shuffling of feet sounded.

“How kin you tell where you are a-puttin’ that flat iron?” protested Sim. “You’re a goin’ to bust the darned oil biler a foolin’ with that valve in the dark. You can’t see what you’re doin’ no more than a mole.”

“I hain’t slipped ’er out er notch. She’s where she orter be. This biler hain’t er goin’ to blow up. What’s it to yer any way; it hain’t your biler.”

“Ain’t I got to stand by the blame thing?”

“What’s eatin’ on yer?” asked Mr. Quince, a trifle obscurely. “Yer know dern well you’re too blame lazy to shovel enough coal under the old wash biler to git her het up none before we git home.”

This struck Sim as reasonable. He changed the subject and inquired, “Where are we?”

A voice remarkably like that of Mr. Quince, although it could not have been that experienced river man, responded, “I dunno.”

Leaves rustled along the roof, and the skipper departed hurriedly for his post or, more accurately, his pole. For a time he wielded it energetically. The current was assisting the engine and so they moved fairly rapidly. The glow of South Ridgefield showed above the trees, and, with ever greater frequency, the lights of scattered houses gleamed upon either bank. They passed the suburbs. Upon either shore lay dark masses of manufacturing plants lighted by isolated electric lights. They were abreast of Obadiah Dale’s mill now, while a short block away stretched the ghostly fabric of the highway bridge, dimly traced by its own arch of lights. Beneath it was their landing place; so the mothers began to prepare to land and to thank Virginia for their pleasant day.

Mr. Quince, of course, was at his post. Resting himself upon his pole, he was enjoying that satisfaction over duty well performed which abides in the breasts of ships’ captains and locomotive engineers when they bring their passengers to a safe journey’s end.

Suddenly the bow of the Nancy Jane rose slowly and imperceptibly. There was a sizzling, grinding sound, and the boat stopped abruptly but softly as against a cushion, aground on a sand bar. As the craft struck there was a forward movement upon her deck, and a shifting of passengers and freight. A resounding splash sounded in front of the wrecked vessel. Mr. Quince, resting meditatively upon the pole, had been, sad to relate, hove over the bow of his own ship. At the moment of his departure he gave a diabolical yell.

A scene of terror ensued. Mothers sending forth wild screams hugged their babes to their bosoms as they faced the unknown perils of the night. They were not made calmer by a rhythmic heaving of the deck, accompanied by a mighty boiling and beating of the water astern, as the paddle wheel exerted itself against the sand bar. Perhaps Sim wished to emulate “Jim Bludso” of heroic fame, and, in the absence of his pilot, keep the engine going “to hold her nozzle agin the bank.”

With soothing and calming words, Kelly and Dr. Jackson finally brought a partial calm when panic seemed assured.

At the first alarm, Ike had leaped up from a box upon which he had been resting from the labors of the day. With rare presence of mind, Mr. Jones seized it for personal use as a life preserver in case of need. Reassured by the remoteness of danger, Ike endeavored to sit where no seat was, and, with a crash, measured his length upon the deck. This episode did not tend to allay the nervousness of female minds.

From the shadows of the night, a dripping figure scrambled over the bow of the ship. It was Mr. Quince returning from whence he had been hove. He reassumed command. “Stop the engine!” he squeaked, in a voice made husky by too much moisture. “Want to burn all the coal up for nothin’?” Obediently the engine slowed and stopped. Again the voice of the skipper sang out, “Better fix that old safety valve. I mought a shoved ’er too far in the dark.” Suddenly a tremendous hissing of steam arose and then died softly away. Mr. Quince hurried to the engine room and addressed Sim at close quarters. “Yer dern fool, what made yer let all the steam outer the biler. We hain’t got no power now. How’re we goin’ to git ’er off?”

“You ain’t goin’ to git ’er off. She’s stuck for good,” prophesied Sim.

It is not easy to discourage great spirits. “Ef I can’t git ’er off now, I kin wait for high water. The old tub hain’t hurt none,” Mr. Quince made answer.

Basing the duration of their experience as castaways upon these remarks, the mothers gave away to tears. Babies awakened and wept also. A chorus of woe swept shoreward.

“Who knows how to swim?” Dr. Jackson asked in a sharp voice.

The ladies construed this remark as implying an early necessity for this accomplishment. The resulting increase in grief was with difficulty subdued.

From the information educed, it was clear that Sim was among the most experienced swimmer among those present. Being untrammeled by the mandates of fearful females, he had since his early youth spent much of the summer season in the water.

“Sim, you swim ashore and get help,” ordered the doctor.

A difficulty arose, “I ain’t a goin’ to swim with my clothes on,” objected Sim. “Maybe I only have to wade, but I might get into a hole and have to swim. Clothes drag a feller down.”

“Very sensible,” agreed the physician. “Take them off.”

“I ain’t no heathen. I ain’t agoin’ to take my clothes off before all of these womenfolks.”“Don’t be silly,” urged the doctor. “We will turn our heads.”

“Take ’em off behind the biler,” suggested Mr. Quince.

“Yes, fry myself on the durned old thing.” Additional complications struck the youth. “What am I goin’ to wear when I git ashore. The cops will git me sure, if I run around town naked.”

At last, a compromise was reached. Sim, simply attired in trousers, disappeared towards the shore. Then followed a long period of silence in which the babies slept in comfort and only the sobbing mothers were unhappy.

Voices sounded on the shore. Sim had carried the news of shipwreck to waiting husbands and succor drew near. They built a fire and shouted words of encouragement. A search was made for boats; but they were few in South Ridgefield and well protected from marauders. Even the only seaworthy skiff of Mr. Quince’s fleet was securely locked, and the key in his pocket, as Sim reminded him from the shore.

The night wore on. Great activity with little result took place about the fire. Policemen, firemen and newspapermen viewed the scene with interest. Such prominent men as Obadiah Dale and Hezekiah Wilkins exchanged ideas over the fire with factory employees and laborers. It was Pat Murphy, a teamster, who solved the problem of rescue. As the eastern sky was lighted by the first streaks of the coming day, a mule team and a wagon in a few trips landed the passengers of the Nancy Jane.

In accordance with the traditions of the sea, Mr. Quince stayed by his ship. The last load departed leaving him drying himself before the furnace. The reflection of the fire lighted up the deep lines of his face, its pensive look and the rhythmic movement of the powerful jaws, as the faithful mariner kept vigil upon the waters.

But, as the rays of the rising sun turned the eastern horizon into gold, an early observer might have perceived Mr. Quince arise, stretch himself, and solace his palate with chewing tobacco. The same beholder might then have witnessed the riverman step overboard and wade slowly towards the shore, bearing his shoes, wrapped in his trousers, before him, while the morning breeze flapped the tails of his old flannel shirt about his thin legs.