  “Hull-o-o-o-h!” Ralph sent the cry shrilly echoing among the trees and brush that topped the rocky rise edging the beach upon which they had struck. There was no answer. Again and again he sent the cry forth, while the storm whipped it out from his lips and scattered it broadcast. But to his far-flung appeals there came no rejoinder. “Deserted!” muttered Ralph. “That shows how much those fellows really amount to. When they thought they were going to the bottom they were glad enough to depend upon me. Now that their feet have struck the hard shore they’re off again. Within a week they will be up to new schemes of villainy.” Thoroughly decided in his mind that Hansen and Malvin, once having gained the shore, had left him to shift for himself, Ralph hesitated about his next move. The storm had abated, but muttering peals of thunder and spasmodic flashes of lightning showed that it was still hovering about the vicinity. The rain fell in torrents, but Ralph was already so thoroughly soaked that this caused him but small inconvenience. His thoughts were centered on the treachery of the other survivors. The least they might have done, he mused, would have been to await his coming on shore. Then they could have taken counsel together and decided upon their next move. The strain of the night had told upon the boy. He felt nervous, irritable and chilled. Even La Rue’s fate, much as it had bothered him at first (rascal though the man was), now held little of interest for him. His sole idea was to find some place of shelter, and then he would sleep—and sleep, till nature was recuperated. It was no light task that the boy had performed. Few persons but those who knew the river could have imagined the tireless skill and vigilance necessary, if a craft, once caught in the vortex of a St. Lawrence storm, was to be kept from disaster. The trust imposed in him Ralph had loyally carried out while opportunity served. It was through no fault of his that, caught in a swirling eddy with an inexperienced engineer to answer his signals, the River Swallow lay helpless. And yet Ralph was not weak enough to blame anybody but himself. He saw now, and all too clearly, that it had been an error of judgment for him to send both Harry Ware and Percy Simmons ashore at Piquetville. With even one of them to aid him, he might have been able to stand off the rascals who wanted to gain possession of the River Swallow till aid of some sort arrived. All these thoughts, and many others, surged through his mind as, brain-sick, footsore and wet to the skin, he stood on the beach and looked at the dark hulk on the waters which he knew was the River Swallow. Ralph had never, in all his adventurous times, felt so much like quitting as he did right then and there. He ran over in memory other predicaments in which he had been placed: The ruined mission from which he had had to escape by a swaying rope from a tower that rose a hundred feet above the solid ground; the terrible trap into which the boys had fallen in the Northwest, and from which they had escaped only by a desperate leap across a boiling, swirling river, ultimately to seek refuge on a drifting log. Once more he recollected their experiences in the Canadian Rockies; the dread moment when the bear almost had them in his grasp at the entrance to the subterranean cavern. But all these paled into insignificance in his mind beside the present situation. In all the predicaments which his excited mind had hastily recalled it was either his life or his companion’s that was at stake. Now, however, in addition to the personal equation, the salvation of a fine craft—the River Swallow—depended upon his grit and enterprise. “Well, there’s no use standing here,” he said to himself, as he listened to the rumbling of the storm dying away in the distance. Before the tempest broke the weather had been hot, oppressive, in fact. Now the air had become almost chilly in contrast. Ralph, in his wet clothes, shuddered. The night breeze that crept along in the wake of the storm made him feel that a warm fire would be welcome. “No use standing still here,” he mused; “there’s nothing to be done till morning, at any rate. If this is the mainland, there should be some farmer’s house in sight. In the event that we have struck an island, it seems almost equally positive that some one is living upon it.” He sat down in the lee of a rock, sheltered from the driving rain and the wind, and considered his position. On second thoughts, it did not seem so serious. He had checkmated a gang of ruffians, and as he thought of this he gave his chest a thump. The wallet with the fortune within its transparent inside cover was still there. He controlled the situation. The next morning he resolved that, no matter what happened, he would deliver the entire collection to the authorities. “Thank goodness, Hansen did not guess what I had taken,” he said to himself. “In fact, I doubt if either Malvin or Hawke would have made enough of a confidant of him to let him know that they had such a sum in precious stones to sneak across the border. So far as I can see, this Hansen was a sort of weak-kneed go-between. He was entirely in their power. Their tool, in fact.” Musing in this way, Ralph arose to his feet. The rain still beat down, but it was not as violent as before. Far off, intermittent flashes could be seen on the horizon. The storm had plainly passed. Ralph patted the pocket wherein reposed the gems. “Checkmated,” he chuckled, “checkmated, by all that’s wonderful! Now for some sleep and then—to-morrow.” |
|
