Indeed, a conscience is a most distressing comrade. And, albeit a conscience is not for a fisherman,—he cannot afford it,—a clammer may be pricked and stabbed and plagued by that he would willingly get rid of. For I suppose it was my conscience that impelled me to buy—in secret, for I would not have Eve know of it lest it give her anxiety—a little card with two revolving discs and pictures of a signalman in every position that is possible to a signalman.

By diligent use of that card and much practice in the proper manner of waving my arms I hoped to make myself duly proficient in the art of signalling by the wigwag method.

I found the card at a nautical instrument store in the city on the day after our dinner; and as I looked at it somewhat doubtfully, the clerk pulled out a little book that gave the matter more at length. I bought them both, and I have been practising the motions for a week in secret. And that has its difficulties too, that I do it in secret, for if I practised in the house it was not secret, nor was it secret in my garden or in the hayfield or on my bluff. At last I hit upon that little clump of trees. No one could see me there.

To-day being the Fourth of July, I thought it fit that I practise more diligently than usual. So, having gathered my first peas, a generous mess of them, I repaired to the clump of trees; and having propped the book upon a branch and hung the card upon a twig, I began. But no sooner had I got to work at it than somebody came running out of the house, softly calling, "Adam! Adam!" It was the voice of Eve, and she was waving a paper, for I could hear it rustling. And I swept the book off its branch and the card from its twig, tearing the card in my haste, and I stepped from my hiding-place on to the bluff, so that I should seem to be but gazing out over the water, as is my wont.

I was just putting the book and the card in my pocket when Eve came upon me, but she was so intent that she did not notice. The paper that she had is published in the nearest city, and it is a good paper, a better paper than any published in Boston. It suits me even better than the London "Times," to which I subscribe, for although the "Times" has the war news in greater detail than we have it, it is usually three weeks old; and news which one has read three weeks before is old enough to have been forgotten.

She held the paper up before my eyes.

"See, Adam," she said. "Here is good news for the Fourth. Our transports have beaten the submarines, great flocks of them, and have sunk some of them, and they have arrived safely, every ship and every man."

I smiled at her enthusiasm. "That should be good news. To be sure, the submarines that were sunk carried their crews down with them to be drowned like rats in a trap, and we used to think that Germans were pretty good—"

"Good!" she cried. "When they have committed so many murders on the sea!"

"Well, these Germans will commit no more murders. Let me see your paper."

There it was in great staring lines of type before my eyes. I had but just digested the headlines, and was preparing to read the solid columns when Eve snatched it away.

"I can't wait for you to read it all. I want to show it to father."

There was probably nothing there that Old Goodwin did not know already. He has a way of knowing things; but I said nothing of it. I smiled again at Eve, and let her go.

"Adam," she said anxiously, turning back, "you wouldn't commit murders on the sea, would you? You couldn't persuade yourself that it was right?"

"Well," I answered gravely, "I have none in contemplation, but I have not given the matter much consideration. If I were sailing the high seas, and were to meet—also sailing the raging main—Sands and his talking machine, I might—"

Eve laughed. "Yes, you might." And she came back and kissed me. "You're no sort of a murderer."

"You don't know, Eve," I protested, "what sort of a murderer I might be. I would not boast, and I speak in all modesty, but I try to do as well as I can whatever I set my hand to. I venture to say that I should do my murdering thoroughly."

She laughed again, merrily, and again she kissed me.

"The murdering that you will do will not amount to that." And she snapped her fingers. "Jack Ogilvie is like to do more of it,—if you call that murder." She sighed and turned away. "Now I will go."

And she was gone down the steep path and along the shore, stopping now and then to wave at me. It hurt me somewhat not to go with her, but I must be at my signalling.

So, as soon as Eve was out of sight in the greenery, I began again, standing on the bluff where I was, an imprudent thing to do. I laid my book and my card upon the ground, and began to wave my arms gently, stooping now and then to the book to be sure that I had it right, and saying the names of the letters to myself as I waved. For each letter has a name in the signal book. And as I waved, I thought upon Eve's sigh that she had sighed as she turned away, and it seemed almost as if she were sorry that I was not as Ogilvie; but that could not be that she would have me go, for had she not said other? And, without knowing what I was doing, I proclaimed it to the world. "Eve would have me murder," was the sentence I was signalling. "Eve would have me murder on the sea even as Ogilvie." I was even shouting the names of the letters by this. And I looked and there was a big gray motor-boat just without the harbor, and Ogilvie himself standing up on her deck and watching me—and wondering, I had no doubt.

The motor-boat came on swiftly, and Ogilvie watched me as if he thought I had gone daft, while I, out of bravado I fear, signalled again that message about Eve, no better than a lie. And directly opposite my bluff the motor-boat came to a stop, and Ogilvie began to wave his arms, so that any that saw might well think there were two madmen in the harbor. And to my delight, I could read it, and read it easily. It was a brief message, it is true. "What!" said Ogilvie with his waving arms. "Repeat."

I did not repeat, but I sent him another message. "Come up here and I will explain. I am practising. Give me some more."

So he gave me more, and I could read it, although his messages were not simple. It filled my soul with an unreasonable joy, as a boy's when he finds that he has mastered at school some task which he thought that he had not. And we waved our arms at each other, two gone clean crazy, for a long time, and Ogilvie smiled more and more, until at last he laughed.

"Well done," he signalled. "I will be there in half an hour."

And the motor-boat started again, and I turned, smiling, well pleased with myself, and there sat Eve on the bench under the pine, and she was laughing.

"Adam," she said, "come here and sit beside me, and explain. Oh, bring your book." For in my awkwardness I was leaving it there on the grass. "I saw it. I have been watching you."

And I turned meekly as that same boy at school caught in some mischief, and I went and sat beside her, but I did not explain.

"Where is Elizabeth?" I asked.

"Elizabeth," she said, "has gone sailing with Pukkie. You might have known it. Now, what were you doing, and why were you doing it?"

I have found the truth to serve me best, and I would not tell Eve other than the truth in any littlest thing. So I told her all, and showed her the matter all set forth in the book. And she was interested and pleased, and would learn wigwagging herself.

"You must teach me, Adam," she said, "and we will do it together."

And that pleased me mightily, that we do it together. And she clasped my arm in both her hands, and bent forward and looked up into my face. And in her eyes as she looked was even greater tenderness than was wont to be, and that was a marvel; and there was a great joy too.

"Tell me, Adam," she said softly. "Why did you do it? What set you at it?"

"The nature that God gave me," I said, "or conscience, which is the same thing. I do not know. It—it is hard, Eve, to be forty-three when one would be twenty-three—for a reason. As for the signalling," I added, "that is nothing much, save that we be learning it together."

"I know," she said. "A symptom."

I did not know what she meant, whether my conscience or the signalling. But still she was looking up at me with joy in her eyes, and happiness; and she gave a little soft cry and a little happy laugh, and she squeezed my arm between her hands.

"Oh, Adam, Adam!" she cried low. "I love you—you don't know how much. And I don't wish that I was twenty-three. Do you know why?"

I could not guess.

"At twenty-three I was not married," said Eve. "I did not even know you."

What I did then any may guess. No doubt it was imprudent too. And we were once more sitting decorous, and about Eve's lips and in her eyes was that smile of joy and happiness.

"You will see, Adam," she said. "It will all come right."

"What will come right?" asked a voice. "Is anything wrong?"

And we turned, and there was Jack Ogilvie.

"I do not know what Eve meant," I answered him, "unless she referred to my signalling. No doubt that is wrong enough."

He shook his head. "Nothing wrong about that. You do it very well."

Then I asked him for the latest news from the seat of war.

"Well," he said, "we are forbidden to tell the news, although there isn't any. But if you were to go to Newport you would see a big British cruiser lying there. And if you had your glass with you you could read her name." He gave her name, but I have forgotten it. "It is supposed to be a secret, and has not been in the papers, but everybody at Newport knows it. They can't help it. The officers go about very swagger and very stiff, carrying little canes. You may see me carrying a little cane one of these days, but I have not yet arrived at that dignity—or folly, whichever you call it."

I smiled. "Did you never carry a little cane in college?"

"Oh, sometimes, for the sake of doing it, because I had a right to. But this is real."

"When you come back from England, or France, or wherever you are going, perhaps you will carry a cane." He seemed startled, but only for a moment.

"What makes you think I am going over?"

"Bobby told us—in confidence. When?"

He seemed relieved. "If Bobby told you that lets me out. I was afraid I might have dropped it somehow. I don't know when, but soon, I think."

"Jack," said Eve suddenly—it was the first time I had heard her call Ogilvie Jack—"Jack, we will have a clambake for a farewell. I hope they will give you some days' notice of your going."

"Thank you," he returned, smiling. "It is more likely to be hours' notice. But I will come to your clambake if I can."

"And can you bring," Eve asked, "your yeogirl? I invite her, and ask you to deliver the invitation."

He laughed suddenly. "My yeogirl—did you hear she was a joke? She is a real girl, but I don't know her, and I couldn't bring her over here,—or anywhere. No, I'm afraid you will have to get somebody else to deliver the invitation. How would Mr. Wales do?—or Bobby?"

"Jimmy has a wife, my cousin."

"Yes, I know. But Bobby—he hasn't any."

"Poor Bobby would be in greater trouble than ever. Besides, he wouldn't do it. Bobby has developed a nasty temper lately. I wanted the yeogirl for you, and if you don't want her—I am sorry Olivia has gone."

"Olivia would never do for me," he said, shaking his head. "I guess I shall have to devote myself to the clams—or to Elizabeth."

"You might do worse, young man," I said severely.

"I might," he assented. "In fact I have done worse."

I did not know whether he referred to the clams or to Elizabeth; but it was true in either case. And he said nothing more, and thereupon a silence fell, which is no misfortune and no embarrassment when the people are suited to it. I had been seeing Pukkie's yacht for some time, and she had just disappeared behind Old Goodwin's pier. And she had three people in her, when I supposed she carried only Elizabeth and Pukkie. I mentioned it to Eve, who was as much surprised as I; and we watched the pier and the shore.

And presently we saw coming along the shore, where the little waves were breaking, three figures. The figures were those of Elizabeth and Pukkie—of those two I was certain—and the third looked like Bobby. I had to look several times before I was sure of him. He was walking beside Elizabeth, and his attitude betokened a strange mixture of devotion and distaste. As I looked again I saw that Elizabeth and Pukkie had been recently wet—very wet—and they were not yet dry. Bobby was not wet. The inference was obvious: Elizabeth and Pukkie had been overboard, and Bobby had not. But where had Bobby come from? Eve and I hurried down the steep path, and met them at its foot.

Elizabeth raised her eyes to me, and I saw two deep pools under a summer sun, and all manner of colors played over them, concealing the depths. Then for an instant the lights were quenched that concealed the depths, and her eyes became as two dark wells with yet a sort of light illumining the darkness, and there I saw content, but not satisfaction—if those two can be reconciled. It was for but an instant, and then the lights came back, and her eyes danced, and she laughed at me.

"Are you wondering," she asked, "what has happened to us, and what Bobby Leverett is doing here?"

"It is easy to guess," I answered, "that you and Pukkie have been overboard, although why you should go in swimming in all your clothes is another matter. But I must confess to some wonder about that matter standing fidgeting there." And I pointed an accusing finger at Bobby.

Bobby was ill at ease, and struggling between the constraint that was upon him and a wish to tell his tale.

"Well, you see, Adam," he began, "I—we were cruising—"

"Who," I asked, interrupting, "is 'we'?"

"Bobby," said Elizabeth quietly, "you'd better let me tell it first. Puk and I," she continued, addressing Eve and me, "were sailing along too calmly, and he wanted to put up the gafftopsail. So he got it out, and ran with it, and he caught his foot in some of the superfluous ropes and blocks, and went overboard—topsail and all. I was afraid he might be tangled in the sail, so I let all the halliards go on the run, and I went after him. I got him, and saved the sail, and there was a boat from the Rattlesnake, with Bobby. He helped us on board again, and insisted upon coming with us."

Bobby again opened his mouth to speak.

"One moment, Bobby," I said. "Tell me, Elizabeth, did the Rattlesnake spring so suddenly?"

She smiled and glanced at Bobby. "Oh, we had seen her before. That was why Puk was wanting the topsail. He wanted to see if we could beat her."

"Oh," said I, and I looked at Bobby, who squirmed as a caterpillar on a stick.

"We happened to be near," he said. He spoke calmly enough, but I saw that he was very uncomfortable. "I thought I ought to come, for Pukkie was very wet, and I wanted to be sure he was all right. Miss Radnor had rather a nasty time getting him clear of that sail."

"Bobby!" said Elizabeth warningly. And suddenly she smiled as if she was much amused at something, perhaps at Bobby.

"Bobby," said Eve softly, "it was very good of you. Did Elizabeth save Pukkie's life?"

"I'm not sure," Bobby answered slowly, "that Pukkie's life was in danger, but I'm not sure that it was not."

Eve clasped Pukkie to her, wet as he was. I would have done the same.

"Bobby," Eve said again, looking up at him, "was there no one else that was very wet? I'm ashamed of you." She had spoken low.

"Er—you see," Bobby answered wriggling, "I knew very well that Eliz—Miss Radnor would be all right. She is—er—very competent."

And Elizabeth laughed at him and dropped a curtsey. "Thank you," she said.

Bobby was struggling with his desire to smile and with his dignity.

"I've got to get back somehow," he said. "Hello, there's Ogilvie." Ogilvie had been standing in plain sight at the top of the bluff. "He can take me—that is, if you can spare him." He beckoned to him, and Ogilvie came down. "You'll have to take me out, Jack."

Ogilvie grinned and saluted, and they started off together. But they had gone only a few steps when Bobby turned.

"I almost forgot to say good-bye."

He smiled unhappily, and was turning back, but Elizabeth ran to him and held out her hand.

"You can be on your dignity if you like, Bobby," she whispered, not so low but that I heard it, "but I'm not going to be. Good-bye, and thank you."

And Bobby had taken the hand that she held out. He held it for a long time, but said nothing that I could hear, but only looked. And he relinquished her hand—actually flung it from him—and strode away after Ogilvie. And Elizabeth came back to us quietly, but her eyes shone and she was smiling.

"Now," she said, "Puk and I will get on some dry clothes. You may as well rub him, Eve."

It must have been a narrower escape than Elizabeth would admit. As we ascended the steep path, I thought upon the manner of journey that would have been if there had been no escape at all. Pukkie, my dearly beloved son! And I reached forward and hugged him, and for the rest of the way my arm lay along his shoulders.

That night we heard firing from the fort, perhaps a dozen shots. We hear that firing every few nights. Eve and I looked out—we were just going to bed—and saw the flashes against the sky above the trees, and heard the sound as if cannon balls were being dropped on the floor over our heads. Eve wondered what it was, and I told her it was probably some tug trying to go in or out of the harbor to the east of us at a forbidden time.

"Oh," she said, relieved, "I thought that it might be submarines—or fireworks."

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