The following morning, at nine o'clock, Issy McKay sat upon the heap of rusty chain cable outside the blacksmith's shop at Denboro, reading, as usual, a love story. Issy was taking a “day off.” He had begged permission of Captain Sol Berry, the permission had been granted, and Issy had come over to Denboro, the village eight miles above East Harniss, in his “power dory,” or gasoline boat, the Lady May. The Lady May was a relic of the time before Issy was assistant depot master, when he gained a precarious living by quahauging, separating the reluctant bivalve from its muddy house on the bay bottom with an iron rake, the handle of which was forty feet long. Issy had been seized with a desire to try quahauging once more, hence his holiday. The rake was broken and he had put in at Denboro to have it fixed. While the blacksmith was busy, Issy laboriously spelled out the harrowing chapters of “Vivian, the Shop Girl; or Lord Lyndhurst's Lowly Love.”

A grinning, freckled face peered cautiously around the corner of the blacksmith's front fence. Then an overripe potato whizzed through the air and burst against the shop wall a few inches from the reader's head. Issy jumped.

“You—you everlastin' young ones, you!” he shouted fiercely. “If I git my hands onto you, you'll wish you'd—I see you hidin' behind that fence.”

Two barefooted little figures danced provokingly in the roadway and two shrill voices chanted in derision:

“Scalped anybody lately, Issy?”

Alas for the indiscretions of youth! The tale of Issy's early expedition in search of scalps and glory was known from one end of Ostable County to the other. It had made him famous, in a way.

“If I git a-holt of you kids, I'll bet there'll be some scalpin' done,” retorted the persecuted one, rising from the heap of cable.

A second potato burst like a bombshell on the shingles behind him. McKay was a good general, in that he knew when it was wisest to retreat. Shoving the paper novel into his overalls pocket, he entered the shop.

“What's the matter, Is?” inquired the grinning blacksmith. Most people grinned when they spoke to Issy. “Gittin' too hot outside there, was it? Why don't you tomahawk 'em and have 'em for supper?”

“Humph!” grunted the offended quahauger. “Don't git gay now, Jake Larkin. You hurry up with that rake.”

“Oh, all right, Is. Don't sculp ME; I ain't done nothin'. What's the news over to East Harniss?”

“Oh, I don't know. Not much. Sam Bartlett, he started for Boston this mornin'.”

“Who? Sam Bartlett? I want to know! Thought he was down for six weeks. You sure about that, Is?”

“Course I'm sure. I was up to the depot and see him buy his ticket and git on the cars.”

“Did, hey? Humph! So Sam's gone. Gertie Higgins still over to her Aunt Hannah's at Trumet?”

Issy looked at his questioner. “Why, yes,” he said suspiciously. “I s'pose she's there. Fact, I know she is. Pat Starkey's doin' the telegraphin' while she's away. What made you ask that?”

The blacksmith chuckled. “Oh, nothin',” he said. “How's her dad's dyspepsy? Had any more of them sudden attacks of his? I cal'late they'll take the old man off some of these days, won't they? I hear the doctor thinks there's more heart than stomach in them attacks.”

But the skipper of the Lady May was not to be put off thus. “What you drivin' at, Jake?” he demanded. “What's Sam Bartlett's goin' away got to do with Gertie Higgins?”

In his eagerness he stepped to Mr. Larkin's side. The blacksmith caught sight of the novel in his customer's pocket. He snatched it forth.

“What you readin' now, Is?” he demanded. “More blood and brimstone? 'Vivy Ann, the Shop Girl!' Gee! Wow!”

“You gimme that book, Jake Larkin! Gimme it now!”

Fending the frantic quahauger off with one mighty arm, the blacksmith proceeded to read aloud:

“'Darlin',' cried Lord Lyndhurst, strainin' the beautiful and blushin' maid to his manly bosom, 'you are mine at last. Mine! No—' Jerushy! a love story! Why, Issy! I didn't know you was in love. Who's the lucky girl? Send me an invite to your weddin', won't you?”

Issy's face was a fiery red. He tore the precious volume from its desecrator's hand, losing the pictured cover in the struggle.

“You—you pesky fool!” he shouted. “You mind your own business.”

The blacksmith roared in glee. “Oh, ho!” he cried. “Issy's in love and I never guessed it. Aw, say, Is, don't be mean! Who is she? Have you strained her to your manly bosom yit? What's her name?”

“Shut up!” shrieked Issy, and strode out of the shop. His tormentor begged him not to “go off mad,” and shouted sarcastic sympathy after him. But Mr. McKay heeded not. He stalked angrily along the sidewalk. Then espying just ahead of him the boys who had thrown the potatoes, he paused, turned, and walking down the carriageway at the side of the blacksmith's place of business, sat down upon a sawhorse under one of its rear windows. He could, at least, be alone here and think; and he wanted to think.

For Issy—although he didn't look it—was deeply interested in another love story as well as that in his pocket. This one was printed upon his heart's pages, and in it he was the hero, while the heroine—the unsuspecting heroine—was Gertie Higgins, daughter of Beriah Higgins, once a fisherman, now the crotchety and dyspeptic proprietor of the “general store” and postmaster at East Harniss.

This story began when Issy first acquired the Lady May. The Higgins home stood on the slope close to the boat landing, and when Issy came in from quahauging, Gertie was likely to be in the back yard, hanging out the clothes or watering the flower garden. Sometimes she spoke to him of her own accord, concerning the weather or other important topics. Once she even asked him if he were going to the Fourth of July ball at the town-hall. It took him until the next morning—like other warriors, Issy was cursed with shyness—to summon courage enough to ask her to go to the ball with him. Then he found it was too late; she was going with her cousin, Lennie Bloomer. But he felt that she had offered him the opportunity, and was happy and hopeful accordingly.

This, however, was before she went to Boston to study telegraphy. When she returned, with a picture hat and a Boston accent, it was to preside at the telegraph instrument in the little room adjoining the post office at her father's store. When Issy bowed blushingly outside the window of the telegraph room, he received only the airiest of frigid nods. Was there what Lord Lyndhurst would have called “another”? It would seem not. Old Mr. Higgins, her father, encouraged no bows nor attentions from young men, and Gertie herself did not appear to desire them. So Issy gave up his tales of savage butchery for those of love and blisses, adored in silence, and hoped—always hoped.

But why had the blacksmith seemed surprised at the departure of Sam Bartlett, the “dudey” vacationist from the city, whose father had, years ago, been Beriah Higgins's partner in the fish business? And why had he coupled the Bartlett name with that of Gertie, who had been visiting her father's maiden sister at Trumet, the village next below East Harniss, as Denboro is the next above it? Issy's suspicions were aroused, and he wondered.

Suddenly he heard voices in the shop above him. The window was open and he heard them plainly.

“Well! WELL!” It was the blacksmith who uttered the exclamation. “Why, Bartlett, how be you? What you doin' over here? Thought you'd gone back to Boston. I heard you had.”

Slowly, cautiously, the astonished quahauger rose from the sawhorse and peered over the window sill. There were two visitors in the shop. One was Ed Burns, proprietor of the Denboro Hotel and livery stable. The other was Sam Bartlett, the very same who had left East Harniss that morning, bound, ostensibly, for Boston. Issy sank back again and listened.

“Yes, yes!” he heard Sam say impatiently; “I know, but—see here, Jake, where can I hire a horse in this God-forsaken town?”

“Well, well, Sam!” continued Larkin. “I was just figurin' that Beriah had got the best of you after all, and you'd had to give it up for this time. Thinks I, it's too bad! Just because your dad and Beriah Higgins had such a deuce of a row when they bust up in the fish trade, it's a shame that he won't hark to your keepin' comp'ny with Gertie. And you doin' so well; makin' twenty dollars a week up to the city—Ed told me that—and—”

“Yes, yes! But never mind that. Where can I get a horse? I've got to be in Trumet by eight to-night sure.”

“Trumet? Why, that's where Gertie is, ain't it?”

“Look a-here, Jake,” broke in the livery-stable keeper. “I'll tell you how 'tis. Oh, it's all right, Sam! Jake knows the most of it; I told him. He can keep his mouth shut, and he don't like old crank Higgins any better'n you and me do. Jake, Sam here and Gertie had fixed it up to run off and git married to-night. He was to pretend to start for Boston this mornin'. Bought a ticket and all, so's to throw Beriah off the scent. He was to get off the train here at Denboro and I was to let him have a horse 'n' buggy. Then, this afternoon, he was goin' to drive through the wood roads around to Trumet and be at the Baptist Church there at eight to-night sharp. Gertie's Aunt Hannah, she's had her orders, and bein' as big a crank as her brother, she don't let the girl out of her sight. But there's a fair at the church and Auntie's tendin' a table. Gertie, she steps out to the cloak room to git a handkerchief which she's forgot; see? And she hops into Sam's buggy and away they go to the minister's. After they're once hitched Old Dyspepsy can go to pot and see the kittle bile.”

“Bully! By gum, that's fine! Won't Beriah rip some, hey?”

“Yes, but there's the dickens to pay. I've only got two horses in the stable to-day. The rest are let. And the two I've got—one's old Bill, and he couldn't go twenty mile to save his hide. And t'other's the gray mare, and blamed if she didn't git cast last night and use up her off hind leg so's she can't step. And Sam's GOT to have a horse. Where can I git one?”

“Hum! Have you tried Haynes's?”

“Yes, yes! And Lathrop's and Eldredge's. Can't git a team for love nor money.”

“Sho! And he can't go by train?”

“What? With Beriah postmaster at East Harniss and always nosin' through every train that stops there? You can't fetch Trumet by train without stoppin' at East Harniss and—What was that?”

“I don't know. What was it?”

“Sounded like somethin' outside that back winder.”

The two ran to the window and looked out. All they saw was an overturned sawhorse and two or three hens scratching vigorously.

“Guess 'twas the chickens, most likely,” observed the blacksmith. Then, striking his blackened palms together, he exclaimed:

“By time! I've thought of somethin'! Is McKay is in town to-day. Come over in the Lady May. She's a gasoline boat. Is would take Sam to Trumet for two or three dollars, I'll bet. And he's such a fool head that he wouldn't ask questions nor suspicion nothin'. 'Twould be faster'n a horse and enough sight less risky.”

And just then the “fool head,” his brain whirling under its carroty thatch, was hurrying blindly up the main street, bound somewhere, he wasn't certain where.

A mushy apple exploded between his shoulders, but he did not even turn around. So THIS was what the blacksmith meant! This was why Mr. Higgins watched his daughter so closely. This was why Gertie had been sent off to Trumet. She had met the Bartlett miscreant in Boston; they had been together there; had fallen in love and—He gritted his teeth and shook his fists almost in the face of old Deacon Pratt, who, knowing the McKay penchant for slaughter, had serious thoughts of sending for the constable.

Beriah Higgins must be warned, of course, but how? To telegraph was to put Pat Starkey in possession of the secret, and Pat was too good a friend of Gertie's to be trusted. There was no telephone at the store. Issy entered the combination grocery store and post office.

“Has the down mail closed yet?” he panted.

The postmaster looked out of his little window.

“Yes,” he replied. “Why? Got a letter you want to go? Take it up to the depot. The train's due, but 'tain't here yit. If you run you can make it.”

Issy took a card from his pocket. It was the business card of the firm to whom he sold his quahaugs. On the back of the card he wrote in pencil as follows:

“Mr. Beriah Higgins, your daughter Gertrude is going to meet Sam'l Bartlett at the Baptist Church in Trumet at 8 P.M. to-night and get married to him. LOOK OUT!!!”

After an instant's consideration he signed it “A True Friend,” this being in emulation of certain heroes of the Deadwood Dick variety. Then he put the card into an envelope and ran at top speed to the railway station. The train came in as he reached the platform. The baggage master was standing in the door of his car.

“Here, mister!” panted Issy. “Jest hand this letter to Beriah Higgins when he takes the mail bag at East Harniss, won't you? It's mighty important. Don't forgit. Thanks.”

The train moved off. Issy stared after it, grinning malevolently. Higgins would get that note in ample time to send word to the watchful Aunt Hannah. When the unsuspecting eloper reached the Trumet church, it would be the aunt, not the niece, who awaited him. Still grinning, Mr. McKay walked off the platform, and into the arms of Ed Burns, the stable keeper, and Sam Bartlett, his loathed and favored rival.

“Here he is!” shouted Burns. “Now we've got him.”

The foiler of the plot turned pale. Was his secret discovered? But no; his captors began talking eagerly, and gradually the sense of their pleadings became plain. They wanted him—HIM, of all people—to convey Bartlett to Trumet in the Lady May.

“You see, it's a business meetin',” urged Burns. “Sam's got to be there by ha'f past seven or he'll—he won't win on the deal, will you, Sam? Say yes, Issy; that's a good feller. He'll give you—I don't know's he won't give you five dollars.”

“Ten,” cried Bartlett. “And I'll never forget it, either. Will you, Is?”

A mighty “No!” was trembling on Issy's tongue. But before it was uttered Burns spoke again.

“McKay's got the best boat in these parts,” he urged. “She's got a tiptop engine in her, and—”

The word “engine” dropped into the whirlpool of Issy's thoughts with a familiar sound. In the chapter of “Vivian” that he had just finished, the beautiful shopgirl was imprisoned on board the yacht of the millionaire kidnaper, while the hero, in his own yacht, was miles astern. But the hero's faithful friend, disguised as a stoker, was tampering with the villain's engine. A vague idea began to form in Issy's brain. Once get the would-be eloper aboard the Lady May, and, even though the warning note should remain undelivered, he—

Issy smiled, and the ghastliness of that smile was unnoticed by his companions.

“I—I'll do it,” he cried. “By mighty! I WILL do it. You be at the wharf here at four o'clock. I wouldn't do it for everybody, Sam Bartlett, but for you I'd do consider'ble, just now. And I don't want your ten dollars nuther.”

Doctoring an engine may be easy enough—in stories. But to doctor a gasoline engine so that it will run for a certain length of time and THEN break down is not so easy. Three o'clock came and the problem was still unsolved. Issy, the perspiration running down his face, stood up in the Lady May's cockpit and looked out across the bay, smooth and glassy in the afternoon sun.

The sky overhead was clear and blue, but along the eastern and southern horizon was a gray bank of cloud, heaped in tumbled masses.

A sunburned lobsterman in rubber boots and a sou'wester was smoking on the wharf.

“What time you goin' to start for home, Is?” he asked.

“Oh, in an hour or so,” was the absent-minded reply.

“Humph! You'd better cast off afore that or you'll be fog bound. It'll be thicker'n dock mud toward sundown, and you'll fetch up in Waptomac 'stead of East Harniss, 'thout you've got a good compass.”

“Oh, my compass is all right,” began Issy, and stopped short. The lobsterman made other attempts at conversation, but they were unproductive. McKay was gazing at the growing fog bank and thinking hard. To doctor an engine may be difficult, but to get lost in a fog—He took the compass from the glass-lidded binnacle by the wheel, and carrying it into the little cabin, placed it in the cuddy forward.

It was nearer five than four when the Lady May, her engine barking aggressively, moved out of Denboro Harbor. Mr. Bartlett, the passenger, had been on time and had fumed and fretted at the delay. But Issy was deliberation itself. He had forgotten his quahaug rake, and the lapse of memory entailed a trip to the blacksmith's. Then the gasoline tank needed filling and the battery had to be overhauled.

“Are you sure you can make it?” queried Sam anxiously. “It's important, I tell you. Mighty important.”

The skipper snorted in disgust. “Make it?” he repeated. “If the Lady May can't make fourteen mile in two hours—let alone two'n a ha'f—then I don't know her. She's one of them boats you read about, she is.”

The Cape makes a wide bend between Denboro and Trumet. The distance between these towns is twenty long, curved miles over the road; by water it is reduced to a straight fourteen. And midway between the two, at the center of the curve, is East Harniss.

The Lady May coughed briskly on. There was no sea, and she sent long, widening ripples from each side of her bow. Bartlett, leaning over the rail, gazed impatiently ahead. Issy, sprawled on the bench by the wheel, was muttering to himself. Occasionally he glanced toward the east. The gray fog bank was now half way to the zenith and approaching rapidly. The eastern shore had disappeared.

“Is! Hi, Is! What are you doing? Don't kill him before my eyes.”

Issy came out of his trance with a start.

“What—what's that?” he asked. His passenger was grinning broadly.

“What? Kill who?”

“Why, the big chief, or whoever you had under your knee just then. You've been rolling your eyes and punching air with your fist for the last five minutes. I was getting scared. You're an unmerciful sinner when you get started, ain't you, Is? Who was the victim that time? 'Man Afraid of Hot Water'? or who?”

The skipper scowled. He shoved the fist into his pocket.

“Naw,” he growled. “'Twa'n't.”

“So? Not an Indian? Then it must have been a white man. Some fellow after your girl, perhaps. Hey?”

The disconcerted Issy was speechless. His companion's chance shot had scored a bull's-eye. Sam whooped.

“That's it!” he crowed. “Sure thing! Give it to him, Is! Don't spare him.”

Mr. McKay chokingly admitted that he “wa'n't goin' to.”

“Ho, ho! That's the stuff! But who's SHE, Is? When are you going to marry her?”

Issy grunted spitefully. “You ain't married yourself—not yit,” he observed, with concealed sarcasm.

The unsuspecting Bartlett laughed in triumph. “No,” he said. “I'm not, that's a fact; but maybe I'm going to be some of these days. It looked pretty dubious for a while, but now it's all right.”

“'Tis, hey? You're sure about that, be you?”

“Guess I am. Great Scott! what's that? Fog?”

A damp breath blew across the boat. The clouds covered the sky overhead and the bay to port. The fog was pouring like smoke across the water.

“Fog, by thunder!” exclaimed Bartlett.

Issy smiled. “Hum! Yes, 'tis fog, ain't it?” he observed.

“But what'll we do? It'll be here in a minute, won't it?”

“Shouldn't be a mite surprised. Looks 's if twas here now.”

The fog came on. It reached the Lady May, passed over her, and shut her within gray, wet walls. It was impossible to see a length from her side. Sam swore emphatically. The skipper was provokingly calm. He stepped to the engine, bent over it, and then returned to the wheel.

“What are you doing?” demanded Bartlett.

“Slowin' down, of course. Can't run more'n ha'f speed in a fog like this. 'Tain't safe.”

“Safe! What do I care? I want to get to Trumet.”

“Yes? Well, maybe we'll git there if we have luck.”

“You idiot! We've GOT to get there. How can you tell which way to steer? Get your compass, man! get your compass!”

“Ain't got no compass,” was the sulky answer. “Left it to home.”

“Why, no, you didn't. I—”

“I tell you I did. 'Twas careless of me, I know, but—”

“But I say you didn't. When you went uptown after that quahaug rake I explored this craft of yours some. The compass is in that little closet at the end of the cabin. I'll get it.”

He rose to his feet. Issy sprang forward and seized him by the arm.

“Set down!” he yelled. “Who's runnin' this boat, you or me?”

The astounded passenger stared at his companion.

“Why, you are,” he replied. “But that's no reason—What's the matter with you, anyway? Have your dime novels driven you loony?”

Issy hesitated. For a moment chagrin and rage at this sudden upset of his schemes had gotten the better of his prudence. But Bartlett was taller than he and broad in proportion. And valor—except of the imaginative brand—was not Issy's strong point.

“There, there, Sam!” he explained, smiling crookedly. “You mustn't mind me. I'm sort of nervous, I guess. And you mustn't hop up and down in a boat that way. You set still and I'll fetch the compass.”

He stumbled across the cockpit and disappeared in the dusk of the cabin. Finding that compass took a long time. Sam lost patience.

“What's the matter?” he demanded. “Can't you find it? Shall I come?”

“No, no!” screamed Issy vehemently. “Stay where you be. Catch a-holt of that wheel. We'll be spinnin' circles if you don't. I'm a-comin'.”

But it was another five minutes before he emerged from the cabin, carrying the compass box very carefully with both hands. He placed it in the binnacle and closed the glass lid.

“'Twas catched in a bluefish line,” he explained. “All snarled up, 'twas.”

Sam peered through the glass at the compass.

“Thunder!” he exclaimed. “I should say we had spun around. Instead of north being off here where I thought it was, it's 'way out to the right. Queer how fog'll mix a fellow up. Trumet's about northeast, isn't it?”

“No'theast by no'th's the course. Keep her just there.”

The Lady May, still at half speed, kept on through the mist. Time passed. The twilight, made darker still by the fog, deepened. They lit the lantern in order to see the compass card. Issy had the wheel now. Sam was forward, keeping a lookout and fretting at the delay.

“It's seven o'clock already,” he cried. “For Heaven's sake, how late will you be? I've got to be there by quarter of eight. D'you hear? I've GOT to.”

“Well, we're gittin' there. Can't expect to travel so fast with part of the power off. You'll be where you're goin' full as soon as you want to be, I cal'late.”

And he chuckled.

Another half hour and, through the wet dimness, a light flashed, vanished, and flashed again. Issy saw it and smiled grimly. Bartlett saw it and shouted.

“'What's that light?” he cried. “Did you see it? There it is, off there.”

“I see it. There's a light at Trumet Neck, ain't there?”

“Humph! It's been years since I was there, but I thought Trumet light was steady. However—”

“Ain't that the wharf ahead?”

Sure enough, out of the dark loomed the bulk of a small wharf, with catboats at anchor near it. Higher up, somewhere on the shore, were the lighted windows of a building.

“By thunder, we're here!” exclaimed Sam, and drew a long breath.

Issy shut off the power altogether, and the Lady May slid easily up to the wharf. Feverishly her skipper made her fast.

“Yes, sir!” he cried exultantly. “We're here. And no Black Rover nor anybody else ever done a better piece of steerin' than that, nuther.”

He clambered over the stringpiece, right at the heels of his impatient but grateful passenger. Sam's thanks were profuse and sincere.

“I'll never forget it, Is,” he declared. “I'll never forget it. And you'll have to let me pay you the—What makes you shake so?”

Issy pulled his arm away and stepped back.

“I'll never forget it, Is,” continued Sam. “I—Why! What—?”

He was standing at the shore end of the wharf, gazing up at the lighted windows. They were those of a dwelling house—an old-fashioned house with a back yard sloping down to the landing.

And then Issy McKay leaned forward and spoke in his ear.

“You bet you won't forgit it, Sam Bartlett!” he crowed, in trembling but delicious triumph. “You bet you won't! I've fixed you just the same as the Black Rover fixed the mutineers. Run off with my girl, will ye? And marry her, will ye? I—”

Sam interrupted him. “Why! WHY!” he cried. “That's—that's Gertie's house! This isn't Trumet! IT'S EAST HARNISS!”

The next moment he was seized from behind. The skipper's arms were around his waist and the skipper's thin legs twisted about his own. They fell together upon the sand and, as they rolled and struggled, Issy's yells rose loud and high.

“Mr. Higgins!” he shrieked. “Mr. Higgins! Come on! I've got him! I've got the feller that's tryin' to steal your daughter! Come on! I've got him! I'm hangin' to him!”

A door banged open. Some one rushed down the walk. And then a girl's voice cried in alarm:

“What is it? Who is it? What IS the matter?”

And from the bundle of legs and arms on the ground two voices exclaimed: “GERTIE!”

“But where IS your father?” asked Sam. Issy asked nothing. He merely sat still and listened.

“Why, he's at Trumet. At least I suppose he is. Mrs. Jones—she's gone to telephone to him now—says that he came home this morning with one of those dreadful 'attacks' of his. And after dinner he seemed so sick that, when she went for the doctor, she wired me at Auntie's to come home. I didn't want to come—you know why—but I COULDN'T let him die alone. And so I caught the three o'clock train and came. I knew you'd forgive me. But it seems that when Mrs. Jones came back with the doctor they found father up and dressed and storming like a crazy man. He had received some sort of a letter; he wouldn't say what. And, in spite of all they could do, he insisted on going out. And Cap'n Berry—the depot master—says he went to Trumet on the afternoon freight. We must have passed each other on the way. And I'm so—But why are you HERE? And what were you and Issy doing? And—”

Her lover broke in eagerly. “Then you're alone now?” he asked.

“Yes, but—”

“Good! Your father can't get a train back from Trumet before to-morrow morning. I don't know what this letter was—but never mind. Perhaps friend McKay knows more about it. It may be that Mr. Higgins is waiting now outside the Baptist church. Gertie, now's our chance. You come with me right up to the minister's. He's a friend of mine. He understands. He'll marry us, I know. Come! We mustn't lose a minute. Your dad may take a notion to drive back.”

He led her off up the lane, she protesting, he urging. At the corner of the house he turned.

“I say, Is!” he called. “Don't you want to come to the wedding? Seems to me we owe you that, considering all you've done to help it along. Or perhaps you want to stay and fix that compass of yours.”

Issy didn't answer. Some time after they had gone he arose from the ground and stumbled home. That night he put a paper novel into the stove. Next morning, before going to the depot, he removed an iron spike from the Lady May's compass box. The needle swung back to its proper position.