BEFORE THE WIND

Molly Sefton had something on her mind, a very serious "something," Molly thought; and it was because of this something that Rodman Cree had been invited for his first canoe ride.

A light wind curled the water into tiny ripples. It was morning of the last Saturday in September, and across the lake you could see a faint yellowish-red tinge on the maple trees of Shadow Island.

The two stood on the pier at the foot of High Street, with the Seftons' new sailing canoe riding in the water alongside. Only the day before it had been delivered from the Fair Play Factory, and now, with the newly varnished paddles and nickled trimmings and white lateen sail, the craft looked very inviting indeed.

Molly giggled.

"What's funny?" Rodman turned, mildly surprised.

"You are! Why, I haven't seen you smile for a week, but now you simply must, else I shan't allow you in the canoe with me."

He did smile, half-heartedly at first, and then more broadly and honestly, till the smile had grown into an old-time laugh.

"That's better. I am going to take you sailing, after all. But are you sure," she added slyly, "that you can swim?"

Rodman answered the question with a contemptuous sniff. "Maybe you can't, though," he said.

"Well, I just can," Molly asserted proudly; "I can swim two hundred yards. If I kick off my slippers, this dress won't be much heavier than a bathing suit, either. But, of course, father says I must do my sailing where it isn't deep."

"Then we'd better edge the shore to that bay by Magoon's boathouse; there's lots of room for tacking, and it's all shallow water."

Molly stared suspiciously at the stretch of lake he had pointed out. "How do you know?"

"Look at the color of the water. Don't you notice that it is a whole lot lighter than the rest of the lake? And did you ever see anybody fishing there? And did you ever notice how that steamer from the other end of the lake never puts in, even when it wants to land somebody at Magoon's pier?"

Molly nodded slowly. "But if it's so shallow, why isn't it a swimming-hole?"

For a moment, Rodman had no answer. "I don't know—Yes, I do, too. Look at the beach. If you've ever walked along it, you know there's the finest collection of sharp stones on that beach you ever saw, and it must be the same way under water. You couldn't go in swimming there unless you wore hobnailed shoes."

"You're right," Molly admitted, "though I never put things together like that. Of course, then, that's the place for us to go."

While Rodman steadied the canoe, she climbed in gingerly, holding to the pier with one hand until he was also aboard.

"Wait just a minute before you push off," she warned. "Somebody's coming."

"It's Horace Hibbs," he said, continuing to look toward the bow of the boat and away from the pier.

"How do you know?" Molly's voice showed her surprise.

"By his step, of course. Hello, Mr. Hibbs!"

Smiling and genial, the Scout Master bustled out to the end of the pier.

"Caught a glimpse of you down here; so I thought I would stroll over and see you set sail. Better stick to that bay over there by Magoon's, Molly. It is a nice, level beach, not higher than your chin anywhere. Ready for the football game this afternoon, Rodman?"

"I am as ready as I'll ever be, sir," the boy returned slowly.

Horace Hibbs laughed. "We can't all make the team. You will have your chance some day. All ready, Molly? Lee-board set? I'll give you an easy start, and in a second or two you will be under way."

In no time at all, it seemed to Rodman, the sail had filled, and the canoe was slipping over the surface as gracefully and with as little effort as a swan floating downstream.

"All you have to do," Molly told him, "is to sit still and let me manage the boat. I am a very good sailor."

For the second time that morning, Rodman laughed. "You may be a very good sailor, but you're not a very old sailor."

Molly paid out the sheet a bit. "I don't see how you know whether I am an old sailor or just a beginner. Maybe I have been sailing canoes for years."

"I don't know for sure," apologized Rodman, "but not longer than a week ago I saw you in the library getting a book on sailing. Now, I never heard of a real sailor reading a book about it. They always know it all; at least, they always say they do."

It was Molly's turn to laugh now. "You're right. I haven't been at it for years; but Horace Hibbs took me out nine or ten times in that canoe of his, and the last few times I sailed it all by myself. Then yesterday, too, I took him out in mine, and he never gave me a bit of advice, and I tacked and came about and made a beautiful landing—he said so himself. But you do notice things, don't you, Rodman? I've never seen anybody that noticed little things the way you do."

They were in the bay now, and Molly pointed the canoe toward the outer edge of the shallow area. The wind was almost directly inshore, but by keeping the sheet close-hauled Molly skimmed along at a merry clip almost into the teeth of the breeze.

"Ready to come about," warned Molly.

"Turn to your right; starboard, you know."

Easily and with a fair degree of safety, the canoe came about to port. Rodman shook his head.

"I wouldn't risk that, Molly. When you turn again, running before the wind, come about the simple and natural way—toward the lower tip of your sail."

She stole a quick look at him. "How do you know which is better? You told me you were never in a sail-boat before."

"Well, I haven't been. Shucks, that's just common sense. If you come about the right way, the sail only straightens out; if you swing the wrong way, the—the boom, I guess you call it, whips across the boat and may upset it. Anyhow, I should think there would be danger. But here is some first-class information. By the looks of the lake, we are going to be in a dead calm before two minutes; and after that"—he studied the horizon—"look out!"

True to prediction, the breeze spent itself, leaving the canoe tossing lightly some two hundred yards from shore. Only a bank of hard-edged clouds proved that the wind had not gone home for the day, but was merely resting to muster reinforcements.

"I'm glad it died down," Molly said promptly, "because now I can talk to you. Rodman Cree, I didn't get you out here just to go sailing, but to find out what's wrong with you. For three weeks, at least, you've been sneaking around like a hermit or something. You don't go with anybody, and nobody goes with you. You used to be happy and light-hearted; now I don't even hear your whistle any more. You don't seem to like anybody, and nobody seems to like you. What's the matter, Rodman? Tell me about it."

He straightened his shoulders defiantly. "Well, I guess there is no reason why the fellows should like me. I'm no good. I'm no good at athletics; I can't even play football. The Scouts think I am in with Buck Claxton's gang, and Buck thinks I am working for the Scouts. Why, Bunny Payton is the only friend I have, and you know as well as I do that he has troubles of his own right now."

Molly's eyes flashed. "It's miserable, that's what it is; miserable that the school is all split up. But that's no reason why you shouldn't have friends. Why don't the Scouts like you?"

Chin on his hands, Rodman doggedly told her the story of the field day between the Scouts and All-School teams. "The Black Eagle fellows think I didn't run my best in the relay race; they think, too, that I was willing to toss away the win after it was over. But that isn't the worst. Do you remember, at the school election, when I said I thought a girl should have some office. Well, the Scouts believe I said that just to keep Specs McGrew from nominating Bunny for president of the student association."

"I'll tell them that wasn't so," Molly offered.

"It won't do any good. Bunny knows the truth, but the others think I am just plain worthless. In football it is the same. I have been out for practice since the first day, but I haven't any chance of making the team. And I am heavier and stronger than a lot of the players on it, too. I've about decided to quit trying. Perhaps my folks will move somewhere else next year. I hope they do."

"But it is just a question of time," urged Molly, "before you learn enough to play on the first eleven. Surely you'll do it next year."

Rodman's shoulders settled back in a curve. "No, I don't think I'll ever make it. I'm no good, that's all; no good at anything."

"I'm ashamed of you, Rodman Cree!" Molly took the sheet line in her fingers once more. "Yes, sir, just plain ashamed of you for being a quitter! Why, if the wind wasn't coming up, I believe I'd make you walk ashore. So there!"

"It wouldn't make me feel any worse than I do now."

Scudding across the lake, ruffling the placid water into combing waves, a gust of wind was leaping toward them. Molly surveyed it with approval. Her chin was set in a firm little curve, and she nodded her head, quite as if she had suddenly come to a decision.

"Watch!" she said.

As the first breath of the breeze reached them, she let out the sheet. In less than a minute, as it tautened, the canoe was racing before the romping wind, its lateen sail almost at right angles to the craft.

In the exhilaration of the speed, Rodman forgot his troubles. "Be ready to turn—come about, I mean," he warned, "or you'll go ashore."

"I know what I am going to do," answered Molly, a peculiar note in her voice. "You sit tight and wait."

Straight as an arrow, the bow cut the water, with the growing wind tugging hard at the filled sail, till the canoe seemed pulled ahead by some great but invisible water animal.

"Ready!" shouted Rodman. "Sail's on the port side, you know; don't come about to port."

"Well, I'm going to."

"You'll upset!"

"I won't upset! I know I can come up into the wind by swinging to starboard, but I'm going to show you that I can do it the other way, too."

"Molly!"

"You're just a passenger. You sit still and watch." They were barely twenty-five yards from the shore.

"Coming about!" shouted Molly.

Instead of turning to starboard, she deliberately forced the canoe to port. There was a moment of suspense. Then, exultingly, the quickening wind lost its grip on the sail, shivered it an instant as it hit the edge, and finally banged it violently across the canoe.

"Keep your feet free of the lines!" Rodman yelled, as he threw his weight toward the windward side, in an attempt to counterbalance its power.

"Look out for yourself!" Molly flung back. "I'm going—"

She never finished her sentence. It was choked short as the canoe heeled abruptly and dumped its occupants into four feet of cool September lake.

For a moment they stood facing each other; Molly laughing, Rodman furiously out of temper.

"Why—why don't you do what you can do?" he demanded.

"Why don't you?" Molly retorted.

There was something in her voice that took the anger out of his system.

"Wha—what do you mean?"

Molly pointed to a swimmer far over to the left. "Who's that?"

Rodman shaded his eyes. "It's Specs. What's that got to do with it?"

"How do you know it's Specs?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure it is a Scout, because that's where the Scouts go in swimming. Specs has quit trying for the football team; so he's the only one that would be in swimming, on account of the game this afternoon. And I know the way Specs swims. He uses the overhand stroke, and he does it a good deal better with his right arm than his left."

"There you are!" Molly was triumphant. "Why don't you take your own advice, and do what you can do? You are a wonderful observer. You notice everything, and you remember it, too. You can do as much that way as any other. You were right when you said that a girl should be elected to one of the offices, and they all know you were right, no matter what they say. You noticed something there, and you had the courage to tell everybody else about it. What if you can't make the team? If you just do your best, the time is going to come when you will accomplish as much by seeing as the rest will by doing."

The look on Rodman's face was a queer mixture of shame and pleasure. He swallowed hard.

"You're right, Molly. You—you tipped us over here on purpose, didn't you?"

Molly smiled, but said nothing.

"Yes, you're right," admitted Rodman Cree. "And I'll—well, I'll prove that you are." He swallowed again. "Now, if you say so, we'll walk this boat to shore and get another start."

For the third time that morning, he smiled. As he towed the light canoe ashore, he even whistled.