  Produced by Al Haines. [image] "This—this is an outrage!" she stormed SAM BY E. J. RATH ILLUSTRATIONS BY NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY CONTENTS CHAPTER I SAM CHAPTER I SAM, THE BOAT PERSON Miss Chalmers stood on the wharf at Clayton, poised upon one foot, while she employed the other in executing alternate tap-taps, denoting impatience, and vigorous stamping, by which she registered rage. Even the half-grown boy who had volunteered to find her a boatman knew that she was angry. Her free foot beat upon the rough flooring of the wharf with increasing vigor. The wharf did not care; it was old and stout, and did not pretend to be ornamental. Miss Chalmers's shoe might have protested, had it possessed a voice, for it was new and spotless, and of delicate constitution. With its mate, it had cost Miss Chalmers twenty dollars, a fact which is set down to obviate the necessity of describing what else the lady wore. Her whole costume was in complete financial and artistic harmony with its twenty-dollar-shoe foundation. It was dark and clear and warm—somewhat after nine o'clock of an August night. There were gleams of light upon the St. Lawrence, some in motion, some merely shimmering restlessly as they lay fixed upon the rippling surface. It was an evening for poetry and romance and beauty—if only the last steamer had not departed. The boy came back and confirmed his previous impression that no other boat would stop that night at Witherbee's Island. "It's absurd—inexcusable!" exclaimed Miss Chalmers sharply. "Yes, ma'am," said the boy. "How am I to get there, then? Well? Answer!" "I got a man who'll take you." "Where is he?" "Down that way," replied the boy, nodding his head toward the end of the wharf. "A reliable man?" "Yes, ma'am." "You know him?" "No, ma'am." Miss Chalmers stamped her foot again. "How can you say he's reliable if you don't know him?" she demanded so imperatively that the boy winced and shuffled his feet. "Well, he's got a power-boat, and his name's Sam," said the boy defensively. "He ain't ever been wrecked 's fur as I know." Miss Chalmers made an eloquent and helpless gesture with both arms, then surveyed her light field-equipment—six trunks and a grip. "Show me the man," she spoke abruptly. The boy made off in haste, with Miss Chalmers at his heels. He led the way among bales and boxes and barrels, stopping presently under a dim oil lantern set upon a post. On the string-piece of the wharf sat a man, smoking a pipe. He looked up at Miss Chalmers casually, yet speculatively, then arose and nodded amicably. "Looking for me?" he asked. Miss Chalmers was annoyed at the phrasing; never yet had she "looked for" a man. But she swallowed her annoyance. "I must go to Mr. Stephen Witherbee's island—to-night," she said. "Yes, ma'am." "You know where it is?" "Oh, yes!" "How far is it?" "Something like fifteen miles." "Can you take me there at once?" "Well," said the man, removing his pipe from his mouth and regarding Miss Chalmers with solemn interest, "it all depends on what you call 'at once.' I can take you there, but I'm no speed-king." "Take me, then!" exclaimed Miss Chalmers. "And get my trunks." The man went up the wharf at a leisurely gait, accompanied by the boy. Almost immediately the boy came back. "He says he can't take all them trunks, and for you to pick out two." Miss Chalmers strode back to her trunks with no improvement of temper. She found the boatman surveying them placidly. "Which is the emergency-kit?" he asked pleasantly. "I'm not running a freighter, ma'am." "They've all got to go—every one!" The man shook his head doubtfully. "Swim?" he asked presently, looking Miss Chalmers evenly in the eye. "Why, cer— Oh, how ridiculous! Will you or will you not take those trunks?" "Oh, I'll take them—only maybe the boat won't. Anyhow, we'll make a stab," he said cheerfully, shouldering the nearest trunk. The boat took them, but not without wabbles of warning and an ominous loss of freeboard. The boatman dumped them aboard with easy nonchalance, while Miss Chalmers shivered in solicitude. But she made no comment; she was in a hurry, and she did not purpose to descend to argument with a 'longshore person. "Well, I guess we're ready," said the boatman as he gave the last trunk a final kick into place and reached a hand up for his passenger. Ignoring the hand, Miss Chalmers stepped swiftly aboard, unaided. "Here, boy!" she called, tossing a quarter back upon the wharf. The boy fell upon the coin and was off. The six trunks of Miss Chalmers occupied three-fourths of the cock-pit, so that she found herself crowded far aft, in close and unpleasant proximity to the bearded and greasy-shirted master of the launch. She wrapped her skirt close about her knees—not a very difficult task as skirts go—compressed her lips tightly, and stared out upon the river. There was an interval of several minutes, during which the launch coughed, gasped, and volley-fired, while the boatman panted and heaved at the flywheel. Five times the engine started, and five times it stopped with a sob. The man arose from his knees, fumbled about for a candle, lighted it, and examined the gasoline contraption curiously. Then he spun the fly-wheel again, which produced more coughing and another wailing sob of despair. Miss Chalmers turned abruptly from her survey of the river. "For Heaven's sake, prime it!" she snapped. The boatman twisted his head and regarded her with undisguised astonishment. He not only looked at Miss Chalmers, but he studied her hat, her gown, and her twenty-dollar shoes. He also resurveyed the six trunks. But Miss Chalmers had again turned her attention to the lights upon the river, and was unconscious of his scrutiny. "That's a good tip," he observed, after satisfying his eyes. Whereupon he primed the engine, and the boat buzzed away from the wharf. Miss Chalmers was but partially relieved in mind when she found herself being borne out upon the St. Lawrence. The day on the railroad had been hot and cindery, and the train was hours late at Clayton. To cap that misfortune, she had loitered to purchase some stamps and write some telegrams, and arrived at the wharf in time to get an excellent view of the disappearing stern-light of the last regular boat that would stop at Witherbee's Island that night. It seemed easier to get to Europe, she reflected. Well out into the American channel, the boatman shifted his helm and headed the launch down-stream. He was smoking again, leaning back comfortably against the coaming, his long legs stretched out so that his feet were braced against the nearest trunk. Occasionally he glanced at the lights that shone cordially from the islands and the mainland, and now and then paid brief attention to some passing craft; but most of the time he appeared to be studying the back of Miss Chalmers's head. Several times he smiled, and once his silent reflections brought forth a soft chuckle. An hour passed. The launch still voyaged in mid-stream, making irregular detours where islands loomed out of the channel. Miss Chalmers extended her hand close to a flickering lantern that stood on the floor of the cock-pit and examined the dial of her wrist-watch. "How far have we gone?" she demanded. The boatman studied the shore for a few seconds. "Oh, seven or eight miles," he answered. "And you say it's fifteen?" "To Witherbee's? Oh, all of that." "You mean to tell me this boat cannot do better than seven or eight miles an hour?" "She has done better," sighed the boatman. "She did eleven once. But she was new then, and her bottom was clean, and her cylinder wasn't full of carbon, and she didn't leak, and her carbureter didn't have asthma, and she didn't have six trunks on board, and—" Miss Chalmers interrupted the apology with an angry exclamation. "It's nearly eleven o'clock," she said. "It's beyond endurance! I wish I hadn't started." "Well, we can turn around any time," remarked the boatman mildly. "But she won't do better than eight miles an hour at the outside. You can play that bet to win." Miss Chalmers devoted to the boatman a swift and stormy glance. He irritated her even more than his atrocious boat. The easy, almost familiar style of his speech was something to which she was unaccustomed—from the lips of common persons. It seemed to her that he assumed a position of equality. A boatman—a grimy-handed, hatless, whiskered boatman! A person who hired out! She set her jaws tightly and resumed her unsatisfying study of the river. Her dignity checked upon her lips a withering rebuke. More islands were passed and the channel widened somewhat. The passenger observed with growing annoyance that there were fewer lights ashore. The summer folks were going to bed. High time, she thought; she was tired herself. Nearly half an hour more elapsed, enlivened only by an astonishingly swift movement on the part of the steersman, who uncoiled himself like a spring, flung himself forward, and rescued, with a long and lean arm, the grip that belonged to his passenger just as it was about to slide quietly from the narrow deck into the hospitable St. Lawrence. Unceremoniously he jammed it into a safer place under the gunwale. Then he resumed his lolling posture at the tiller. Miss Chalmers made no comment. Then, after a little, the rhythmical wheeze of the engine was supplanted by a series of irregular choking gasps, then a sharp popping at broken intervals, and then—silence. The boatman sat up lazily, reached for the lantern, and held it close to the machinery. The launch carried her momentum for a minute, then swung broadside to the current and drifted contentedly. Miss Chalmers bit her lip. Very deliberately the boatman studied the engine, poking the lantern about and, when it failed to illuminate dark recesses, lighting the stump of candle. Then he spun the fly-wheel. There was no answer. Again and again he spun it, but the engine remained inert. After a while he resumed his placid and apparently purposeless examination of the gasoline monster. "Well, what is the matter now?" demanded a cutting voice. "Engine stopped," said the boatman, putting down the lantern and beginning to refill his pipe. "Thank you for the information," said Miss Chalmers icily. "Why has it stopped?" "I couldn't begin to tell you—ma'am." There was something about the "ma'am," drawled out at the end, that peculiarly exasperated her; it seemed to lack the servility that was familiar to her from the lips of servants. "Do you know anything about engines?" "Not much that's good." Miss Chalmers's temper was rising rapidly. She looked at her watch, then at the dark shores and islands. "How dared you bring me out here if you didn't—Oh, it's—it's—perfectly outrageous! It's—" She left the sentence unfinished, seized the lantern, brushed her way past the boatman without so much as a scornful glance, and dropped to her knees in the bottom of the cock-pit. The floor was oily and dirty, but Miss Chalmers paid no attention to that. She devoted the next five minutes wholly to an examination of the engine. The boatman watched and smoked. Item by item, she inventoried the one-cylinder pest. She peered into the oil-cups; she smeared her gloves on the cam that operated the timing-lever; she fussed with the tickler on the carbureter; she did a score of other things, while her audience watched in silence. After she got through with the engine she turned her attention to the batteries, tightening a wire connection here and there. "Now, where's your socket-wrench?" she demanded. "Socket-wrench?" repeated the boatman. "That's a new one on me. I don't remember—" "Haven't you ever taken out the spark-plug?" "Oh, you mean that funny thing that screws it out. Sure! I've got one somewhere." He fumbled under a seat and drew out a box that contained a disorderly array of tools. Miss Chalmers dived a daintily gloved hand into it and brought forth what she sought. "If you want me to do that—" He did not finish the sentence, because she already had the spark-plug in her hand and was holding the points close to the light. "Dirty, of course," she commented disgustedly. "Have you any sand-paper?" He found a bit after more fumbling, and watched her while she scrubbed the metal points until they were bright. Then she replaced the plug and screwed it into position with a vigorous twist of the wrench. The boatman had settled back in his place. After that she found a screw-driver and removed the cover from the float-chamber in the carbureter. A brief inspection of this mysterious compartment satisfied her. "Now spin that fly-wheel," she said abruptly, rising from her knees and moving aside to make room for him. The boatman spun the fly-wheel, not once, but many times. Twice the engine started, only to stop after a few revolutions. "It's abominable!" exclaimed the passenger. "What do you propose to do?" "Nothing, I guess," replied the boatman. "You've done more things now than I ever knew could be done. Don't suppose you damaged anything, do you?" She glared at him, then turned her scorching glance out upon the river. "Here comes a boat!" she said suddenly. The boatman followed the line of her pointing finger and discerned the lights of a craft that was bearing rather closely toward them. "Do you think they will help us?" she asked. "Might," he admitted. "They must! I can't stay here all night. Hail them!" He put two fingers between his lips and sent forth a shrill whistle. "Do you call that a hail?" she exclaimed, rising to her feet. She made a miniature megaphone of her hands and flung a vigorous "Ahoy!" across the water. The boat was closer now. Presently there was an answering voice. "Any trouble?" said the voice. The question affected the boatman like a shock of electricity. He started from his seat, leaned over the gunwale, and squinted through the gloom. "Breakdown," called Miss Chalmers. "What boat is that?" "Yacht Elizabeth. Want any help?" Before Miss Chalmers could answer a voice at her ear boomed out: "No-o-o, thanks! All right in a minute." She turned in amazement upon the boatman, who was now on his knees in front of the engine, his face hidden from her. "Why—you—you—" The jingling of a bell from across the water interrupted her. Then she heard the churning of a propeller, and the dark outline of the yacht began to move again. "Ahoy!" screamed Miss Chalmers. "Never mind!" roared her boatman. She whirled upon him furiously. "How could you! How dare you! Are you mad? Do you think—" She broke off and sent another hail in the direction of the yacht. But that craft had disappeared in the night, and there was no answering call. She looked down upon the kneeling figure, a tempest of wrath upon her lips. The boatman was fussing aimlessly with a wrench. Miss Chalmers fought for self-control. She had a passionate desire to slay, but she lacked a convenient means. Besides, she could not see that homicide would speed her way to Witherbee's Island. And even in her stormiest moments, Miss Chalmers never quite abandoned her grip on things as they were and problems that had to be met. But she was bewildered, even alarmed. She did not fear the consequences, however unpleasant, of an all-night drift on the river. It was the boatman who furnished cause for dismay. She wondered if he was insane. "I would like to know," she said, struggling to quiet her voice, "why you did that." "Did what?" "Sent that yacht away." "Reasons," he responded briefly. "Reasons! What reasons?" His only answer was a shrug. "I demand to be told why you sent those people away." There was another hunch of his shoulders. "Dou you mean deliberately to keep me out here in this boat all night?" "Oh, not at all!" he said easily. "Then why did you—" "Sorry. Can't explain." Miss Chalmers sat down with a gasp and tried to consider the situation. It was past midnight. The launch was slowly drifting down-stream in a steadily broadening channel. The boatman was unable to operate his engine, and had refused an offer of help. He was probably mad. She wondered if he was dangerous. For several minutes she sat in silence, watching him as he fussed about the machinery in an amateurish fashion. Then she gritted her teeth and aroused herself to action. "Get out of the way!" she commanded. He moved to make a place for her, and once more she knelt on the greasy flooring. Very patiently, considering the state of her emotions, Miss Chalmers went over the engine again. She shook her head, puzzled. Nothing seemed to be wrong with it. Suddenly she turned to him. "Where's your gas-tank?" she demanded. "Forward. But you needn't look there. There's plenty. I filled it—" She seized the lantern and began climbing over the trunks; she was not going to take the word of an incompetent. Her white gown suffered dismally as she scrambled in the direction of the gasoline-tank, and she had a sinking sensation that the spectacle afforded to the boatman was lacking in dignity. But she was determined, and tried to comfort herself with the thought that it was quite dark. She located the tank and unscrewed the cap. The aperture was large enough to admit her hand and arm; in she plunged them resolutely. The tank was nearly full. She replaced the cap and crawled aft again. Then the boatman did a strangely considerate thing. He turned his back and pretended to be doing something to the engine, while Miss Chalmers slipped down from the trunks and shook her skirt about her ankles. She made a mental note of it. "Where does your gas-line run?" she asked briskly. "Gas-line?" "Oh, the pipe that connects the tank with the engine!" she cried in exasperation. "Don't you know anything?" The boatman grinned cheerfully. "I'm learning," he said. "It runs along under the gunwale on the port side, I think. I never paid much attention, but—" "Hold the lantern here," she ordered, now on her hands and knees, with her head poked under the gunwale. The boatman obeyed. "Now move forward," she directed. He moved the lantern as she directed, while Miss Chalmers explored the gas-line, beginning at the carbureter. Presently they arrived at an obstacle in the shape of the passenger's baggage. "Move that grip," was her next order. He yanked the rescued bag from its place of safety, and she craned her head into the opening. A few seconds later she withdrew it and bestowed upon the boatman a look of unutterable contempt. "Get down here," she said. He knelt beside her. "Poke your head in there." He obeyed. Miss Chalmers also poked her head in, so that wisps of her brown hair brushed his unshaven cheeks. "Now, do you see that little handle there?" she inquired. "Yes, ma'am." The boatman's voice was meek. "Do you know what it is?" "No, ma'am." "Well, it's the cut-off in the gas-line." "Never noticed it before," he commented blandly. "And it's cut off now," continued Miss Chalmers. A gentle swell rocked the boat, and their heads bobbed together. She paid no attention. "You cut it off when you jammed my grip under there," she said tersely. "There! Now I've turned it on again. The idea is that a gasoline-engine always runs better when supplied with gas. Now spin that fly-wheel!" The boatman went aft and obeyed. The engine started joyfully. The launch moved. Miss Chalmers resumed her seat and surveyed her costume by the yellow light of the lantern. "Now you take me to Witherbee's Island as quickly as you know how—if you do know," she observed. The boatman made no answer. When the launch had obtained headway he altered the course, and presently they were passing through a series of narrow channels, between darkened islands. He seemed to know where he was going, but Miss Chalmers had no confidence in him. She was merely relieved to observe that they were going somewhere. Presently they headed in toward a wooded island that was dark, save for a tiny light that flickered at the water's edge. As they neared the shore the boatman made his first remark since the engine had resumed wheezing. "If you don't mind, I'd like to know—" "I haven't run a six-cylinder car for nothing," interrupted Miss Chalmers sharply. "Is this the dock?" For answer he stopped the engine and guided the boat alongside a low wharf, at the end of which burned the lantern they had seen. "Witherbee's Island," he said as he reached to help her ashore. Miss Chalmers sprang upon the wharf without aid and demanded her trunks. The boatman heaved them out methodically. He paused for an instant to study an inscription on the end of a particularly bulky and heavy one, and, when he had difficulty in deciphering it, reached for the lantern. He read: ROSALIND CHALMERS, N.Y. Then the trunk followed its mates. "Anything more I can do?" he asked pleasantly. "I should say not! I owe you something, I suppose?" "Well, rather." "How much?" "Ten dollars." "Ten dollars!" cried Miss Chalmers. "For what happened? After all that— Why, it's—" She snapped her purse open and handed him a bill with an angry gesture. In fact she flung it at him. Anything to be rid of him, she thought. He pocketed the money with a chuckle. "My name is Sam," he remarked as he stepped back into the boat. "Any time you need a launch, why—" "I'll know whom not to engage," said Miss Chalmers, finishing the sentence. The boatman laughed, started the engine, and headed across an open space in the river. Miss Chalmers glanced about her with a sigh of weary satisfaction. It was one o'clock, but she had arrived! CHAPTER II PAJAMAED VULGARIANS That particular insular possession owned by Mr. Stephen Witherbee was, indeed, a dark corner of the earth. It was also insistently quiet and lifeless. Just which one of the insufficiently enumerated Thousand Islands it was did not concern Miss Chalmers in the least, any more than it concerns the reader. All she sought was shelter and a couch. She walked the length of the little wharf and stared in among the trees that came down to meet it. Somewhere beyond was a house she knew—a house that contained Mr. and Mrs. Witherbee, Miss Gertrude Witherbee, perhaps Mr. Tom Witherbee, and various other persons who constituted a Witherbee house-party. There was not the least doubt that they were all asleep. Miss Chalmers could not hear a sound save the ever-diminishing thump-thump of the one-cylinder launch. "Asleep they are, certainly," she observed aloud. "I've done a ridiculous thing, of course. It serves me right for coming a day ahead of time. That boatman—ugh! "Where the house is I haven't the least idea. But I can't stay here. I must find a place to sleep. Perhaps—just perhaps—somebody is up, after all." She returned to the end of the wharf and surveyed her six trunks. "They'll do until morning," said Miss Chalmers as she picked up her grip and started in search of the Witherbee house. There was a gravel path, beginning where the wharf met the shore, and Miss Chalmers followed it. Even in the gloom of the trees this was not difficult, for the gravel was white, and lay before her like a ghostly streak. Besides, it crunched under the twenty-dollar shoes. Miss Chalmers was displeased with herself. She felt foolish. Something had gone wrong with her poise; something seemed to have been subtracted from the considerable sum of her dignity. The world was not playing flunky as usual. Her old austerity was there, perhaps, but it lacked confidence and authority. The path forked, and Miss Chalmers paused to consider. The house was still invisible. "Why does a strange path always fork when one is alone and in a hurry, and particularly at night?" asked Miss Chalmers aloud. There was no answer; so, after an instant of indecision, she took the fork that led to the right. Naturally it was the wrong fork. It simply had to be, under the circumstances. It brought her back to the shore of the island, where a summer pavilion was erected on a rocky point. She retraced her steps back to the fork and took the left branch of the gravel path. In not more than two minutes it guided her to the edge of a lawn. Beyond this she could see the house—a large, solid, black mass against a background of trees. "Not a single light!" she exclaimed impatiently. "It's positively—uncouth!" She crossed the lawn and paused again at the foot of a flight of steps that led to a broad piazza. "It's almost as if the place was closed," she commented as her glance roved upward toward the windows. "But of course it's not. Oh, well!" She ascended the steps, crossed the piazza, and found a push-button in the framing of a closed door. She pushed and waited—but not long; she was too impatient for dalliance. Several times she pushed the button in rapid succession, holding her thumb upon it for extended periods. Nobody came to the door, which angered her anew. Then she realized that she herself could hear no ringing of a bell. "Out of order, of course," she said bitterly. She rapped smartly with her gloved knuckles upon the paneling of the door time after time until they ached. Then she dropped her grip, went back to the lawn, and looked up at the house again. It slept calmly. Miss Chalmers made a circuit of the Witherbee dwelling. Not a ray of light filtered out of it from any side, not a sound—not even a snore. She returned to the front door and rapped again. Then, she seated herself in a porch-rocker and frowned. "I absolutely will not shout," she told herself. "I am sufficiently absurd as it is. I will not be laughed at!" She placed particular emphasis upon the last thought, as if somebody, somewhere, was displaying amusement at her plight. If there was one thing Rosalind Chalmers would not for an instant endure it was mirth of her own unintentional provoking. She was not a lady to be laughed at. In the first place, she was too dignified, even to the point of a certain severity in manner. Where she lacked severity she substituted condescension. In the second place, she was too coldly handsome, too tall, too slimly erect. In the third place, she was too old—twenty-five. In the fourth place, she was a Vassar graduate. In the fifth place, she was too rich. In the sixth place— Oh, why continue? It is already plain that under no circumstances was Miss Chalmers a lady to be laughed at, even by equals—to say nothing of a common river-man. Yet she knew exactly what would happen when she succeeded in arousing the sleepers on Witherbee's Island. First, they would grumble and stumble and rub their eyes. Then they would shuffle to a window or a door and discover her. Then there would be surprise and hurry and a scene. And then—then, when everybody was thoroughly awake—would come the laughter. She reasoned it very logically and found no flaw in her conclusions. "I will not wake them," she decided. "I will get into that house somehow, find myself a couch downstairs, and get my sleep. It's not that I mind waking them up; not a bit. But I won't be—" She left the murmured sentence unfinished, arose from her chair, and walked briskly to the nearest window. The sash was either securely locked or thoroughly jammed, like a parlor-car window. She could not move it. She tried the next window; the result was the same. A third window gave her no access to the dark interior of Witherbee House. She vented her annoyance in a sharp exclamation and turned the corner of the porch. The next window rattled encouragingly in its frame. It moved half an inch. She slipped the tips of her fingers under the sash, drew a deep breath, and heaved valiantly. The window ascended abruptly and with a clatter. And then— A great bell clanged! No decent, friendly, hospitable bell, but a raucous, brazen, mocking gong, pounded upon at the rate of a hundred or so strokes to the minute by a fiendish electric hammer. The sound of the bell echoed in the gloom of the house and flung itself boisterously through the open window into the astonished and dismayed ears of Miss Chalmers. She fell back a step and raised her hands protectingly in front of her. "A burglar-alarm!" she cried. The din was appalling. It seemed to grow steadily in volume. Miss Chalmers was not truly frightened, but she was thoroughly amazed and startled. She was incontinently hurled from her pedestal of calm assurance. For five seconds she hesitated. The bell boomed on. She stepped close to the window, placed her hands upon the sill, and leaned inward. From somewhere above she heard a heavy footstep, then a medley of sleepy voices. She turned and ran. She was dimly conscious in her precipitate retreat that, mingled with the clanging of the gong, there was another sound—a rattling of something on the porch floor. But it was not a propitious moment for investigation. Around the corner of the porch she fled, upsetting a wicker table and scattering its burden of magazines. From its resting-place at the front door she scooped up her satchel. Down the steps to the lawn she leaped recklessly and then across the space of level sward. Her skirt was not fashioned for running. With one hand she swept it up to her knees, a maneuver which added perhaps a knot to her speed. Give her a fair chance and Miss Chalmers was an excellent runner. She could even invest running with a certain stateliness and dignity—but not on this occasion. Somebody had left a rocking-chair on the Witherbee lawn. She had not observed it when she approached the house, but now she fell over it. It bumped her knee cruelly, in addition to depositing her at full length upon the grass. Within a second she was on her feet again, flaming with anger. She groped for her fallen satchel, recovered it, and ran on toward the shelter of the trees At the edge of the trees she paused and looked back. Lights were moving in the windows of Witherbee House. She heard voices, some shrill with alarm. Again she turned and fled. Just why Miss Chalmers ran away from the haven of refuge she had been so long in reaching she could not clearly have explained. She was flurried in mind, yet not to such an extent as to dim the fact that her conduct was quite illogical. For fifteen minutes she had been trying to rouse the house; now that she had succeeded, she was in flight. In among the trees she hesitated again. The simple and obvious thing to do was to walk straight back and announce herself. After that she would be in bed in ten minutes. But they might laugh. In fact, it was a certainty they would laugh. The alarm, the silly panic of a resolute lady, the chair on the lawn, her gown—oh, it was impossible. She ran once more, dodging among the trees and praying that she might find a path. Presently she felt the gravel under her feet and followed the trail until it brought her back to the wharf, where her trunks crouched like black monsters in the faint light of the lantern. Here she paused to recover breath while she listened. Through the little wood that had once seemed so dense she saw a glimmering of lanterns passing to and fro. "I am not frightened!" panted Miss Chalmers hotly. "I am merely a fool! Yes—a complete fool! But they'll not find me—not now! Not for anything in the world! I'll go back; I'll find some way. I won't stay on this island. The whole thing is perfectly beastly and absurd!" The moving lanterns among the trees seemed to be coming nearer. Men were calling to each other. She could hear footsteps on the gravel path. There was no concealment on the wharf, yet Miss Chalmers was determined to be concealed. There could be no backing out now. She looked quickly about her. Close to the wharf, at the very edge of the water, she now observed what looked like a boat-house. She sprang toward it and stepped out upon a small float that was anchored in front of it to find herself barred from refuge by padlocked doors. The lanterns were now close to the wharf. Miss Chalmers had no time to waste picking a lock, even if she knew how. She slipped around the corner of the boat-house and flattened herself close against it, trying desperately to breathe noiselessly. A moment later there was a shuffling of feet on the wharf, then an exclamation of surprise in a man's voice. Her curiosity urged her to risk a peep. Very cautiously she advanced her head beyond the corner of the building that screened her. What Miss Chalmers saw shocked her. Three men in pajamas, each carrying a lantern, were standing upon the wharf. Their feet were shod in bedroom slippers. Two of them carried walking-sticks gripped tightly at the wrong end, evidently intended to perform service as clubs. The third had a revolver. She was shocked, not because she regarded pajamas and bedroom slippers as improper, but because they seemed so utterly common, so plebeian, so lacking in anything that approached character or smartness or form—in short, to the eyes of Miss Chalmers they were sheer vulgarity, even though of possible utility. She shuddered a little. One of the men she recognized; it was Mr. Witherbee. She was well aware that Mr. Witherbee was stout, but not until now did she realize that he actually bulged. It was the first time she had ever seen a fat man in pajamas, and she was impressed with the fact that the effect was more robust than artistic. One of the other men was tall and blond, with a drooping mustache. His pajamas were far too short in the legs and his bare ankles were inelegant. The other man had his back toward her. She thought he might be Tom Witherbee. He looked more fashionable than the others. It was also he who held the pistol, which, perhaps, gave him just a suggestion of devil-may-care. The three men were gravely regarding the six trunks. Miss Chalmers caught her breath. Too late now! She could never disappear from Witherbee's Island and explain those trunks. Yet she knew this, too; she never, though the heavens might fall upon her otherwise, would step forth and proclaim herself to three men in pajamas. Mr. Witherbee advanced to the nearest trunk and inspected it by the light of his lantern. "Well, what do you know about that!" he exclaimed. "'Pon my word, I know nothing whatever about it, my dear fellow," said the tall one. "These are Miss Chalmers's trunks," declared Mr. Witherbee in a voice of wonder as he examined another. The young man with the revolver made an inspection of his own and avowed that Mr. Witherbee was right. The tall one stroked his mustache and said nothing. "But she's not expected till to-morrow!" cried Mr. Witherbee. "How the deuce did her trunks get here?" "Must have sent them on ahead," observed the armed one. "But who brought 'em? When? The boat didn't stop here to-night." Mr. Witherbee stared at the trunks in succession and juggled one of them as if to assure himself that it was real. All the time he was muttering. "Well, this isn't finding the burglar," remarked the man with the pistol. "He's probably gone by now, anyhow. Ah-h-h—I'm sleepy." Mr. Witherbee pondered the trunks again. "I've got a theory," he said presently. "Shoot." Miss Chalmers winced, divining that this was slang. "Why, it's like this," said Mr. Witherbee, putting down his lantern and diagraming his remarks with his cane. "There's a prowler about these islands—you know of that, of course. "Well, Miss Chalmers sends her trunks on in advance. Some boat brings 'em down, probably after we're all in bed. "This chap cruises around and spots the trunks. Then he comes ashore. He finds the house dark. He makes up his mind that everybody has gone away and that the trunks are waiting to be taken aboard the morning boat. So he makes a try at the house. Burglar-alarm goes off—he gets scared—runs like the Old Harry—hops into his boat—an revoir. How's that?" "By Jove, it's wonderful!" said the tall man. "By the way, old man, are your ankles cold? Mine are." "Accepting your theory, then," remarked the man with the pistol, "whoever rang the burglar-alarm has already escaped, so we can all go to bed." "Clever as the deuce!" said the tall man. "I don't suppose there is much more use in looking," admitted Mr. Witherbee reluctantly. (His ankles were not cold.) "You don't guess he could have hid in the boathouse, do you?" Miss Chalmers shivered. "It's locked," said the armed one. "He wouldn't bother with the boat-house. You can bet he's not on the island now. What'll we do with the trunks?" "Leave 'em until morning. It's not going to rain," Mr. Witherbee observed. "But, by jingo! I'd like to get that fellow!" "So would I. But what's the use now? Listen! The folks are calling. I guess we'd better go back and tell them it's all over." "All right," sighed Mr. Witherbee, picking up his lantern. The trio in pajamas turned back toward the path. Miss Chalmers put her head forward cautiously for another glance. She was just in time to see the figure of the tall man disappear, his pajamas flapping disconsolately about his ankles, his lantern swinging listlessly. "They're worse than the boatman," she commented. Not until the last sign of a light had disappeared, and only when she could no longer hear sounds from the direction of the house, did Miss Chalmers venture from her seclusion. She went back to the dock and sat down on the string-piece. "This is a fine state of affairs," she reflected. "Now I've got to say. I never thought about the trunks. "But how will I ever explain? I'll die before I admit I set off that burglar-alarm. I'll not only die, but I'll lie. I'll die lying. Some time to-morrow morning I've got to announce myself. "But how? I'm an idiot—but I won't admit that either. "Why did I run? That's what I should like to know—why? I've been behaving like a child." Presently she shuddered, but it was not because there was a chill in the air. She was thinking of pajamas. "I shall never wear them again," she murmured. "Thank Heaven, I brought—" At this point her thoughts very naturally drifted to a consideration of some place to sleep. She had no liking for camping out under the stars if she could help it. She wanted a roof over her head. Sneaking back to the open window in the Witherbee House was out of the question; anyhow, it was probably shut and fastened by this time. She wondered if there was a way to get into the boat-house. Back she went, armed with the dock lantern, and began an inspection of the lock. It was a solid-looking padlock, but Miss Chalmers thought the staple through which it was passed showed signs of weakness. She looked about for an instrument and finally found a stick that seemed as if it might do. The stick broke several times during the process of prying the staple loose, yet she made headway. Under most conditions an impatient and somewhat imperious young lady, Miss Chalmers was curiously persistent when she set her hand to any mechanical task. She labored uncomplainingly at the staple for fifteen minutes, and gave a satisfied little nod when it fell loose from the woodwork. The interior of the boat-house was not inviting. A rowboat and two canoes were piled along one side, with a lot of loose gear, a collection of ill-smelling paint-pots and some oars and paddles. At the farther end was a pile of canvas. She tilted her nose slightly, but did not retreat. "It's a roof at any rate," she observed. "I'll sleep on the canvas. Nothing can hurt this gown now. It's gone." She put down the lantern, sat on the canvas, and slipped off her twenty-dollar shoes. Then she lay down and attempted to convince herself that the bed was comfortable. It was an entirely laudable effort at self deception, but quite useless. The bed was anything but comfortable. It had some pulley-blocks under it, for one thing. Nevertheless she became drowsy. This ordinarily delicious sensation crept upon her with unwelcome quickness. She wanted time to think about to-morrow morning. It might require considerable planning, she feared. "Oh, well," she murmured in a resigned tone, "I guess it will come to me better after I sleep a little." Then she almost slept. The reason she did not quite sleep was an abrupt volley of shots. She sprang to her feet with an angry exclamation. "Haven't they stopped hunting me yet?" she snapped. |
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