IN about two weeks a brood of twelve chickens was hatched out, and the old hen fastened in the coop made no end of clucking and feather-ruffling in her anxiety that the fluffy, yellow-feathered little innocents should come to no harm. They ran in and out between the bars at pleasure, and very soon made friends with their mistress Alice, who could, or thought she could, distinctly recognize each of the little brothers and sisters, and distinguish one from another. In proof of this she named one after each of the twelve months of the year. By feeding them every day she soon got the whole brood so that it would come at call, and some of the chicks would frequently jump into her lap, or eat from her hand in a perfectly fearless manner. It was pleasant to hear her talk to her little pets and call them by name. The one she called April was a feeble little yellow chick, much put upon and driven about by the others, especially by the stout-legged, fluffy, brown ball named October, which seemed to be ever on the watch to snatch a bug or worm from the weakling.

“Now you bad, bad October,” I one time overheard her say, “I shall certainly have to lock you up, if you do not let April’s bugs alone. You selfish little creature, you drop a nice, fat worm of your own to snatch a bitter little bug away from poor April, and when you get it you don’t like it. Serves you quite right, and April has got your worm and run away with it, too. Why, December, I do believe you are losing the beautiful stripes on your back. Come, June; come, September, and you too, August. There, there,—no fighting; brethren should dwell together in unity.” Her father called the brood her Sunday-school class, and remarked with a smile, “Girls are all alike; they must have something to love and pet, and the more helpless it is the better they like it.”

The work of rope-yarn-making went steadily on day by day, the pile of the product of our labor growing by slow accretion, until it was a great heap. This was such very tedious work that you may be sure I kept up a steady thinking all the while how to lessen and lighten it. I thought of two schemes before long that would very materially diminish the amount of rope-yarn required. The first of these schemes to take form in my mind related to a substitute for the two great hawsers which we had thought would be required, one to go under the bow and one under the stern of the sunken galleon. I said nothing about this idea until it was fully matured in my mind. Then one day as I finished a half-hour’s grind, with the perspiration streaming from every pore and the breath about all gone from my body, I said:—

“Mr. Millward, what do you say to quitting for the day? It is now nearly noon. I feel as though I would like to go fishing.”

He looked at me a moment, and then replied, “I don’t wonder. I feel that way myself. If you are for a fishing excursion I am with you with all my heart. ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’”

Immediately after dinner we overhauled the fish lines—real ones with genuine hooks this time, which belonged to Mr. Millward’s stores—and collecting a supply of whelks, clams, and shrimps for bait, were all ready for embarking by the time Alice came down to the boat. Just beyond the bar and the rollers we anchored the boat, and the sport very soon began by Mr. Millward pulling up a fine red-snapper, and continued until we had caught half a dozen fine fish. Then they ceased to bite for a long time, and the cause was made apparent by Miss Alice hauling up a three-foot spotted shark, which managed to break the line and get away. But though after that we sat patiently for an hour or two, there were no more fish to be had. The pirate was cruising about, and honest fish were not out in that neighborhood.

“Mr. Millward,” said I after a spell of silence, uninterrupted by bites, “I think we are done making rope, or nearly so at last.”

“Why, we are not half done, according to a liberal estimate,” replied he, looking up in surprise. “We have barely enough rope for the gourds, to say nothing of the much greater quantity needed for the two four-inch hawsers.”

“But,” said I, “suppose we don’t need the hawsers? I have an idea that it will be much easier to build a framework of beams strong enough to lift the hulk by, and thus dispense with the hawsers. At any rate even if it took almost the same amount of work—and it will not—I would favor a change of labor. The rope-making is getting very monotonous.”

“I most certainly agree with you in that,” he replied; “it does seem an endless task. But tell me how you propose to construct and attach your framework.”

Thereupon I laid it out in diagram on the seat of the boat with the point of my knife, and explained it until both understood the plan. They were intensely interested. Alice was leaning over with her hand upon my shoulder looking and listening, and as I felt her breath fan my cheek I came to a dead stop. The old gentleman looked up from the rude diagram and said, “Well, go on, go on; I understand it thus far,—what next?”

This seemed to bring the situation to Alice’s mind, for she instinctively blushed, and gently drew away. My heart beat with a thump that I could almost hear; but the old man did not seem to notice my confusion nor the innocent action of the girl. He was bent intently on understanding the proposed plan which promised to shorten our dreary yarn-making task, and had no eyes or ears for anything else.

Recovering myself I went on with the explanation of the diagram. I showed how we might make two triangular frames of heavy beams or spars firmly joined, how these two frames might be connected together at the apex of each by a long beam or spar in such manner as to be distant from each other something less than the length of the galleon; how the connection between the long beam and the two triangles should be a flexible or jointed one, so that, as the whole structure, suitably weighted with stones, was lowered to the galleon the triangles could be held away, and then allowed to swing in toward the galleon and come under her head and stern, thus cradling the hulk in a support at each end which would become more secure when a strain was subsequently put upon the frame. The calabashes for lifting could be attached to the horizontal connecting beam and thus a proper distribution of the strain ensured without trouble. After careful consideration Mr. Millward said this scheme would do. We then discussed the amount of work required for the building, conveying and placing of such a framework, as compared with the work which would be required to make the two large hawsers; and after mature deliberation decided in favor of the framework, as far the best and quickest method.

The fishing was over for the time. No more bites, and no prospect of any. So we pulled up anchor and went in to dress the fish and make preparation for a grand chowder, to be compounded of yams, fish, red pepper, and a clove of wild garlic. When this was in the kettle and the kettle over the fire (we all three took a hand in its preparation) Mr. Millward and I began to overhaul the rope-yarn, to make an estimate of how much, if any, more would be needed, in view of the recent change of plan. It was at this time that I conceived the second scheme. It occurred to me that a good deal of rope might be spared if we could enclose each calabash, or bunch of calabashes, in a wicker cage made of willow branches. I suggested this, and we went at once to the willows and cut some slender wands, and made such a cage as I had in mind, out of fine wands and tied with bark. This cage securely enclosed four calabashes; as the wires of a lantern-guard enclose the globe, and at the same time afforded a ready means for attaching the rope without wasting any of its length in loops and bends about the calabashes. This scheme would save at least one fourth to one third of the amount of rope needed.

We estimated that four of the large calabashes would lift in the water as much as the strength of the rope employed would permit, or at least would be as much as we cared to attempt to pull down at once into the water. The trees that furnished the wands were plentiful along the lower part of the creek, and there would be no lack of osiers. I have spoken of these trees as being “willows;” but, in truth, I believe they were some species of water-loving oleander. They were, however, quite like willow in appearance and growth, and furnished abundance of long, slender branches, pliable and strong, with a bark that easily came off and was itself quite strong enough to tie the joints with. I believe this tree is a better one for basket-makers’ use than the common osier willow, though I do not know if it is ever used for that purpose.

It was with heartfelt satisfaction that we could now believe that enough rope was made, and that the daily monotonous grind which had been going on for weeks was at last over. Nor was the basket-work in caging the gourds likely to be of a trying character, as it was light, easy work, in which we could all engage at any time, rain or shine, and enliven with talk.

The very day after this Mr. Millward and I began to cut the osiers. We tied them in bundles of a hundred or more, and put them into the water to keep from drying out until used. When we had quite a large stock on hand we began each evening after supper to make the cages, enclosing four of the gourds, now quite dry and hard, in each cage.

In the mean time, as regular work for each day, we began the construction of the framework. For this we needed seven great spars, which had to be cut on the upland from a species of pine which grew there, trimmed to the required shape on the ground, and from thence got down to the sea.

We selected the trees as near the creek as possible, and by means of levers rolled them into the water, which was barely deep enough to float such great sticks. The labor was a great deal for two men to accomplish, one being old and feeble. It took us every working day for three weeks to get these timbers down to the mouth of the creek. But it was finally done, and then commenced the framing together of the two triangles and their attachment to the beam. This we did with ties of strong inch and a half rope in several turns. At last, the complete structure lay floating in the creek ready to be towed out to the galleon.

While we were at work getting out the timbers on the upland it happened nearly every day that Alice Millward would either go with us in the morning or come out at noon bringing a lunch to us of hot baked yams and bacon, and so go home with us at night; or when I had wet work in the creek, following down a launched timber, she would return with her father in advance. We always went to this work quite early in the morning and returned home at least four hours before sunset, as the cage-making work demanded some of our time. On rainy days we did not go out at all, but kept busy with the basket-work.

One day it happened that at noon when we expected Alice with the lunch, she did not come promptly as usual, and after waiting nearly an hour over time, we both became quite anxious to know why she did not arrive. I told Mr. Millward to wait where he was, to receive her if she came, while I went back to the house with Duke to see if she was there. Hurrying along, the dog and I arrived in a little over half an hour at the house, going by the shortest cut and as rapidly as possible, running indeed part of the way where the nature of the ground permitted. As I had greatly feared, she was not there. Nothing indicated any disturbance; everything was as we had left it in the morning, and I concluded at once that she had started to come to us with the lunch, and had either lost her way in the dense growth, or had received some hurt on the road. The obvious thing to do under such circumstances was to follow up the regular path which we customarily took, and which in my haste to reach the house I had not pursued on my return, and to look for traces of her on the way.

When I came to a little glade where the candleberries grew plentifully I noted a place where I thought it possible for her to have mistaken the path. Two conspicuous bushes, separated from each other by a distance of perhaps five rods and covered with vivid scarlet blossoms in great masses, were on the opposite side of the glade. The way ran to the right hand side of the right hand bush. Now if she had taken a course to the right hand of the left hand bush, she would be travelling quite thirty degrees away from the true direction. This was brought to my mind by the circumstance that several times Miss Millward had come with these red blossoms in her hand, or decorated with them in hat or dress, probably gathered each time from the bush by the side of the route. I went over at once to the left hand bush, and found that a branch had been freshly broken off. It was probable, therefore, that here was the place of divergence from the true route. Without paying much attention at the moment, Miss Millward had doubtless been misled by this false guide, and in passing had broken off a branch of the flowers as usual.

That this surmise was correct was evidenced a few paces further along by fresh leaves and twigs of the bush which she had thrown down after securing the coveted blossoms from the branch; and finally by the branch itself partly denuded of its blossoms. But beyond this I could find no trace. Perhaps a skilled woodsman or tracker could have easily followed the trail that no doubt existed, plainly enough marked for those who could read it; but unfortunately I knew not how to read the subtle indications that are said to be so plain to those versed in that sort of writing. I then tried to start the dog on the trail by leading him to a point where I knew by inference it existed. But either he did not choose to take up the scent, was unable to do so, or did not understand what I desired of him. At any rate he made no effort to follow the trail.

I then endeavored to reason out the probable course the girl had taken, by trying to conceive myself misled in the same manner. Suppose I had diverged thirty degrees unconsciously to the left of the route, when should I discover the error and what would be my course when I did discover it? By this method of imaginative analysis I was able to follow with reasonable certainty her probable course through the forest for about forty rods, which brought me to a dense jungle all interwoven with thorny bamboo and utterly impassable. There was nothing at all like this on the true route, and at this point, if not before, and most probably at this exact place Alice Millward must have become conscious that she had lost her way. Now the thing for me to determine was, what did she next do? Most probably, finding herself lost, she at once sought to retrace her steps until she could arrive at some familiar place from which to take a fresh departure. If she had gone back to the glade she would have found the blossoming bushes and probably from thence have been able to get a correct start. It was fair to infer, therefore, that she must have missed the glade, passing it either on the right hand or the left. But if she had passed it on the right hand the angle of such a course would have speedily brought her out into the open ground from which the sea and the beach, and possibly the house and shed were visible, and she would have had no difficulty in getting home. Therefore the inference was justifiable that in endeavoring to retrace her steps, the girl had veered to the left hand; this would lead her to the heavy timber that lines the creek in that direction.

As soon as I had reached this conclusion, I started immediately to tell her father of the situation. I soon reached him and found him very anxiously waiting my coming. I told him briefly where I thought she was now probably wandering, and my reasons for the conjecture. It considerably eased his mind to be able to think she was merely lost.

It was decided that he should return to the house at once and await me there, or after getting there come back up the creek to meet us, if I should find her.

Without delay I started for the thick woods where I hoped to find the girl. As soon as I was well into the heavy timber I began to shout at intervals every few minutes, and then listen for a reply; but none came, and I wandered in and about the forest in this manner for several hours, shouting until I was so hoarse that I could scarcely be heard ten rods away. Finally, when it was almost dark, I found her far up the creek, and almost to the cleft or chasm through which I had passed on the day I discovered the plantation. She was on the bank of the creek and coming down toward me through the tangled undergrowth. I tried to call, but was so hoarse from the long continued shouting that I was not heard, and so she did not see me until we were quite near each other.

“Oh, Mr. Morgan,” she cried, with a voice full of tears, “I am so glad to find you!” Instinctively I put my arm around her and took her hand in mine.

“Let us hurry on,” she resumed, “and find poor dear father, he must have been so anxious about me.”

I told her he was waiting near the creek, or at the house for us and we would soon be there, as it was not over an hour’s walk.

She was softly crying to herself, and apparently much shaken. She clung to my hand as though fearful of losing her guide. We walked on in the rapidly gathering dusk, and she became gradually more quiet and assured, so that she soon began to talk freely of her adventure. It seemed that she had only just found the creek, and though, as she said, it seemed to run in the wrong direction entirely, she had reasoned that if followed down it would finally bring her home. She had just about determined to go into the water and wade down the stream itself if the tangled growth became too thick on the banks, as it seemed quite likely would happen soon, and as, indeed, was the case a little way on. I fancied the distress of mind and body that this would have caused in the darkness now fast coming on, and my heart grew soft and tender. I told her then of the way I came to find the route she had most probably taken, the incident of the red blossoms, and all the course of reasoning by which I was led in the search.

She then took out of her dress the bunch of blossoms, and said, “Then it is to these flowers I owe this meeting?”

“Yes,” said I, “to the gathering of those red blossoms. Don’t you think I have earned them as a reward?”

Without a word she handed me the bunch, glowing red as the sunset tints which yet marked the sky.

Somehow I felt, as we stumbled along the darkening way, her hand clasped in mine as it rested on my arm, that our hearts had come nearer together than I had ever dared before to hope might be the case, and my own heart was filled with a wild, new-born hope. She seemed to be mine as I lifted her over the fallen logs, and helped her past the rocks and obstacles. It very quickly grew quite dark, and it was no easy matter under such circumstances to keep the right course, so that we could not talk even if either of us had felt a desire to do so. In silence we struggled along, until finally we came out into the open. The sea with its wonderful self-light was plainly visible before us, and the ceaseless murmur of the surf as it came to our ears was a most welcome sound. A bright fire built by her father to guide us shone like a beacon before us, reddening the palm-trees near the house. Soon we could see him standing near it on the watch. And in a few minutes she was clasped in his arms.