  There are people who cannot sleep during a storm. It sets their nerves a-tingle, sets wild racing thoughts crowding through their minds and leaves them sleeplessly alert. It is as if a thousand wild witches rode on every mad rush of the wind, their shrill voices screaming in each blast, their fingers rattling at every windowpane and their breath puffing at the flickering light. Mark Pence could not sleep during that storm. Rocking every schooner, yacht and yawl on its cradle of trestlework, it went racing out over the lake, carrying every movable object with it. After many vain attempts to close his eyes, he at last rose and drawing on his clothes, said to himself: “I’ll go out and fight with it for a time. After that I may be able to sleep.” “Whew! What a whooper!” he exclaimed as the wind, slamming the door after him, blew him half-way to the beach. Grappling with the wind, as one grapples a wrestling mate, he stooped low, then shot forward. “Like springing against a volley-ball net.” He shrieked the words in wild defiance of the wind. Then, steadily, step by step, he fought his way toward the nearest schooner. Having gained the lee of it he paused a moment for breath. The storm came in gusts. Now in a blinding fury of snow, it blotted out everything about him. Now there was a lull. The wind appeared to pause to regain its breath. At such times as this his eyes penetrated the space before him. “Don’t look quite right over there,” he grumbled. “Something the matter with the sky line. Not enough boats, one would say!” He had regained his breath. For a moment he debated the advisability of venturing further into the storm. Finally he buttoned his coat collar tighter as he muttered: “Go over and see.” As he moved from his position of safety there came another gust. More furious than any that had gone before, it threatened to lift him from the earth and hurl him into the lake. But, stooping low, all but crawling, he made headway and, just as the lull came, gripped the top rail of the trestle on which the O Moo had rested. Hardly had he seized it than his hand slipped and he went sprawling. “That’s strange!” he muttered, “Awful slippery!” Removing one glove, he felt of the other. “Grease!” he muttered in blank astonishment. “Somebody’s greased that track.” Then, with the suspicion of treachery dawning upon him, he glanced up at the spot where the O Moo should have been. “Gone!” he exclaimed. “The O Moo’s gone! And six hours ago, she was here. I’d swear it. Saw it with my own eyes. Light in the window. Girls there. Now she’s gone and the girls with her. Gone in such a storm! What madness!” Again he thought of the greased track. “No! No! What treachery!” From his pocket he drew a flashlight. He meant to examine that track. It had been heavily greased all the way down to the water. That the iron wheels of the car on which the O Moo had rested had passed down the track, there could be no doubt. Mingled with the grease there was much iron rust. Drawing from his pocket a used envelope, he scraped a quantity of the grease into it, then replaced the envelope. “Evidence,” he said grimly. “Might not be worth much; might mean a lot.” The wind was roaring again. Clinging to the trestle, he waited its passing. “Gone!” he exclaimed. “Gone out to sea! It’s those Chinks. What beasts! I’ll get them! Go after them in just another minute. Then I’ll make them help me launch my schooner to go in search of that O Moo. Three girls! Not one of them knows how to start the engine. Girl called Marian told me so. And in such a storm! Got to make sure though! Got to get all the evidence I can!” Again he fought his way against the wind until he came to the point where the heavy blocks had held in place the wheels of the truck beneath the O Moo. These had been fastened by strong cleats. Hard, silent work had been required to loosen them. Throwing the light upon the blocks, he examined them carefully. On the side of one he discovered a peculiar mark. The wood, flattened out under pressure for a space of some four square inches, was raised in the very center in two narrow lines, each an inch long. These lines crossed one another. “Take it home. More evidence, perhaps.” Having fought his way up to the place where the cable had been fastened he examined the loosened end without discovering anything peculiar about it. “That’s all I can do here,” he decided. “Now for the rescue. Got to have help. Old Timmie’s not much good—too old. Fishermen all gone up the coast to fish through the ice. Chinks all there are left. Make ’em help undo what they’ve done. If they won’t come, I’ll fetch ’em!” During a lull in the storm he returned to his schooner. There he deposited the “evidence,” then throwing a small, cloth-strapped case over his shoulder and thrusting a bottle into his pocket he again ventured out into the storm. This time he turned his face toward the scow inhabited by the Orientals. * * * * * * * * Hardly had Florence, standing by the side of Lucile’s berth, hurled out her fiery denunciation of the wretch who had cast their yacht afloat than the O Moo gave a sudden lurch which threw her to the floor. Pandemonium broke loose. There came a crash of glass from the laboratory. Out of the darkness a bulk loomed at her. As she attempted to rise the thing appearing to spring at her, knocked her down. Then some other thing buried her deep. The thing that had struck her was a heavy chair. She was buried beneath the blanket and mattress from her own berth. As she attempted to extricate herself it seemed that the entire contents of the cabin played leapfrog over her head. Careening like a deserted airship the O Moo appeared to plunge prow first down an endless abyss, only to climb laboriously up on the other side. This did not last for long. There was no engine going, no driving power. Suddenly she slipped into the trough of a huge wave and wallowed there helplessly, while tons of rushing water swept across her deck. “The engine!” gasped Florence. “It should be started.” Struggling to free herself, she thought of Lucile. “May have been thrown from her berth,” she groaned. Groping about she found Lucile’s berth, clung there while the yacht gave a wild, circling lurch, then felt for her sick companion. Clinging to the rail of her berth, Lucile lay there silently sobbing. Securing two blankets, Florence twisted them into ropes, then bound them across Lucile, one at her knees, the other at her chest. “That’ll hold you,” she whispered hoarsely. Starting across the cabin to the electric switch, she was caught again and thrown off her feet. She collided with something. That something put out two arms which encircled her. The two of them fell to the floor, then rolled half the length of it. Having regained her breath, Florence put out a hand. She touched a garment. She knew by the feel of it that it was Marian. “Thank goodness!” she said, “you’re still here—and alive.” In the midst of all this catastrophe, Marian began to giggle. “It’s too absurd!” she exploded. “I’ve traveled on the Arctic and Pacific, real oceans, and come here and have a mere lake kick up such a rumpus!” “But, Marian,” Florence expostulated, “it’s serious. These winter lake storms are terrible. The ship may go to the bottom any moment. It wasn’t built for this. And there may be ice, too. One crack from ice and she’d burst like an eggshell. C’mon, we’ve got to get lights. Gotta start the engine.” Dragging Marian to her feet, she made her way along the wall to the light switch. There came a sudden flood of light which brought out in bold relief the havoc wrought by the storm. Tables, chairs, lounge, writing paper, notebooks, shoes, garments of all sorts, were piled in a heap forward. The heavy carpet was soggy with water. One glance revealed that. The next instant the lights flickered and went out. “Have to find a candle,” said Florence soberly. “Water on the battery wires. Caused a short circuit. We can’t hope to use electricity. Ought to get engine started some way. Got to get a candle. You just—” “Watch out!” screamed Marian, as she leaped toward a berth. The O Moo had suddenly shot her prow high in air. The entire contents of the cabin came avalanching down upon them. * * * * * * * * Having made his way, in the midst of the storm, to the door of the scow on the dry dock occupied by the Orientals, Mark Pence paused to arrange the cloth strap carefully over his shoulder and to feel in his pocket. Then he beat loudly upon the door. As he had expected, he received no answer. Without further formalities he put his knees to the door and gave it a shove. The flimsy lock broke so suddenly that he was thrown forward. Losing his balance, he plunged headforemost down a short flight of stairs. With a low, whispered exclamation he sprang to his feet. Putting his ear to the wall, he listened. There were sounds, low grunts, slight shuffling of feet. It was uncanny. A cold perspiration stood out on his brow. “Danger here,” he whispered as he once more adjusted the cloth strap. The corridor in which he was standing was dark, but a stream of blue light poured out from beneath a door to his right. “Hey! You! Come out of there!” he shouted. Instantly bedlam followed. Doors were flung open. A glaring blue light flooded all. “O we-ee-ee! O wee-ee-ee,” came from every side. A knife flashed before him. Springing back, he tripped over something, then suddenly plunged downward. He had fallen down the circular stairway. After a wild dizzy whirl, he reached bottom with a bump. Immediately he was on his feet. His hand gripped the bottle. It was dark down here; dark as a dungeon. “Got to get out of here,” he whispered. “Whew! What a lot of them! Twenty or thirty! No use hoping for help from them. Fool for thinking I could. Got to get out and find help somewhere else—and get out quick. Be coming down.” Drawing something from the case slung across his shoulder, he pulled it down over his face. It was a gas mask, his old war mask, recharged. Gripping the bottle in his pocket, a bottle of Lucile’s quick action gas, he began to climb the stairs. He had made two-thirds of the distance when, sensing someone close to him, he threw his flashlight open. Right before him, grinning fiendishly, a knife between his teeth, was a giant Oriental. Mark did not wait for the attack he knew was coming. He drew back his arm. When it swung forward his hand held the bottle of gas—he sent it crashing against the iron post. The Oriental sprang back up the stairs. Following him closely, Mark made a dash for the door. All about him sounded wild exclamations. “Gas getting in its work,” he muttered, darting among the writhing bodies. He reached the foot of the short stairs which led to the outer door. Now his hand was on the knob. And now the door flew open. He was free. But what was this? Just as he made a dash for it, the gruff voice of someone very near him shouted: “Here they come. Nail ’em. There’s the first one. Got a mask on. Get him!” That was all he heard, for a stunning blow crashed on his head; he staggered, fell, then all was dark. |
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