Chapter XV: On Parole

That night, about nine o’clock, the atmosphere cleared to the rising of the full moon, and it proved Stroth’s rough estimate of the distance we could travel to be remarkably accurate.

The lead had been constantly kept going, and when we were able at last to catch the rays of Fire Island light, it bore about three points off the starboard bow, and some four miles distant.

What little wind that had been stirring throughout the remainder of daylight, after the short squall, fell flat at sundown; and when the thick weather had so lightened that the stars, as well as the moon, could be distinguished, we found ourselves riding over an unrippled ground swell.

It was phantomlike and eerie out there on that heaving oil, not a spar or sail striking its outline against the heavens, but a steady purr of waters as they slid under the schooner’s spoon bow.

I had never known an engine of the explosive type to work more quietly. Whoever fitted that muffler knew his business.

Moreover, there was a certain enjoyment in this very weirdness, an enjoyment which was enhanced for me by the fact that, since the gloaming, Stella Stroth had joined us on deck.

Indeed, at the moment when the light was first descried, she was leaning lightly over the rail at the quarter, gazing down into the mystery of the black waters slipping by.

“Two pennies for your thought,” said I, rather lamely.

“Why, odd enough,” she replied slowly. “I was just thinking what an odd thing the whole business is!”

“What whole business?” I said lightly.

“Oh, living,” she answered quietly.

“A fine kind of remark for eighteen,” I bantered. “Especially with a moon like that overhead.”

“I’m not eighteen, I’m twenty!” she cried, and then we both laughed as we turned to a step that sounded on deck alongside us.

It was Stroth. But he continued his way forward, paying no attention to us. We kept watching him, though, for purpose rang in his step.

To a gesture, one of the sailors cast loose the foghorn which had been lashed to the bitts during our run in the fog. The fellow disappeared with it down the forecastle hatch; then reappeared next instant, and extinguished the side lights, which, to avoid collision from coasting schooners, had been rigged to jury fixtures at the rails.

Disappearing once more to the hold, he doused the forecastle light also, and a turn of inquiry I made aft showed that the main cabin was likewise dark.

Not a glimmer anywhere showed from this low, black, smooth-running cripple as she veered northward and pointed for the inlet.

Even the clouds favored that short passage, for a husky, gray-cotton one billowed across the moon just as we neared the strait.

At that minute I felt Stroth beside me.

“Know the channel in here, sir?” said I.

“Well, rather,” he replied. “Besides, the _Ruby Light_ draws little more than three feet--built for Florida waters, you know.”

Then he strode from us, and took the wheel from Stevens. It was easy enough to see who was the real captain.

Next moment we slid into the slip of the inlet, and entered the quieter waters beyond.

Once in the bay, it took us all of two hours to creep to the spot selected, for Stroth checked the engine so that she was barely turning over. But, be it remarked, we didn’t rub the mud once, which tells its own story of Stroth’s ability, and knowledge of the channel.

Finally he tucked the schooner into as pretty a bight for concealment as I could have imagined along that low-lying, marshy coast. Indeed, I didn’t believe there was such a spot in the entire region, for my own slight experience in the locality had come from a snipe-shooting trip I had once made with a gunning companion.

Even thus at night I could gather its advantages; but when, after some five hours’ sound sleep, I stepped out on deck to greet the rising sun, the impression was intensified.

It looked exactly as though that island had been chiseled out to fit that very boat; and, better to conceal it, had humped itself up into two lateral hummocks surmounted by the inevitable salt grass. In fact, bereft of spars as she lay now, not a trace could a man a furlong off catch of the craft except dead ahead, and even there the channel crooked to an abrupt turn.

“It’s pretty near ideal, isn’t it?” said Stroth, coming up behind me. Not a trace of the fire of yesterday showed on the features of the owner. He was geniality itself.

“I didn’t know there was such a place within a hundred miles of here,” said I.

“Oh, then you know Great South Bay?”

“Scarcely at all,” I replied. “I simply know that the bay is probably about five miles wide at this point. Over there”--and I swept my gesture toward the low line of beach some half mile beyond the island and to southward--“lies the Atlantic, and over this way----”

“The south shore of Long Island; right.”

“We’re about opposite----” I put it as a question.

“Very nearly opposite Babylon,” said he slowly, and I felt more in his tones than the mere words.

At any rate, I was silent some seconds before he broke into my reverie with:

“You’re up against a problem, aren’t you?”

He was right; something was distinctly bothering me that morning. I didn’t hurry to say so, however.

“Shall I word it for you?” he queried, with a short laugh. “Well, you’re wondering, for one thing, just what would be the easiest way to get to that mainland, eh?”

He had hit the nail on the head first crack, for there was a decided difference between being practically a prisoner on a schooner out of sight of land at sea, and being foot-free on that schooner when she was tied, bow and stern, in smooth water, a half mile from Uncle Sam’s well-patrolled beach. There would be a life-saving station within a five-mile trudge, I knew.

But Stroth didn’t guess the real crux of the trouble. Duty to the force he could understand; but of my feelings for his daughter he had no inkling.

Right there, though, lay my greatest difficulty, and I hate indecision worse than anything I know of. But he solved the thing for me in short order, and in his characteristic fashion.

“I’ve got a choice for you again,” he said abruptly. “Naturally, the thing I most object to is having my whereabouts known. You can understand that.”

I nodded.

“At least, until I can refit,” he went on. “Now, I’m not the man to use force when I can employ a milder treatment; and, besides, you’ve proved yourself a very adaptable person, and, as such, I’ll admit I admire you.”

I eyed him closely, scenting sarcasm, but his face held none.

“Furthermore,” he concluded, “you’re a man of your word; that I know.”

“All of which----” I began.

“All of which leads up, as I have intimated, to the choice, which is very much like the one I offered you before. Simply stated, you are, here and now, to give me your word to remain in my party until we reach Savannah.”

“The alternative?” I demanded.

“Is sufficiently severe in justifying your course to superiors.” He crossed his wrists, suggesting handcuffs, and I knew he meant what he said, for the very metal rang in his voice.

At heart I was positively glad that the one course lay open, and it was a course any sane man would have to take.

“Why, that’s no choice, Mr. Stroth!” I exclaimed, laughing; “it’s an invitation, which I gladly accept. You have my word; I’m yours to Savannah.”

He joined my laugh, and we shook hands on it.

“I’m going to give you absolute freedom, Grey,” said he, “even to ‘shore leave.’ Fact is, after breakfast, you can do as you like, and we’ll----”

“Bleakfas’, sir!” announced the Jap, Saki, at his elbow, and the sentence wasn’t finished as we strode, hunger-whetted, to the dining saloon.