Chapter VII: I Find Shepherd’s Island

MY queer encounter with my employer did not, luckily, hinder my sleep: I went to bed, and knew nothing more until Julia brought me a cup of tea at seven o’clock. It was long after my usual time for rising, and I felt almost panicky as I glanced at my watch.

“Oh, Julia, I’m awfully late!” I said ruefully. “Why didn’t you call me before?”

“Is it me to be callin’ you?” was Julia’s inquiry. “Sure, it’s glad I am to see you taking a bit of a rest. I dunno why would you always want to be leppin’ from your bed before annywan in the house—you, that’s afther tellin’ me you want to get fat!”

“And so I do,” I said. “But it makes all the day easier if I have a good start. Julia, this tea is heavenly!”

“Drink it slow and aisy, then,” said Julia. “No need to gulp it as if you were emptyin’ a cup for a wager. And you’ll do no more worrk than you can’t help doin’ this fine day, miss: remember ’tis a picnic you have before you, and the finest day ever I seen to enjoy it in. There’s no sense in goin’ out worrn to the bone with slaving for them as doesn’t notice it.”

“Don’t you believe it, Julia,” I told her, laughing. “Mrs. McNab as good as said yesterday that she couldn’t do without me!”

“Yerra, I knew that,” said Julia with great calmness. “What I didn’t know was that she’d woke up enough to find it out! Well, good luck to the poor woman—it seems there’s sense comin’ to her in her ould age!”

“Why, she isn’t old at all,” I said. “I don’t think she is much over forty—she told me she had married when she was just out of the schoolroom.”

“That one’ll never see youth again, no matther how ould she may be,” Julia said. “The only signs of youth ye’d see on her is when she do be stridin’ across the paddock in her bathin’ clothes; all other times she looks as ould as McFadden’s pig, with the look of trouble she have on her. I dunno why wouldn’t she take life aisy instead of writin’ all day an’ all night as well: an’ they say there’s no end to her riches. ’Tisn’t meself ’ud worrk if I had them.”

“How is Mrs. Winter?” I asked, to change the subject. I knew I should not listen to Julia’s opinions of her mistress, but I had a guilty joy in doing so, nevertheless.

“Her spache is no aisier to the poor woman, but her spirits is good. I rubbed her shesht for her last night till I nearly brought the blood, an’ then I gave her a good hot glass of lemon an’ other things to comfort her—roarin’ at me she was to stop long before I’d finished. She have flannin on it to-day, she’s afther tellin’ me, with oil on it, to soothe the rawness. There’s nothin’ like a good rub to get rid of a cold an’ keep it from settlin’ on the shesht. Don’t be worryin’ yourself about her; she told me to tell you she felt gay as a lark!”

“She has great endurance,” I said solemnly.

Julia twinkled.

“I dunno would you have said so if you’d heard her last night,” she said with a grin. “‘Lave me,’ says she, ‘while I have anny skin left on me body!’ ‘I will not lave you,’ I says, ’till I have you in a nice, plisant glow!’ ’Tis the grand muscle I have for rubbin’, along of polishin’ the floors, an’ I med good use of it on her. She’ll be the betther of it this manny a day.”

“Will you rub me, Julia, if I get a cold?” I asked, as well as I could for laughter.

“I will that same.”

“Then I won’t get one,” I said firmly. “Julia, the tea was lovely, and I could talk to you for a week—but I must get up. I wish it was time for me to put on my white frock, for it was never ironed so beautifully in its life!”

The Irish girl beamed.

“Did you like it? I’m glad. Me ould mother taught us ironin’, back in Skibbereen; she’d have broke our legs from under us if we’d lef’ so much as a crease in the tail of a shirt. There’ll be no frock among all them fine young ladies at the picnic lookin’ betther than yours, miss. Just you take it aisy, now, an’ don’t get tired; I’ll keep me eye on Bella an’ see she don’t put down fish-knives for the quality to use for their porridge!” She picked up my cup and departed.

I found myself singing as I dressed. Julia always had an uplifting effect upon me: and with all her quaint friendliness there was never any lack of respect. Occasionally I had daydreams, in which Colin had won Tattersall’s sweep or found a gold-mine, so that we swam in amazing wealth; and always in my dreams we transferred Julia from The Towers to grace our newly acquired marble halls. Julia herself was much uplifted at the prospect, rather dismaying me by a childlike belief that some day the vision would become reality. I knew how little chance there was of that; still—where would one be without even hopeless dreams?

I greeted Mrs. McNab at breakfast in some trepidation, the memory of the tragic meeting of the previous night weighing upon me. To my relief, she had evidently decided to ignore it: she gave me a pleasant “good morning,” and actually inquired whether I had slept well—a courtesy somewhat marred by the fact that she did not listen to my reply. That, however, was nothing unusual with Mrs. McNab: her attention rarely lasted beyond one’s first speech. It used to give one the rather embarrassing feeling of talking into a telephone disconnected at the other end.

The house-party trooped off as soon as breakfast was over, accompanied by Judy and Jack, whose spotless condition would, I felt grimly certain, not endure beyond the first landing-place. Harry McNab lingered to give me final instructions.

“I’ve told Bence to be on hand when he’s wanted, in case Mother forgets,” he said. “He’s to carry everything down to the boat-house—don’t you go making a baggage-mule of yourself, Miss Earle. Will you be down about half-past twelve? I can’t be quite certain of being there for you on time, but I promise I won’t keep you waiting long. We’ll all have enormous appetites, so I hope you and Mother Winter have fixed up heaps of lunch, and that it isn’t all Beryl’s kickshaws! I’ll want dozens of sandwiches—big, thick ones, with the crust left on!”

“I’ll make you up a special package,” I told him. “But don’t let your sister see them, or I’ll be eternally disgraced.”

“Great Scott, all the other fellows will want them, too!” he laughed. “Make us plenty, and we’ll get behind a rock and devour them where Beryl can’t see them. Beryl’s far too refined for the sort of picnic we’re going to have to-day!”

I braved Mrs. Winter’s wrath by going to the kitchen to cut sandwiches of a size remarkable enough to satisfy the hungriest; but this light exercise was the only work I was permitted to do that morning, for Julia and the cook effectually blocked any attempts I made to justify my position as a paid helper. Finally, I gave up trying to find work, and went off to my room, where I read _Greenmantle_ and spent a morning of utter peace and enjoyment, until it was time to dress. Julia was waiting for me when I came downstairs, and nodded approval of my frock.

“’Tis aisy seen that bit of linen came out of Ireland,” she said. “It do hang lovely, miss: an’ that big black hat wit’ one rose in it is just what it wants. You wouldn’t mind, now, comin’ out by way of the kitchen, an’ lettin’ Mrs. Winter see you?”

“I meant to,” I said.

Their cheery good-byes rang pleasantly in my ears as I strolled down to the shore. Bence had already taken the lunch. He met me near the edge of the hummocks: a tall young fellow, with a quiet manner, and a dark, good-looking face.

“Everything is stacked at the end of the jetty, miss,” he said. “I see Mr. Harry comin’ across in the launch: he’ll be there in a few minutes. It’s a great day for a picnic.”

“Thank you, Bence: yes, it is a perfect day,” I answered. And, indeed, it was perfection; not too hot, yet hot enough to make bathing glorious; a blue sea, flecked here and there with a little white cap, and air so clear that the islands were golden against the blue. Seagulls and terns strutted on the wet sand by the water: overhead, gannets wheeled and hovered, now and then plunging downwards, throwing high the spray as they disappeared in quest of darting fish. Across the bay the launch came shooting swiftly: Harry McNab perched forward, with a rope ready, while, as they drew nearer, I could see the flushed faces of Judy and Jack, and shrill, triumphant cries greeted me:

“We ran her all by ourselves, Miss Earle! Harry didn’t do a thing! Jack ran the engine, and I steered——”

“And you’d better stop talking, or you’ll scrape half her paint off on the side of the jetty,” quoth Harry; to which Judy’s only answer was a derisive snort. She brought the launch deftly alongside, and I caught the rope round a bollard. Harry sprang out, and in a few moments the baskets were stowed away, and we shoved off.

“The kids really managed fairly well,” said Harry, in the half-contemptuous tone of an elder brother. “They were mad keen to come over for you alone, but I didn’t see much point in that.”

“Pif—we didn’t need you!” said Judy loftily. “Bence has been teaching us for ever so long; I bet we know as much about the engine as you do, Mr. Harry, so there!”

“Bence says I’d make a jolly good mechanic,” stated Jack, looking up from the engine with a happy face, to which a large streak of oil lent pleasing variety.

“When you grow up I expect you might,” Harry jibed. “Anyhow, it’s not very difficult. Ever run a launch, Miss Earle?”

I nodded.

“Yes—though I’m not an expert. But I like anything to do with an engine.”

“You’re a queer girl,” said Harry reflectively. “Most Melbourne girls don’t know a thing about the country, or engines, or anything of that kind, but you’re different. You weren’t even scared of the bull the other day!”

“That’s all you know,” I answered. “I was horribly scared, but I knew it wouldn’t do to let the old bull see it. You see, though we were brought up in Melbourne, Father took us to the country every summer: we generally hired a launch and camped out. Father didn’t believe in any of us being unable to manage the launch, if necessary, so we all had to serve an apprenticeship. And I happen to like engines, so I picked up a good bit. Father was a very stern camper!”

“How d’you mean, stern?” demanded Jack.

“Well, he believed in a camp being run properly. Everything had to be ship-shape, and he made us do things really well, from digging storm-water drains round the tents to burying and burning the rubbish every day. Father used fairly to snort when he spoke of people who leave greasy papers and tins lying about in the bush, to say nothing of egg-shells and orange-peel. We had to take it in turns to be cook and camp-manager, and he held a daily inspection of everything, from the rolling of the blankets to the washing of the frying-pan.”

“I say—that’s making camping into a job of hard work!” uttered Harry.

“No, it wasn’t—not a bit. It only made us camp-proud, and I can tell you, our camp was worth looking at. We enjoyed it ever so much more, and we had hardly any bother with flies and ants. We had heaps of fun; Father was the best mate that ever lived. Ship-shape camping is very easy when every one knows his job and sticks to it. And it makes a big difference when you come back tired and hungry after a long day, to find firewood and water all ready, and everything clean.”

“There’s something in that,” Harry admitted. “Six of us were camping last Christmas; we used to shoot off after breakfast, leaving things anyhow, and the greasy plates were pretty beastly at night: and we were eaten alive with flies and creepy things. Then rain came, and we were flooded out. It wasn’t a whole heap jolly. I’ll try your idea of a drain next time, Miss Earle.”

We had rounded the western headland of Porpoise Bay and were out in open water. Before us was a long stretch of blue, dotted with a dozen little islands—some mere heaps of rounded granite boulders, their sides washed smooth by the waves, others clothed with trees and undergrowth. The largest of these was a couple of miles ahead. It was a long, narrow island, densely wooded at one end, and with smooth green slopes running down to the water’s edge. A little building showed not far from the beach, half hidden by the trees.

“That’s Shepherd’s Island,” Harry nodded.

“Is there a shepherd there? Surely there are no sheep?”

“There have been a good many sheep there, occasionally. There’s always grass on the Island—a little creek runs through it, fed from a spring—and the feed is quite good. In very dry seasons some of the farmers used to ferry their sheep across, and they did very well there. Then some bright spirits realized that it was an easy place to get mutton, and the sheep began to disappear. That annoyed the owners, so they clubbed together and put a man out there to watch the flock: they built him a stone hut, and used to take him supplies every week. But the seasons have been so good for some years that there has been no need to send sheep across, so the old hut hasn’t been used.”

“What a lonely place for a man to live in!” I commented.

“Oh, it wasn’t too bad. The Island is only a mile in a direct line from the shore, and some of the fishing-boats used to look him up from time to time, besides the weekly supply-boat. And there was always the chance of a scrap with sheep-stealers; the shepherds used to be provided with a gun, though I think only one man ever used it—and then he killed a sheep by mistake! There’s good fishing from the rocks at the far end, too. I don’t fancy a fellow would be too badly off there,” Harry ended. “I think Mother might do worse than go and camp there with her writing: an island is just about what she wants, when a book is worrying her!”

That seemed to me a rather brilliant idea, and I was wondering how it would appear to Mrs. McNab when we drew near to Shepherd’s Island. A shelf of rock at the edge of a deep, tiny bay made a natural landing-place; already two other launches were secured there, their mooring-ropes tied to trees. We ran in gently, Judy at the helm. Several people, Dicky Atherton among them, were waiting for us.

“Thought you were never coming,” he called out. “We’re all stiff with hunger!”

“You’re very lucky to get us at all,” Harry retorted. “Catch the rope, Dick. I hope you’ve got the billy boiling.”

“It ought to be, if it isn’t. Hallo, Miss Earle—you’re the coolest-looking person on this island! We’re all hot and hungry and sunburnt, but we’ve had a great time.” He helped me ashore and introduced me to several people whom I had not seen before. The launch was unloaded, and we set off up the smooth grassy slope to where the main body of the picnickers could be seen gathered under a shady tree. To the left the smoke of their fire drifted lazily upward.

Beryl McNab was cool and aloof, and did not attempt to make me known to any of the strangers. But some of the other girls were kinder, and among the Wootong contingent I discovered an old school-chum, and we fell on each other’s necks with joy: I had not seen Vera Curthois for years, but she was one of those to whom lack of money makes no difference. She introduced me to the people with whom she was staying: merry, friendly girls and boys. Harry and Dicky Atherton superintended lunch, not permitting me to do anything; and presently I seemed to know every one, and managed to forget that I was a kind of housekeeper and paid buffer to Mrs. McNab. It was very refreshing to be simply Doris Earle once more: I enjoyed every minute of the long, cheery luncheon.

We explored the island after everything was packed up and we had rested for awhile under the trees. The shepherd’s cottage was not much to see; a one-roomed hut built of slabs and heavy stones, joined by a kind of rough mortar. Cobwebs festooned it, and birds had nested in the crevices, but it was still water-tight, though the door sagged limply on one hinge. I fancied that Mrs. McNab would prefer her snug retreat in the Tower rooms. It was easy, looking at it, to picture the lonely shepherd who had waited in the darkness, his gun across his knees, for the sound of oars grating in rowlocks as the sheep-stealers’ boats drew near. A man might well get jumpy enough to fire into the gloom and kill his own sheep.

“It’s a big island, but the place where we landed is the only bit of the shore that’s safe to bring a boat alongside,” said Harry. “Even there, you want to be careful; there are sunken rocks everywhere. Most of the visitors funk it, though of course it’s nothing when once you know the way. The local people have rather exaggerated the difficulties, to discourage boating parties from landing here when there were sheep: there are plenty of city gentlemen, out for the first time with a rifle, who would think it rather sporting to fire at a stray sheep on these hills.”

“Sort of chaps who pot black swan and seagulls,” said Jack with disgust.

“Yes; the coast swarms with them in the holidays. However, they generally let Shepherd’s Island alone, thank goodness!”

“But you can land near Smugglers’ Cave,” said Judy.

“Oh yes—if you know the entrance. But it’s so masked with rocks that no one would dream of putting in there who wasn’t thoroughly familiar with the place. It was rather lucky for the shepherds who had to camp here that there is only one good landing: if they had had to watch all the shore at night their job would have been a fairly tough one. As it was, they could keep a look-out from the door of the hut.”

“This is a stuffy old place!” Judy said contemptuously. “Let’s go down to the other end of the Island: I want to show you the Smugglers’ Cave, Miss Earle.”

“Were there smugglers?” I asked.

“Never a smuggler!” Harry McNab answered, laughing. “But there’s a cave of sorts, and of course it had to have a name.”

“All the best caves have smugglers,” Vera smiled. “Come and we’ll explore it, Doris.”

We went along the shore of the Island. The sandy beach soon gave place to rocks, at first low and scattered, but presently rugged and steep, with masses of rounded boulders flung hither and thither. The outgoing tide had left innumerable pools among them, fringed with red and bronze seaweed and big crimson anemones. We lingered among them until eldritch screams from Judy smote upon our ears, and we beheld her dancing on a huge flat-topped rock and calling to us to hurry.

I was used to wild outcries on the part of Judy and Jack, but on this occasion there seemed unusual urgency in the call, and I hurried accordingly.

“I thought you were never coming!” she greeted me. “Jack’s stuck in a rock, and we can’t get him out. I don’t believe anything ever will, unless they use dynamite, and then they’ll dynamite him too!”

“But how exciting!” laughed Vera. “Lead us to the painful scene, Judy, won’t you?”—and Judy suddenly turned upon her, her face aflame.

“You haven’t got anything to laugh at!” she flung at her. “If it was your brother stuck you wouldn’t think it was so jolly funny. I suppose you think it’s a joke for a little kid to be hurt!”

“Steady, Judy!” I said.

“Well, she laughed!” said Judy furiously.

“I wouldn’t have laughed, Judy dear, if I had known he was hurt,” Vera said contritely. “Come on, and we’ll see if we can’t get him out.”

We found the prisoner with his feet tightly wedged between two rocks, in a deep cleft. He had slipped from above, so that both feet were jammed: and since it was impossible for him to get any purchase on the water-worn granite, he was perfectly helpless. Three youngsters of his own age, lying flat on the rock above the cleft, were hauling at his arms, with no result whatever, except to cause him a considerable amount of pain. His rosy face was very near tears as he looked up at us.

“I thought a grown-up would never get here!” he said dolefully. “What am I going to do, Miss Earle? I can’t move an inch!”

“We’ll get you out, Jack, old man,” I said. “Don’t struggle, or you may be more jammed than ever.”

Vera and I examined the situation, while the children stood about us with anxious faces. We tried to lift him, but it was clear from the first that it was beyond our strength. As I lay face downwards above him a dull boom and a splash sounded behind me, and a swirl of green water flowed into the cleft.

“Tide’s coming in,” said Jack between his teeth. “That’s the third wave, and each has been a bit higher. It comes up from somewhere underneath me. Could you hurry a bit, Miss Earle?”

“Judy,” I said quickly, “run for some of the men—your brother and Mr. Atherton, if you can see them, but any of the men will do. You others scatter and look for any long pieces of timber you can find. Stay with him, Vera—I’m going to the boats for rope.”

I used to be a pretty good runner at school, when I captained the hockey team, but I don’t think I ever ran as I did along that horrible island. It seemed miles long; when I had to leave the grass the sand held my feet back, and I ploughed through it in ungainly bounds. I saw no one: all the others were on the western shore, where one of the boys had landed a big fish—so big that every one had become excited and had insisted on trying to fish too. Judy’s search was fruitless for a time: a fact of which I was luckily unaware, as I raced to the launches, lying lonely and quiet by the rocky shelf. I seized a coil of the stoutest rope I could see, and fled back again. Every wave breaking lazily on the beach below me, struck new terror into my heart. I knew how quickly the tide turned on that coast: how swiftly such a cleft as the one in which Jack was trapped would fill with water, drawn up into it by suction from the rock-spaces beneath him. His set little face swam before my eyes, as I ran, lending new strength to my lagging feet: the square, dirty boy-face, with the honest eyes. I think I tried to pray, only no words would come.

Others were running, too, as I neared the rocks again: I saw Dicky Atherton and Harry, and a big young man in a gorgeous sweater, whose colours had offended my eye at lunch—I welcomed it now, remembering how big and strong he was. He carried a long pole: a young tree-trunk, lopped for some purpose, and washed over from the mainland: even laden as he was, he ran with the athlete’s long, easy strides. Panting, I reached the cleft again, brushing through the group of scared children.

The water was waist-deep round Jack now, and as I came in sight of his face a wave washed into the cleft, sending a hurrying rush of water to his shoulders. And even so, he gave me a little smile.

“Golly, you must have run, Miss Earle!” he said.

“Rope!” said a voice at my shoulder. “Oh, by Jove, that’s good!” Dicky Atherton snatched the coil from my hands and flung himself into the cleft, knotting it swiftly under the boy’s arms.

“Don’t you get caught too, Dicky,” warned Jack.

“Don’t you worry, old man—my feet are too big,” Dicky said, laughing. I wondered how he could laugh at such a moment; and wondered the more when I saw how his face had whitened under its tan. But Jack grinned back.

Dicky Atherton sprang up to the top again, gathering the rope until it was taut. The big young man had thrust his pole deep into the cleft near Jack: on the other side, Harry had done the same with a long fence-rail that some one had found on the shore. They glanced at each other.

“Ready—all together!” said Harry breathlessly. “Pull, Dicky!”

They bent on their levers, thrusting them deeper into the swirling water, while Dicky leaned back against the rope. I saw Jack set his lips as it tightened. For a moment nothing gave; and then the dry fence-rail split and shivered under the strain, and Harry went staggering back with a little gasp of despair. There was a kind of shudder through the group round the rock. Then the good green timber found its grip and held, and as the big man flung his weight on it, the rock moved and Jack’s shoulders came up. Harry sprang to add his strength to the pull: together he and Dicky drew the little prisoner up, and in a moment he was safe upon the top.

Beryl McNab broke into noisy crying.

“Oh, I thought it was all over when that rail broke!” she sobbed.

“Not much!” said Jack. He was very white, and his voice shook, but his eyes twinkled still. He put out a hand to Judy, who had neither moved nor spoken. She went on her knees beside him, holding the grubby little hand in a close grip.

“Hurt much, old Jack?” she asked with stiff lips.

“I feel as if I was all skinned with the rope,” Jack said, sitting up and rubbing himself. “Oh, and, by Jove, look at my legs! I’ve lost my sand-shoes!”

He had lost more than sand-shoes. Not only had they been pulled off, but his feet and ankles were almost skinned, with deep cuts and grazes from which the blood was now pouring.

“Golly, and I never felt a thing!” said Jack, much interested. “Why, I’m like a skinned rabbit! Well, I guess I’ll keep out of that sort of hole after this. Jolly lucky for me there were so many people about, wasn’t it?”

“Jolly lucky we had that rope,” said the big man gravely. “Look at that beastly place now.”

The cleft was almost full of water that moved to and fro with a dull surge. The rescue had been only just in time. I think we all shuddered, looking into the green depths. Then, since shuddering was not much use, and the rock where we stood would soon be covered with water, I made a collection of handkerchiefs and bound up Jack’s wounds, after soaking them in water. The men proposed to carry him, but he scorned the idea, declaring himself perfectly well able to walk.

“I’ll paddle round to the launch and get into my bathers,” he said, standing up and shaking himself, his wet clothes clinging limply to his little body. “Come along, Ju.” He went off, limping, but erect, Judy’s arm round his shoulders. I think, of the two, I was more sorry for Judy.

Harry and I followed, to examine his other wounds—Beryl being apparently too unnerved to do anything but sit on a rock in a becoming attitude and bewail what might have been. We found that the rope had cut through his thin shirt, marking him in an angry circle: it was sore enough, but we could only be thankful that it was no worse. Jack himself asked for no consolation.

“I’m all right,” he said sturdily. “It was all my own fault, anyhow. You ought to make Miss Earle have a cup of tea, Harry; she ran all the way to the launch and back for the rope, and she must be tired.”

“That’s a good idea, young ’un,” said Harry. “Come along, Miss Earle: you sit under a tree, and I’ll boil the billy.”

The others came straggling back, and we had tea; and then, since Jack was peacefully fishing from a rock in his bathing suit, and vigorously protested against being taken home, we left him in Judy’s care and strolled back to see the Smugglers’ Cave.

As Harry had said, it was not much of a cave. It was wide and shallow, with a tiny compartment opening off it—a sub-cave, Vera called it. Both were floored with smooth dry sand. The most interesting thing about the place was the sea in front of the opening. The rocks ran far out into the water all along that part of the Island shore; but just before the cave there were none, and instead there stretched a little calm bay, almost circled by the high rocks.

“That is really what gave the place its name,” Harry said. “Some one started the yarn that smugglers used to run their boats in here: it’s a perfect natural harbour. A boat might come in and anchor under the lee of the rock, and people sailing past would be none the wiser. So a sort of story grew up round it. As a matter of fact, there were never any smugglers at all.”

Dicky Atherton told him he was an unsentimental beggar. “A pity to spoil a good yarn,” he said. “Think how tourists would lap it up!” At which Harry shuddered, and uttered pious thanks that, so far, tourists had not discovered their part of the coast.

We went home slowly in the early evening, turning our backs upon a sunset that made sea and sky a glory of scarlet and gold. It had been a merry day, apart from the mishap that might so easily have ended in tragedy: but since Jack was alive and well, we were young enough to forget our brief time of terror, and we sang lustily, if not tunefully, as the launches glided over the still sea. Jack, perched on the extreme point of the bow, was loudest in the choruses. I could see, however, that his wounds were beginning to stiffen; when we landed I hurried him up to the house so that I might cleanse and dress them properly. He wriggled with disgust at my scientific bandages.

“Much better give ’em a dab of iodine and let the air cure ’em,” he said: at which I shivered. I hadn’t had the heart to apply iodine to so wide an acreage of skinned boy.

“Comfortable?” I asked, as I adjusted the last safety-pin and pulled his stocking gently over the whole.

“Oh yes. It’s all right. But I do feel an awful idiot, trussed up like this!”

“But nobody can see, Jack.”

“No—that’s a comfort,” he said. And then he astonished me, for he suddenly slipped an arm about my neck and gave me a rough hug. “Thanks, awfully,” he said. “You’re no end of a brick, Miss Earle!”—and was gone.