Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

“Of course, after that, the fact that there was a strain of madness in the Garsia family didn’t seem to me open to doubt. And, pondering the question, I determined that I must be very much upon my guard whenever I visited the ferry. My fishing excursions I gave up entirely and I wore my six-shooter night and day. No—with Concepcion I was taking no risks.

“That same evening Joaquin’s carcass floated up upon a sandbank a hundred yards below the bungalow. The next morning it was gone. The bush behind the bank was trampled and bloodstained, and the niggers began to whisper. They told me, in confidence, that the Spaniard had dug his heart out to make a fetich of and that I was doomed to many lingering torments. Naturally, I took small notice of that sort of thing.

“The hands, now that the ferry had become a ford again, went much more frequently down to Santiago, and it was not long before I heard that Concepcion had been seen there. But his bungalow was closed, his nigger had been sent about his business, and the weeds began to fill his garden, as weeds do in tropical countries alone. At the end of a couple of weeks I began to believe that we had seen the last of Señor Concepcion.

“And then a thing happened that appeared to be no less than a miracle. One evening, less than half an hour after a score of the hands had set out to spend the next day’s fiesta in the town, nineteen of them were back in my veranda, yelling, screeching that Joaquin was returned—back and playing his old tricks again! He had risen in the midst of them as they forded the stream and had taken down Tome, a quadroon pickman, exactly as he had taken down Red Rambo less than a month before.

“Of course, I didn’t believe them. I had seen my bullets go home into Joaquin’s brain and heart and I opined that Tome, for the joke of the thing, had dived with a bit of a splutter and was probably laughing himself into convulsions at the success of the trick. I put this view of the case to the others mildly.

“They didn’t seem to have breath enough to pour all the contempt they felt upon the idea. ‘Dived! Joking!’ He was pulled down, screaming, they declared—they saw the jaws close on him—there wasn’t one of them five yards from him when he was taken!

“I shrugged my shoulders, took my rifle and went back with them to the river bank. You can just figure my astonishment when a dun snout, as like the late Joaquin’s as one pea is like another, cut a lazy ripple across the surface as it went sliding out from the bank into midstream! And the boil of his tail showed up ten yards behind his head. I hadn’t believed that there was another such alligator in the wide world!

“These reflections didn’t prevent my rifle-butt coming up to my shoulder. I aimed for a point three inches behind the snout. We heard the bullet thud, but the brute didn’t twitch—he didn’t even close his half-open eye! He just let the water close slowly over his head—so slowly that I found time to empty my magazine at him as he sank. Every one of the five bullets hit his wicked head, and the last glanced off! We knew it by the sound of a second thud among the echoes of the report, while a splash of splintered wood showed on a branch on the opposite side of the stream. Positively and actually, this new Joaquin had a shot-proof skull!

“The niggers were gabbling excitedly about Ju-ju, and such like idolatries, while the dagos were little better. As for me, I sat down upon a stump and took my head in my hands. That two brutes of the same size should appear in the same unimportant little Cuban creek was almost unbelievable—to the superstitious imaginations of the mine hands it could be explained in one way alone. It was debbil-debbil, and they went off home up the hill, starting out of their skins if a bird rustled in the bushes. I was left sitting and wondering.

“At the sound of an opening door some time later I looked up. Concepcion Garsia came sauntering out of the bungalow. I reached for my Winchester.

“He strolled on toward me slowly and complacently, halted a few yards away and bowed. There was a wicked sneer round his thin lips.

“‘_Buenos dias, señor_,’ (Good day) he said as he raised his hat. ‘As you remarked, it is permitted to shoot alligators. That, it appears, does not always include the killing of them,’ and he laughed—his queer high-pitched laugh.

“For the moment I was tongue-tied. The suggestion that an animal whose brain had been shattered by my bullet was still alive was ridiculous, but—well, the ‘but’ was to explain this new brute of the same size in precisely the same spot. I looked Garsia squarely in the eyes.

“‘Do you mean to imply that Joaquin has come back?’ I asked.

“He shrugged his shoulders.

“‘_Quien sabe_—who knows?’ he answered, with that impudent smile still twisting his lips. ‘What is your own opinion, señor?’

“I patted the breech of my rifle.

“‘It is here,’ I said quietly. ‘Joaquin—or another, I shall continue the old treatment, _amigo_ (friend). Half an ounce of lead—at frequent intervals.’

“He laughed again jeeringly, and turned upon his heel.

“‘Continue it, señor, continue it,’ he cried over his shoulder, ‘but remember that all things come to an end, even your treatment and perhaps—yourself!’

“The next minute he had slammed the door of his bungalow, and I, not forgetting what an excellent mark for a bullet I was against the yellow of the tinder-dry bush, hastened to put a tree between myself and the shuttered window.

“There is no need to go into details of the next three months. It is sufficient to say that the alligator began a reign of terror at the ford. Horses went—goats, steers, poultry. And the river was almost deserted, for boats were no longer a protection. The planters, who had been accustomed to use the water for a highway between their _estancias_, gave it up after no less than five pirogues had been charged by the monster, and upset. One of the crew always sank, never to rise again. Strangers using the foot road, and too impatient to wait for the chance of being ferried when the boat was the wrong side, were snatched up. Finally the heavy ferry pirogue itself was capsized, and Manuel, the creole overseer, was lost. With him went, moreover, two thousand _pesetas_ in cash, which he was bringing up from the bank at Santiago for pay day.

“No less than twenty poor wretches went to their account in one way or another in those twelve weeks, and the countryside grew desperate. Enough bullets were showered upon the alligator to sink him by pure weight if they had only stuck in him, but he seemed to mind them no more than peas! I spent a week’s pay in cartridges myself.

“Of course, it is all very well to sit here in this smoking-room and laugh out of court ideas about Ju-ju, fetish work, Whydah and all those sorts of deviltries. They don’t go with ten-thousand-ton boats, electric light and the last special edition Marconigram. But it gets on your nerves if you sit day after day beside a jungle-ringed swamp, listening to all that a couple of hundred niggers have to tell you about the tropical powers of the Evil One. And that there was something mysterious in the business I could swear—something, too, that my instincts told me Concepcion Garsia held the key to. The sight of his face the few times I passed him witnessed to that. There was a glint of triumph in his eye that was simply diabolical. And yet he seldom showed himself. Passers-by used the ferry pirogue as they liked—the _centimos_ that his father used to collect he seemed to think no more about.

“Well, as Concepcion himself remarked, there is an end to everything, even to this story, and it fell to my lot to write finis across it. But it was Providence alone that kept me from being the page and the Spaniard the writer. It was just this way.

“I sat, one evening, on the bank not far from the bungalow, reading. I was keeping an occasional lookout for the alligator, though as the seasonal floods were just falling he hadn’t been seen for two or three weeks. I had my revolver in my belt, more by habit than with any hope of doing him mortal harm with it. Experience had proved that the heaviest rifle bullets didn’t affect him. Just as I finished a chapter a voice hailed me from across the stream.

“I looked up, and recognized Señora Barenna, the wife of the planter at the _estancia_ behind Blique Mountain. She was waving her hand, and beckoning to me to bring the pirogue across.

“I was surprised to see her there, for neither she nor her husband used the ferry, as the metaled road to Santiago passed close to their house. But naturally I didn’t wait for explanations at that distance. I ran down, got into the boat and began to pull hand over hand on the guide-rope. The señora welcomed me with a smile.

“‘You may well stare,’ she said, as I gave her my hand to help her down the bank, ‘to find me in such a situation. I was driving from the town when our stupid mules took fright at a wild pig that ran between their feet. They swerved, bolted into the bush, smashed a wheel and there I found myself, less than three miles from home by the ford, and six by the road! You may imagine which I chose.’

“‘I’m truly sorry for your misfortune,’ said I, ‘but truly glad of the opportunity of doing you a service,’ for Spanish ladies expect this sort of thing and I began to collect my ideas for a further succession of compliments. I never had a chance to frame them, for the pirogue, which was in midstream again by now, quivered with a tremendous shock. It was lifted half out of the water!

“The next instant it began to rock from side to side, broke from the loop which held it to the guide-rope, and finally upset. The señora screamed, and both she and I instinctively grasped the strands above our heads. The boat floated on its side from beneath our feet!

“She was hanging by her hands alone. I swung up my feet, got a good purchase by crooking my knee, and so, freeing one arm, hauled her up by the waist beside me.

“Fortunately, she was an active woman, and she kept her presence of mind. I shouted to her to unfasten the shoulder-shawl she wore, and to fasten it over the rope and around her waist. She had done it in less time than it takes to tell of it, but as she did it my heart jumped into my mouth. Our combined weights amounted to more than the rope had been stayed up to bear. The poles to which it was lashed at each end slanted. We dipped till, owing to the height of the flood, we swung a bare six inches above the surface! And, of course, I had a very good idea of what had upset the boat!

“I had not to wait long. There was a boil of the eddies not ten yards away and the familiar dun snout lifted and showed the upper half of an open jaw. The brute made a bee-line for the bait that hung so attractively at his mercy.

“Señora Barenna’s shriek was piercing. As for me—well, I spoke before of the sudden way in which an impulse masters one. I saw in an instant that it was a case of two or one, and a sort of frenzy of rage seized upon me. With a curse I flung myself down upon the brute’s head, feeling with my thumbs for his eyes, while, released from my weight, the rope jerked the señora up six feet into safety.

“The next few seconds were a sort of disconnected nightmare. The water closed over my head, the great jaws worked beneath my hands, and then a blow struck me on the chest, exactly over the book that I had placed in my breast-pocket a minute or two before.

“At times like those one’s reason is not in the very best working order, but even then I was quite capable of recognizing that the blow could not have been dealt by an alligator’s clumsy limbs. And my legs and feet, too, instead of meeting the resistance of the brute’s back, were sprawled along nothing more solid than a twenty-foot pole!

“My hand gripped my revolver from my belt, searched with it aimlessly downward and sideways, and blundered against what I felt to be a living body. At the same time the blow was repeated, but not quite in the same place. The point of an edged weapon slipped across the smooth cover of the book and gashed into my ribs. At that I pulled the trigger!

“And many a time since have I thanked Providence for the man that invented brass-drawn, water-tight cartridges. For as I fired there was a great bubbling rush from the explosion that rocked me over, while the huge head below me heaved violently. Like a leaping salmon it burst with me above the surface!

“The flood caught us, gripped us, and whirled us away together, to fling us up upon a shallow bank of mud. And as I struggled to my feet I looked down upon Concepcion’s dead body, a wound gaping in it from my bullet, while beside him was stranded a great sheet-iron shell, floated with leathern bags and surmounted with the stuffed head of old Joaquin! Behind it stretched a pole ornamented with the tip of the same animal’s tail!

“Well, gentlemen, I don’t know that there is much more to add. After I had climbed along the rope and dragged Señora Barenna into safety I kicked open the door of the bungalow and left her there, while I hurried up to the works for help. But before I sent old Emil and his housekeeper down with cordials, and so forth, I got the old man’s permission to knock the hands off at once. I had my reasons.

“I lined those superstitious fools along the mud-bank before that sham scaffolding of an alligator, and the sermon I preached them on the follies of Ju-ju ought to have converted them then and there. But the results were entirely contrary to my expectations. For when, some years later, after I had left old Emil, I returned for a short visit to the Barennas, who were always my grateful friends, I found Joaquin’s head hung in their veranda.

“A servant who did not know me saw me looking at it.

“‘That American debbil-debbil,’ he explained politely, and pointed to the little brass plate his master had had stuck upon it with an inscription setting forth that I had shot the brute on such and such a date. ‘Him name _Banks_,’ he added, ‘and great big Ju-ju. Nigger boy say prayers to him ebry night!’”

_The Boy; His Hand and Pen_

BY TOM P. MORGAN

My Aunt Almira, who is an old maid, says that spring is the time when the young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love; but my Uncle Bill, who has been a bachelor so long that it’s chronic with him, says that ’most every spring he gets as bilious as a goat. That’s the way it goes; women are romantic and are everlastingly thinking about their hearts and souls, while men are generally more concerned about their stomachs and pocketbooks. You give a man enough to eat and a few dollars to squander and he’ll manage to scuffle along, but a woman won’t be happy unless she’s worrying about love, or something.

Uncle Bill once knew an old maid who lived in constant dread of finding a man under the bed. She kept on hopefully fearing him for thirty-seven years, and early in the thirty-eighth she was drowned. One time there was a Brighamyoungamist who married twenty-three different women in rapid succession, and he looked a good deal like the last end of a hard winter, too. Well, the judge threw up his hands in astonishment, and asked him how in all-git-out a man would go to work to marry twenty-three women. And the Brighamyoungamist grinned and replied:

“Aw—tee! hee!—Judge, I just asked ’em!”

But, on the other hand, spring is the time when your neighbor borrows your lawn-mower and keeps it till he is ready to borrow your snow-shovel. In the spring all Nature seems to smile, especially in the Third Reader, and the little flowers go gaily skipping over hill and dale. The grass pops up, the boys begin fighting regularly, the birds warble all the day long in the leafy boughs, and the book-agent comes hurriedly up the road with a zealous but firm dog appended to his pants. About this time you feel achy and itchy and stretchy and gappy, and so forth, all of which is a sign that you’ve got the spring fever. Some men have the spring fever all the year round. Then they join all the lodges they can squeeze into, and owe everybody, and talk about the workingman needing his beer on Sunday.

This is all I know about spring, and most of it is what Uncle Bill told me.

_Old Saws Filed New_

“Vice is contagious”—and so few of us have been vaccinated!

“A man must keep his mouth open a long time before a roast pigeon flies into it”—but the chances are worse if he keeps it shut.

“Associate with men of good judgment”—if their good judgment will permit.

“Duty is a power which rises with us in the morning and goes to rest with us in the evening”—or even earlier in the day.

_The Force of Circumstance_

BY CHAUNCEY C. HOTCHKISS

They came up to me, he and his daughter, as I was sitting on the half-deserted piazza of the hotel. His soft felt hat had been replaced by a tall one, and there was no suggestion of his former outing costume in the stiff linen and conventionally cut clothing he wore. His daughter stood by his side, her hand within his arm, a little impatient pout on her lips and a petulant wrinkle on her fine brows, as fair a specimen of the typical American girl, in beauty of face and form and taste in dress, as one could find or wish for.

“Ah, Alan, my boy!” said he heartily. “I’m off—quite suddenly. Some plaguy business in town, you know. Sorry, but can’t help it! Wish you were going along! Will be back tomorrow night—I think.” And here he gave me a decided wink with the eye farthest from his daughter. The girl twisted him about to see his face, as though suspicious of his honesty.

“Why must you go, papa? And why won’t you take me? Aunt Margaret and her rheumatism are poor company!”

“No, no, little woman—not this time! Force of circumstances, you know. Mustn’t leave your aunt alone—not for the world! Have many things to see to in town. How’s your arm, Alan? Better? That’s good! There’s the stage, by Jove! Keep her out of mischief, my boy. Kiss your dad, puss. Good-bye, Alan!”

As I looked at this fine specimen of metropolitan growth while he clambered into the ramshackle stage that ran to the station, I felt pretty sure that his conscience was not quite easy in thus hurrying to town and leaving his daughter to her own devices. That the easy-going, retired lawyer, whose hardest work consisted in killing time, had no such pressing matters on hand as he had intimated, I was certain, and had small doubt that visions of the stock-ticker, cool cocktails and club cronies were the “plaguy business” which demanded his attention. Nor did I blame him, for had it not been for the young girl who was now looking blankly at the rapidly retreating vehicle my own place at the table of the hotel would have been vacated days before.

A broken arm just cut of its sling and still almost useless was my ostensible reason for lingering. It served me as an excuse for protracting the pleasures of the broad Sound and stunted but picturesque woods, though it did not blind me to the fact that I was playing with fire by remaining. I was not born with a great deal of conceit and am too well acquainted with the times to have faith in the infallibility of love as a leveling power when applied to cash considerations. In finances the girl was an aristocrat and I a plebeian. My meditations were to myself, but the young lady gave vent to hers.

“Very good, sir! I’ll pay you well for this,” she said, shaking her finger in the direction of the vanished stage. “You wouldn’t take me with you! Well, you’ll wish you had!” Then she turned to me. “Why did he go, Mr. Alan?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Force of circumstances, he said.”

“Force of fiddlesticks! He _always_ gives that as an excuse when he does anything I dislike. I don’t believe in the force of circumstances. Do you?”

“Most assuredly,” I returned.

“Well, I don’t, then. I’m a free agent. You and papa might as well confess to fatalism. I would like to see circumstances force me!”

“I might weave a story showing the contrary. You have just seen——”

“Oh, that and your story would prove nothing,” she interrupted, with a charming lack of logic. “A truce to nonsense—it’s too hot. Look at me, sir!” she commanded, with mock severity. “Papa has practically thrown me on your hands without regard to my opinion in the matter, as though I were a small child. Aunt Margaret has a mild spell of rheumatism and the religious mood that always seems to go with it. I understand that you are responsible for me; how dare you assume the burden?”

“I accept, however,” I replied, with secret warmth.

“You will probably live to repent it. What shall we do?”

“Anything you elect. I am under your orders.”

“Then see that you obey them. The woods are too wet for a walk since last night’s storm, and as for staying about here after being cooped up two whole days by rain, it is intolerable. Let’s try to get Maxwell to take us out on his fishing-sloop. He will do it for you.”

“No,” I said firmly. “That is the one thing your father prohibits. It is mere nervousness, of course, but I will not be a party to such a thing. Think of something else—the force of circumstance is still against you.”

“Plague take the force of circumstance!” she exclaimed, but did not urge me further, though my suspicions should have been aroused when she said:

“We will take lunch and go to the beach anyway. Shall we?”

“Well, you might do that without breaking the fifth commandment,” I returned, with much less enthusiasm than I felt at the idea of a tête-à-tête picnic with her.

Her answer was a light laugh. There was a swishing of skirts and a twinkle of tan-colored shoes as she sped from the piazza to get ready, leaving me with the certainty that I was a fool, or worse, for allowing her to go unchaperoned, though I was too selfish to attempt to right the neglect.

Something over an hour later a scraggy horse hitched to a scraggy wagon was drawing us to the “Cove,” a mile or so distant from the hotel. A well-packed hamper had been provided and the pace set for the day was nothing less innocent than lunch on the beach, which at this quarter of Long Island is a stretch of snow-white sand and the perfection of isolation.

It was not with feelings of positive delight that, as we neared the Sound, I noticed the _Flying Fish_, of which Maxwell was master, moored at the edge of the expanse of blue water. From an artistic point it might have satisfied me, as fine material for an _aquarelle_ as, with its mainsail loosely hoisted for drying, it lay against the strip of woods on the other side of the little bay, but it did not satisfy me to have a controversy on the point of taking my companion for a sail, a thing to which I knew her father to be strongly opposed. However, it was not a lengthy skirmish.

“Will you ask Maxwell to take us out—for just an hour?” she asked demurely.

“Not for one instant,” I replied. “Besides, there is no wind.”

“There will be wind enough; you are just determined to be meanly perverse. _I_ will ask him!” And she sent her clear voice across the water in a long-drawn call.

I saw the man on board look up from the work he was fussing over; presently the sail was lowered and, shortly after, the punt drove its nose into the sand of the beach and Maxwell came toward us.

“Miss Edith,” I said, with dignity and as much severity as I dared show her, “I am well aware that I have no right to dictate to you, but if you are determined to go sailing in spite of your father’s wishes you will go without me.”

“Do you really mean it?” she asked, with a light laugh and a wicked glint in her eyes. “What a goose you are! Of course I wouldn’t go, but we can compromise. Let’s go out to her and lunch on board. It will be ever so much nicer than the sand, and I have never even stepped on board of a sloop. Can’t we go out to her, Mr. Maxwell?”

“Sartin, miss, but it’s lucky that’s all ye want,” said that worthy. Then, turning to me, he continued:

“The old tub’s ’most used up, Mr. Alan. She broke up a good deal of her riggin’ in the storm last night. That ain’t all, neither. I find the anchor shackle most rusted out and the moorin’ line ’most chafed through. I was just startin’ for a new shackle. Tell you what ye might do, sir, an’ ’twould be a big favor. Let me put you two aboard and then take your hoss to go to the Centre with. That will suit the lady an’ be a savin’ to my legs. I will be back in a shake.”

“Where’s your deck-hand?” I asked, wavering in my determination.

“Gone home sick, sir. Last night used him up.”

Doubts of propriety and prudence were of little avail against the coaxing demands of my companion. She was used to having her way in most things. Nothing but the novelty of taking lunch on board the old fishing-boat would satisfy her, and, as it would not do for me to carry the air of protector too far, it was but a short time before we were on the deck of the vessel, from which we watched Maxwell climb into the wagon and start for the village. The lady’s expression was one of subdued triumph.

I confess that as I saw the little boat pulled high on the beach and realized how completely we were cut off from the land, I was conscious of a feeling that was not one of unalloyed content. From the physical conditions there seemed to be nothing to fear. The water of the Cove was like glass in the hot sunshine, and the vessel as steady as the Rock of Ages; but the situation would certainly become compromising to the fair young girl if our isolation should be generally known, and, though I was willing enough to shoot at folly as it flew, I was in hopes that the absence of Maxwell would not be prolonged, and so set to work to entertain and enlighten Miss Edith, who was a very child in her curiosity and her demands to have it satisfied.

The _Flying Fish_, a fearful misnomer, was an old acquaintance of mine, and was typical of her class. Clean enough on deck, she was an abomination of vile smells below, the combination of fish, clams and bilge-water making a forcible compound. The inevitable scuttle-butt of fresh water stood before the mast, and forward was a mass of rusty chain cable, tangled gear, mops, winch-handles, buckets and the anchor, the latter secured with a piece of rope.

In the stern of the boat the conditions were improved. The long tiller projected into the roomy cockpit, the seats of which were as clean as water could make them, while overhead the broken boom with its loose sail made a wide strip of shade that was very acceptable.

For me there was no novelty in the craft, but it was a monstrous toy for my companion, who flitted from stem to stern, picking up her dainty skirts as she explored the bow, or wrinkling her delicate nose as she met the odor of the cabin she insisted on entering.

“Does Maxwell cook on that thing?” asked the girl, pointing to the small stove red with old rust, “and sleep in one of those dirty boxes?”

“Undoubtedly. That is a sailor’s lot.”

“Horrors! I wouldn’t be a sailor for the world! Let’s get into the air—I’m stifled!”

An hour passed quickly enough and without the return of Maxwell. The lunch was spread and eaten in the strip of shade, which took another hour. A slight restraint followed the smoking of my cigar, for our conversation was becoming as circumscribed as our freedom, probably due to the fact that we both began to realize we were prisoners. At best there is no exhilaration of spirits to be found on the hot deck of a dilapidated fishing-sloop at anchor, and I dreaded the dulness which would ensue if our confinement became protracted beyond a certain point.

But we were not destined to be beset by stupidity through lack of events. Two hours, three hours passed and yet no Maxwell. The conversation waned like a slowly dying blaze. I was becoming desperate and Miss Edith was beginning to question me with her eyes, when I saw matters were to be made worse by a thunderstorm which showed its black head over the woods to the southwest. Was Maxwell crazy? What could he be thinking of to leave us in this predicament? Again and again I searched the opening into the woods through which the horse and wagon had disappeared, but the shore remained as wild and deserted as when Columbus discovered America. The little boat lay temptingly on the sand five hundred feet away, but it might as well have been as many miles, for my broken arm made swimming impossible.

From being slightly compromising our situation had become fully so—and more; it was irksome, awkward and not at all heroic. It was evident from her manner that the girl was becoming fully alive to her position.

Rapidly the clouds approached the zenith. They were terribly sinister, and, though there appeared to be no more danger to us than the remote chance of being struck by lightning, I dreaded for Miss Edith the closer imprisonment in the unwholesome cabin and a probable drenching in the end.

Even should Maxwell now arrive it would be impossible to return to the hotel before the storm broke, and as the sun became suddenly quenched by the sulphur-colored mass that had risen to it, and a sickly green shade settled over us, I turned my attention to cheering my companion, who, awed by the tragic light that overspread us, seemed lost in fearful contemplation of the approaching tempest, and sat silent in the cockpit with both hands tightly clutching the tiller. The tide was full flood and not a wrinkle marred the polished surface of the Sound. In the distance were some motionless vessels taking in their lighter sails and over all nature there brooded a portentous quiet.

It was evident that we were about to experience something out of the common, for though the edge of the squall had no more than the usual threat of a summer shower, the clouds behind it sent through me a thrill of awe mingled with fear. As I stood with my hands on the shrouds watching a space of inky blackness it opened and from it descended a bulb of vapor shaped like a bowl, its edges hidden in the clouds above. It was a mass lighter than the rest, and it elongated until its form changed to a funnel-shaped pipe which gradually neared the surface of the earth, trailing as it moved along. Its approach was accompanied with a roar as of a distant cataract, and as I saw the sinuous tube lose itself in a mist of dust, flying branches and heavier debris and appear to be coming toward us, a fearful knowledge of what we were about to encounter burst upon my mind and I turned quickly to the girl, who in her fright had risen to her feet.

“What is it?” she cried, blanching at the sight of the awful column.

“A tornado! Into the cabin, quick!” I shouted.

She obeyed without a word, and I had barely time to snatch up the basket containing the remains of our lunch and scramble through the door after her when, with a howl it is impossible to describe, the vortex of whirling air was upon us.

The darkness that came down like a curtain was appalling; the din deafening. The centre of the tornado must have missed us, else I would not now be telling this tale, but the sight through the open doors, which I had not had time to close, showed it had missed us but narrowly. I saw the surface of the Cove turn to milk under the lash of the wind, but had scant time to see more, for, as we were lying broadside to the blast, it struck us fairly on the side and careened us until the deck stood wellnigh up and down.

With a shriek the girl threw herself into my arms, and we both slid to leeward. There came a jar as though we had been struck, a crash overhead that sent the skylight shivering in fragments about us, a quick blast of icy air, and the vessel righted with a jerk.

Placing the fainting girl on a locker I ran up the steps to the deck. The whirlwind was passing out into the Sound, its shape hidden by the muck that flew in its wake, though a well-defined path of fallen trees and boiling water marked its track. A moment’s observation showed its outskirts had created havoc aboard the sloop.

The mainsail, having been only held in stops, had been blown open by the fearful power of the wind and, split into ribbons, was whipping in the gale with quick, pistol-like reports. The boom-jack had been torn away and the broken spar fallen on the cabin-house, which accounted for the smashed skylight. The topsail had clean gone, hardly a rag remaining. The buckets and all loose articles had been blown overboard; the scuttle-butt had fetched away and lay bung down, its contents gurgling out through the vent, while the only things outside the hull that remained intact were the jib-sail and its gearing.

I had hardly made the last observation when I discovered we were adrift! The first fierce tug of the wind had snapped our moorings, which Maxwell had spoken of as chafed, and, under the weight of the gale which was blowing, we were rapidly drawing into open water.

I caught my breath for a moment, but was immediately relieved as I thought of the anchor. Throwing off my coat I tossed it into the cabin, and, opening my pocket-knife, ran forward; but before I could reach the bow I was drenched by a sudden downpour of rain the volume and icy coldness of which made me gasp. It took but a second to cut the lashings that held the anchor, but, as the iron plunged to the bottom followed by only some half-fathom of chain, I nearly fainted. The shackle lay at my feet with its pin gone. The anchor was lost—the mooring parted; we were adrift in a storm and on a crippled boat.

For a moment I was completely stunned at the realization and stood looking over the side like a fool, as though expecting to see the mass of lost iron float to the surface; but the violent beating of the rain, now mixed with hail, forced sense into me and compelled a hasty retreat to the cabin.

So far as danger to life was concerned there was none at present, and the one menace of the future lay in being blown across the Sound and going to pieces on the rocky coast of Connecticut. I was something of a fair-weather yachtsman and knew the danger of a lee shore; but whether my wit would be sufficient to offset the predicament we were in I was by no means sure. For a rescue I trusted more to being picked up by some passing craft than to my own efforts. But what a situation for the lady!

How to enlighten her as to our double disaster was troubling me not a little as I entered the cabin, but I had barely cleared the steps when we were beset by a volley of hail that thundered on the cabin-house and rivaled the uproar of the tornado itself. Great icy lumps larger than marbles drove through the broken skylight and bounded through the open door. The hail was followed by another downpour of rain accompanied by vivid lightning and bellowing thunder. Between the flashes the darkness was that of midnight.

Knowing the terror of my companion I attempted to speak to her, but my voice was lost in the turmoil. Striking a match I lighted the small lamp hanging against the bulkhead and found the girl had recovered from her faint and was sitting on the locker with her face buried in her hands. At that moment the sky lightened a trifle and the thunder rolled more at a distance. Shaken as I was, I little wondered at the convulsive shudders that swept over her slight frame; had I been alone I might have succumbed to panic. Presently she looked up at me; her face was like chalk, but I was thankful to see that she had not lost control of herself.

“Oh, wasn’t it awful!” she exclaimed, and was about to rise when she caught sight of my streaming clothing. “Why did you go out? What have you been doing? Have you seen Maxwell?”

“Maxwell? No, but I have seen enough else,” I returned, determined to hide nothing.

“What do you mean? What has happened?”

“I mean that we have met with disaster. We are adrift.”

“Adrift!” Her eyes widened with sudden terror.

“We have been torn from our moorings,” I answered, with an attempt at ease that I might not increase her panic. “But there is no present danger.”

“I—I do not understand,” she said weakly.

“I have made a mistake, which makes it worse,” I continued desperately. “I have cut away the anchor but lost it—the shackle-pin was gone. We must——”

“But you _knew_ the shackle-pin—or something—was gone! I heard Maxwell tell you!” she interrupted, with a flash of temper in her eye that took the place of fear.

“I remembered when too late,” I returned meekly. “In the confusion it went from my mind. When I found we had broken from the mooring I naturally turned to the anchor and cut it free. Will you—can you forgive me? I will make what reparation I may.”

For an answer she dropped limply on the locker, and, again burying her face in her hands, sobbed violently while I stood silent, not knowing how to comfort her, though my brain was busy enough. Presently the paroxysm passed and she looked up with a changed expression; then, heedless of her dainty costume, she approached me and placed both hands on my wringing sleeve.

“Oh, it is for you to forgive me!” she said, the tears still in her eyes. “It is all my fault! If I had only heeded you in the beginning! And I am such a cowardly girl; but I’ll try to be brave and not make it worse. What must we do?” And a divine smile brightened her woebegone face.

“I will tell you all I fear,” I said, mightily relieved at her changed attitude. “With the wind from its present quarter it is impossible to return to the Cove, and to continue drifting is dangerous. Stratford Shoal lies directly in our way, and unless some other direction can be given the vessel we are certain to be wrecked upon it. Listen quietly,” I added, as I saw fright come again to her eyes. “I think I can avert that danger. It may appear strange and hard to you, but it is necessary that we run _from_ home instead of toward it. Will you trust me entirely?”

“Oh, yes! I must—I will.”

“Then excuse me for a time; I have work to do.”

“And am I to sit still and do nothing?”

“You may make a fire, if you will; we will need it. This may be an all-night matter.”

She shrank visibly, but made no reply, and, not daring to lose more time, I abruptly left her.

All I had told her was true. The afternoon had waned and the storm would cause the September day to darken early. The gale, yet strong from the southwest, was carrying us with considerable rapidity toward the well-known shoal that lies in the centre of the Sound—a line of black teeth marked by a lighthouse, and a deadly thing to have close to leeward. There was but one action for me to take, and that to set the jib and under this single sail run to the eastward until we had the fortune to be picked up by some passing craft.

By this we had drawn so far into open water that the seas, which were rapidly rising, had a jump to them, making it a matter of some risk for me to crawl out on the foot-ropes of the bowsprit and throw off the ropes that confined the jib; for it must be remembered that my left arm was almost useless. It was an infinite labor for me to get the wet canvas aloft, but I finally set the sail after a fashion. Loosening the sheet until the great spread of cotton blew out like a balloon, I took the tiller and put the helm hard a-port.

There was life in the old tub at once. She had been wallowing heavily in the trough of the sea, but now we ran across the waves, and the change of motion was a relief. The rain had ceased by this time, but the sky was of an even blackness or the color of the smoke now pouring from the funnel of the cabin stove. As the gloom of evening fell the shore lights twinkled coldly across the water. No vessel came near enough to be hailed, and, as there is nothing distinctively distressing in the appearance of a fishing-smack running before the wind under her jib, I saw it would be foolish to expect a rescue before daylight, save by the merest chance of being passed close at hand.

The gale was decreasing rapidly, but it was getting cold—bitter cold to me in my wet state. Not daring to leave the helm I called to Miss Edith to hand up my coat, but she appeared on deck with it. Her face was hot and flushed, her head bare, and the wind caught her disordered hair and blew it about her eyes.

“Why, you poor fellow!” she exclaimed as the cold air struck her. “You must not do this! Let me take your place while you go down and get warm and dry.”

“You are a ministering angel,” I returned through my chattering teeth, “but unfortunately you can’t steer. However, if you will watch here I will go down and wring myself out. I can lash the tiller. Do you realize our situation?”

“I—I believe so,” she faltered. “I did not even tell Aunt Margaret we were going anywhere. It is too awful to think of—I dare not think—I try not to. This is——”

“The force of circumstance,” I interrupted, with an attempt at levity as I proceeded to fasten the helm. “A force you denied only a few hours ago.”

“And do now!” she said, with some spirit, catching back her blowing hair with her hand. “It was the desire to make you do something against your will. It was pure foolishness. Don’t argue now. Do something for yourself; you will find that I have been neither idle nor useless.”

I was surprised at the change she had wrought in the cabin. On a locker was spread the remains of our lunch; the bunks had been put in some kind of order, the floor wiped up, and the indefinable air of femininity she had given to the dingy hole was accentuated by the gay color of her little hat, which hung against the blackened bulkhead. Rank as it was, the warm atmosphere was a welcome change from that of the deck, and through it floated the odor of coffee. A pot was simmering on the stove, the grate of which was all aglow.

While wondering how she had brought herself to forage through the repulsive mess below and where she had obtained fresh water, I emptied two cups of the scalding beverage and, after stripping myself of my wet clothing, was in a mood to have enjoyed the adventure had it not been for my anxiety for the future. By overhauling a bunk I found an old pair of trousers and an oil-coat, both smelling villainously of fish, and putting them on, wrapped a grimy blanket about me and returned to the deck.

Even during my short absence the wind had fallen decidedly, but the young lady was shivering in her summer dress as she sat looking over the blank water at the distant shore, and I could see that the loneliness filled her with an awe I well understood. She laughed a little as she noticed the figure I cut, but her chattering teeth belied her forced spirits.

“You are freezing, Miss Edith. Go down and drink a cup of your own coffee. Where did you get fresh water? The scuttle-butt was wrecked with the rest.”

“I melted hail-stones—there were plenty of them. Don’t you see I am superior to mere circumstance? You must go down, too; you must rest and keep warm.”

“I must do my resting here,” I replied, cutting the helm lashing.

“What! All night?”

I laughed at her simplicity. “I could not guarantee you a tomorrow—certainly not a rescue, if I stayed in the cabin.”

“Then I will watch, too.”

“It is far too cold—and—and I am afraid you are forgetting the proprieties,” I answered lightly. “I have much to think about.”

I believe she suspected what was in my mind, for she asked soberly:

“Were—were you referring to—to me?”

“Could it be otherwise? And I was thinking of poor Maxwell and his probable loss,” I answered, in an attempt to shift the subject I was not yet ready to discuss.

She drew herself up with sudden hauteur. “Mr. Maxwell’s loss—probable or otherwise—shall be made more than good to him. As for me, I am still above the circumstance that has brought us to this state,” she answered, and, turning quickly, went below.

It was a rebuke, and I saw that I might better have taken her into my confidence then and there, for Maxwell’s loss had had little weight with me. It was her loss and possibly my own. Though her position in society was too well assured for her to suffer in character through an adventure of the sort we were experiencing, there would be many who would talk behind their hands. When the facts were known—as they were bound to be—advantage would be taken of the opportunity to cast reflections and give the smile incredulous to any explanation. A young man and a young woman adrift for an indefinite number of hours in the night after having deliberately cut off communication with the shore would be a tempting morsel for scandalmongers. And what then?

It was just that “what,” and another, which were bothering me. My love for the girl was as pure as man’s love could be, yet after this what could I be to her? Must I cease to be even a friend? Was I to be sacrificed on the altar of circumstance, the force of which I asserted as strongly as she denied? I sat at the helm and turned my thoughts inward until the stars came out from behind the scattering clouds, and the wind, grown colder, fell to a force that barely filled the jib. I looked at my watch—it was past eleven. I was becoming faint for want of food, and, as the wind was now harmless, I dropped the helm and went below.

The fire was almost out and the oil in the lamp so low that it added another smell to the cabin. The girl lay on the hard locker fast asleep, and I could see that she had been weeping. For a time I gazed at her eagerly, then taking some food with me, stole back to my dreary watch. As the hours waned so did my spirits. I may have dozed, but about two o’clock the girl’s ghostly white dress appeared in the companionway and she stepped out on deck. She looked around at the darkness for a moment, then came and seated herself by my side.

“You have had an uncomfortable nap, I fear,” I said as I saw her dispirited face.

“Yes,” wearily, “but how did you know?”

“I went below and saw you. I am very sorry for you, Miss Edith.”

“You saw I had been crying. I am more than sorry to have exposed my weakness to you. I was lonely and—and you did not wish me here. Is it so very wrong?”

“I was only thinking of your comfort.”

“Did you imagine it greater down there? And you said you were thinking of the proprieties and—and Maxwell.”

“Of Maxwell—incidentally only.”

She made no answer to this. I had hoped she would, for now I was as ready to talk of our peculiar situation as before I had been unwilling. But the small hours of the morning are not conducive to discussion. The girl was fagged out and silent in consequence. Once or twice she nodded, but refused to go below, though I urged her to get out of the cold. I finally prevailed on her to put on my coat, and then we sat in silence. But Nature asserted herself at last, and she unconsciously but gradually drooped toward me until her head touched my shoulder, and there it settled. I brought half of the blanket about her and passed my arm around her waist that she might not pitch forward to the deck.

And in this fashion we remained, I with the tiller in the hollow of my left arm, and she in a heavy slumber, her face close to mine. I sat thus, immovable, until I was as sore and uncomfortable as though in bonds, but I may as well confess that I felt repaid for all I had undergone and was then undergoing through my self-enforced rigidity. I lost all sense of drowsiness and was never more wide awake in my life than when I determined to take advantage of the cursed force of circumstance and keep her by me as a right. I would use the argument placed in my power, which argument was the force of circumstance itself. I had been a coward long enough.

The time went easily. The girl slept as quietly as a child, oblivious of all the world. My own mind undoubtedly strayed from purely practical matters, but I was suddenly brought to my senses by the sight of a red and a green light, topped by a white one, bearing directly down upon us. The vessel with the night signals was almost into us before I realized its approach. If the pilot of the oncoming tug—for as such I recognized her—had been no more attentive than I, we should be a wreck in less than thirty seconds, and with no blame to him, as we carried no light. Rudely awakening the girl I put the helm up and shouted with all my power.