illustration: "i beg your pardon. is this a private raft?"] the beauty and the bolshevist by alice duer miller _author of_ "_ the charm school_" "_ladies must live_" "_come out of the kitchen_" _etc_. illustrated 1920 illustrations "i beg your pardon. is this a private raft?" "mr. moreton, the newport boat leaves at five-thirty" "i'll be there in five minutes, in a little blue car" "suppose you find you do hate being poor?" the beauty and the bolshevist chapter i the editor of that much-abused new york daily, _liberty_, pushed back his editorial typewriter and opened one letter in the pile which the office-boy--no respecter of persons--had just laid upon the desk while whistling a piercing tune between his teeth. the letter said: dear ben,--i hate to think what your feelings will be on learning that i am engaged to be married to a daughter of the capitalistic class. try to overcome your prejudices, however, and judge eugenia as an individual and not as a member of a class. she has very liberal ideas, reads your paper, and is content to go with me to monroe college and lead the life of an instructor's wife. you will be glad to know that mr. cord disapproves as much as you do, and will not give his daughter a cent, so that our life will be as hard on the physical side as you in your most affectionate moments could desire. mr. cord is under the impression that lack of an income will cool my ardor. you see he could not think worse of me if he were my own brother. yours, david. the fine face of the editor darkened. it was the face of an idealist--the deep-set, slowly changing eyes, the high cheek bones, but the mouth closed firmly, almost obstinately, and contradicted the rest of the face with a touch of aggressiveness, just as in lincoln's face the dreamer was contradicted by the shrewd, practical mouth. he crossed his arms above the elbow so that one long hand dangled on one side of his knees and one on the other--a favorite pose of his--and sat thinking. the editor was often called a bolshevist--as who is not in these days? for language is given us not only to conceal thought, but often to prevent it, and every now and then when the problems of the world become too complex and too vital, some one stops all thought on a subject by inventing a tag, like "witch" in the seventeenth century, or "bolshevist" in the twentieth. ben moreton was not a bolshevist; indeed, he had written several editorials to show that, in his opinion, their doctrines were not sound, but of course the people who denounced him never thought of reading his paper. he was a socialist, a believer in government ownership, and, however equably he attempted to examine any dispute between capital and labor, he always found for labor. he was much denounced by ultraconservatives, and perhaps their instinct was sound, for he was educated, determined, and possessed of a personality that attached people warmly, so that he was more dangerous than those whose doctrines were more militant. he was not wholly trusted by the extreme radicals. his views were not consistently agreeable to either group. for instance, he believed that the conscientious objectors were really conscientious, a creed for which many people thought he ought to be deported. on the other hand, he doubted that wall street had started the war for its own purposes, a skepticism which made some of his friends think him just fit for a bomb. the great problem of his life was how to hold together a body of liberals so that they could be effective. this problem was going to be immensely complicated by the marriage of his brother with the daughter of a conspicuous capitalist like william cord. he pushed the buzzer on his desk and wrote out the following telegram: david moreton, care william cord, newport, r.i. am taking boat newport to-night. meet me. ben. no one answered his buzzer, but presently a boy came in collecting copy, and moreton said to him: "here, get this sent, and ask klein to come here. he's in the composing room." and presently mr. klein entered, in the characteristic dress of the newspaper man--namely, shirt sleeves and a green shade over his eyes. "look here, ben!" he exclaimed in some excitement. "here's a thousand-dollar check just come in for the strike fund. how's that for the second day?" "good enough," said ben, who would ordinarily have put in a good hour rejoicing over such unexpected good fortune, but whose mind was now on other things. "i have to go out of town to-night. you'll be here, won't you, to lock the presses? and, see here, leo, what is the matter with our book page?" "pretty rotten page," replied klein. "i should say it was--all about taxes and strikes and economic crises. i told green never to touch those things in the book reviews. our readers get all they want of that from us in the news and the editorials--hotter, better stuff, too. i've told him not to touch 'em in the book page, and he runs nothing else. he ought to be beautiful--ought to talk about fairies, and poetry, and twelfth-century art. what's the matter with him?" "he doesn't know anything," said klein. "that's his trouble. he's clever, but he doesn't know much. i guess he only began to read books a couple years ago. they excite him too much. he wouldn't read a fairy story. he'd think he was wasting time." "get some one to help him out." "who'd i get?" "look about. i've got to go home and pack a bag. ask miss cox what time that newport boat leaves." "newport! great heavens, ben! what is this? a little week-end?" "a little weak brother, leo." "david in trouble again?" moreton nodded. "he thinks he's going to marry william cord's daughter." klein, who was ben's friend as well as his assistant, blanched at the name. "cord's daughter!" he exclaimed, and if he had said jack-the-ripper's, he could not have expressed more horror. "now isn't it queer," he went on, musingly, "that david, brought up as he has been, can see anything to attract him in a girl like that?" ben was tidying his desk preparatory to departure--that is to say, he was pushing all the papers far enough back to enable him to close the roller top, and he answered, absently: "oh, i suppose they're all pretty much the same--girls." "why, what do you mean?" said leo, reproachfully. "how can a girl who's been brought up to be a parasite--to display the wealth of her father and husband, and has never done a useful thing since she was born--why, a woman was telling me the other day--i got caught in a block in the subway and she was next me--awfully interesting, she was. she sewed in one of these fashionable dressmaking establishments--and the things she told me about what those women spend on their clothes--underclothes and furs and everything. now there must be something wrong with a woman who can spend money on those things when she knows the agony of poverty right around her. you can't compare that sort of woman with a self-respecting, self-supporting girl--" at this moment the door opened and miss cox entered. she wore a short-sleeved, low-neck, pink-satin blouse, a white-satin skirt, open-work stockings, and slippers so high in the heels that her ankles turned inward. her hair was treated with henna and piled untidily on the top of her head. she was exactly what klein had described--a self-respecting, self-supporting girl, but, on a superficial acquaintance, men of cord's group would have thought quite as badly of her as klein did of fashionable women. they would have been mistaken. miss cox supported her mother, and, though only seventeen, denied herself all forms of enjoyment except dress and an occasional movie. she was conscientious, hard-working, accurate, and virtuous. she loved ben, whom she regarded as wise, beautiful, and generous, but she would have died rather than have him or anyone know it. she undulated into the room, dropped one hip lower than the other, placed her hand upon it and said, with a good deal of enunciation: "oh, mr. moreton, the newport boat leaves at five-thirty." "thank you very much, miss cox," said ben, gravely, and she went out again. [illustration: "mr. moreton, the newport boat leaves at five-thirty"] "it would be a terrible thing for dave to make a marriage like that," klein went on as soon as she had gone, "getting mixed up with those fellows. and it would be bad for you, ben--" "i don't mean to get mixed up with them," said ben. "no, i mean having dave do it. it would kill the paper; it would endanger your whole position; and as for leadership, you could never hope--" "now, look here, leo. you don't think i can stop my brother's marrying because it might be a poor connection for me? the point is that it wouldn't be good for dave--to be a poorly tolerated hanger-on. that's why i'm going hot-foot to newport. and while i'm away do try to do something about the book page. get me a culture-hound--get one of these pater specialists from harvard. or," he added, with sudden inspiration when his hand was already on the door, "get a woman--she'd have a sense of beauty and would know how to jolly green into agreeing with her." and with this the editor was gone. it was the end of one of those burning weeks in august that new york often knows. the sun went down as red as blood every evening behind the palisades, and before the streets and roofs had ceased to radiate heat the sun was up again above long island sound, as hot and red as ever. as ben went uptown in the sixth avenue elevated he could see pale children hanging over the railings of fire escapes, and behind them catch glimpses of dark, crowded rooms which had all the disadvantages of caves without the coolness. but to-day he was too concentrated on his own problem to notice. since ben's sixteenth year his brother david had been dependent on him. their father had been professor of economics in a college in that part of the united states which easterners describe as the "middle west." in the gay days when muck-raking was at its height professor moreton had lost his chair because he had denounced in his lecture room financial operations which to-day would be against the law. at that time they were well thought of, and even practiced by the eminent philanthropist who had endowed the very chair which moreton occupied. the trustees felt that it was unkind and unnecessary to complicate their already difficult duties by such tactlessness, and their hearts began to turn against moreton, as most of our hearts turn against those who make life too hard for us. before long they asked him to resign on account of his age--he was just sixty and extremely vigorous; but immediately afterward, having been deeply surprised and hurt, he did what goldsmith recommends to lovely woman under not dissimilar circumstances--he died. he left his two young sons--he had married late in life--absolutely unprovided for. ben, the elder of the two, was sixteen, and just ready for college; but he could not give four precious years to an academic degree. he went to work. with the background of an educated environment and a very sound knowledge of economic questions, breathed in from his earliest days, he found a place at once on a new paper--or, rather, on an old paper just being converted into a new organ of liberalism--_liberty_. it was independent in politics, and was supposed to be independent in economic questions, but by the time ben worked up to the editorship it was well recognized to be an anticapitalist sheet. the salary of its editor, though not large, was sufficient to enable him to send his younger brother through college, with the result that david, a little weak, a little self-indulgent, a little--partly through physical causes--disinclined to effort, was now a poet, a classicist and an instructor in a fresh-water college. ben made him an allowance to enable him to live--the college not thinking this necessary for its instructors. but during the war ben had not been able to manage the allowance, because, to the surprise of many of his friends, ben had volunteered early. although the reasons for doing this seemed absurdly simple to him, the decision had been a difficult one. he was a pacifist--saw no virtue in war whatsoever. he wished to convert others to his opinion--unlike many reformers who prefer to discuss questions only with those who already agree with them. he argued that the speeches of a man who had been through war, or, better still, the posthumous writings of one who has been killed in war, would have more weight with the public than the best logic of one who had held aloof. but his radical friends felt that he was using this argument merely as an excuse for choosing the easy path of conformity, while the few ultraconservatives who mentioned the matter at all assumed that he had been drafted against his will. afterward, when the war was over and his terrible book, _war_, appeared, no one was pleased, for the excellent reason that it was published at a moment when the whole world wanted to forget war entirely. the pay of a private, however, had not allowed him to continue david's allowance, and so david, displaying unusual energy, had found a job for himself as tutor for the summer to william cord's son. ben had not quite approved of a life that seemed to him slightly parasitical, but it was healthy and quiet and, above everything, david had found it for himself, and initiative was so rare in the younger man that ben could not bear to crush it with disapproval. increasingly, during the two years he was in france, ben was displeased by david's letters. the cords were described as kindly, well-educated people, fond one of another, considerate of the tutor, with old-fashioned traditions of american liberties. ben asked himself if he would have been better pleased if david's employers had been cruel, vulgar, and blatant, and found the answer was in the affirmative. it would, he thought, have been a good deal safer for david's integrity if he had not been so comfortable. for two summers ben had made no protest, but the third summer, when the war was over and the allowance again possible, he urged david not to go back to newport. david flatly refused to yield. he said he saw no reason why he should go on taking ben's money when this simple way of earning a full living was open to him. wasn't ben's whole theory that everyone should be self-supporting? why not be consistent? ignorant people might imagine that two affectionate brothers could not quarrel over an issue purely affectionate. but the moretons did quarrel--more bitterly than ever before, and that is saying a great deal. with the extraordinary tenacity of memory that develops under strong emotion, they each contrived to recall and to mention everything which the other had done that was wrong, ridiculous, or humiliating since their earliest days. they parted with the impression on david's part that ben thought him a self-indulgent grafter, and on ben's side that david thought him a bully solely interested in imposing his will on those unfortunate enough to be dependent on him. it was after half past four when, having walked up five flights of stairs, he let himself into his modest flat on the top floor of an old-fashioned brownstone house. as he opened the door, he called, "nora!" no beautiful partner of a free-love affair appeared, but an elderly woman in spectacles who had once been professor moreton's cook, and now, doing all the housework for ben, contrived to make him so comfortable that the editor of a more radical paper than his own had described the flat as "a bourgeois interior." "nora," said ben, "put something in my bag for the night--i'm going to newport in a few minutes." he had expected a flood of questions, for nora was no looker-on at life, and he was surprised by her merely observing that she was glad he was getting away from the heat. the truth was that she knew far more about david than he did. she had consistently coddled david since his infancy, and he told her a great deal. besides, she took care of his things when he was at ben's. she had known of sachets, photographs, and an engraved locket that he wore on his watch-chain. she was no radical. she had seen disaster come upon the old professor and attributed it, not to the narrowness of the trustees, but to the folly of the professor. she disapproved of most of ben's friends, and would have despised his paper if she ever read it. the only good thing about it in her estimation was, he seemed to be able "to knock a living out of it"--a process which nora regarded with a sort of gay casualness. she did not blame him for making so little money and thus keeping her housekeeping cramped, but she never in her own mind doubted that it would be far better if he had more. the idea that david was about to marry money seemed to her simply the reward of virtue--her own virtue in bringing david up so well. she knew that mr. cord opposed the marriage, but she supposed that ben would arrange all that. she had great confidence in ben. still he was very young, very young, so she gave him a word of advice as she put his bag into his hand. "don't take any nonsense. remember you're every bit as good as they. only don't, for goodness' sake, mr. ben, talk any of your ideas to them. a rich man like mr. cord wouldn't like that." ben laughed. "how would you like me to bring you home a lovely heiress of my own?" he said. she took a thread off his coat. "only don't let her come interfering in my kitchen," she said, and hurried him away. he had a good deal of courage, but he had not enough to tell nora he was going to newport to stop her darling's marriage. the newport boat gets to newport about two o'clock in the morning, and experienced travelers, if any such choose this method of approach, go on to fall river and take a train back to newport, arriving in time for a comfortable nine-o'clock breakfast. but ben was not experienced, and he supposed that when you took a boat for newport and reached newport the thing to do was to get off the boat. it had been a wonderful night on the sound, and ben had not been to bed, partly because, applying late on a friday evening, he had not been able to get a room, but partly because the moon and the southerly breeze and the silver shores of long island and the red and white lighthouses had been too beautiful to leave. besides, he had wanted to think out carefully what he was going to say to his brother. to separate a man from the woman he loves, however unwisely, has some of the same disadvantages as offering a bribe--one respects the other person less in proportion as one succeeds. what, ben said to himself, could he urge against a girl he did not know? yet, on the other hand, if he had known her, his objections would have seemed regrettably personal. either way, it was difficult to know what to say. he wondered what cord had said, and smiled to think that here was one object for which he and cord were co-operating--only cord would never believe it. that was one trouble with capitalists--they always thought themselves so damned desirable. and ben did not stop to inquire how it was that capitalists had gained this impression. on the pier he looked about for david, but there was no david. of course the boy had overslept, or hadn't received his telegram--ben said this to himself, but somehow the vision of david comfortably asleep in a luxurious bed in the cords's house irritated him. his meditations were broken in upon by a negro boy with an open hack, who volunteered to "take him up for fifty cents." it sounded reasonable. ben got in and they moved slowly down the narrow pier, the horses' hoofs clumping lazily on the wooden pavement. turning past the alley of thames street, still alight at three o'clock in the morning, ben stopped at the suggestion of his driver and left his bag at a hotel, and then they went on up the hill, past the tower of the skeleton in armor, past old houses with tall, pillared porticoes, reminiscent of the days when the south patronized newport, and turned into bellevue avenue--past shops with names familiar to fifth avenue, past a villa with bright-eyed owls on the gateposts, past many large, silent houses and walled gardens. the air was very cool, and now and then the scent of some flowering bush trailed like a visible cloud across their path. then suddenly the whole avenue was full of little red lights, like the garden in "faust" when mephistopheles performs his magic on it. here and there the huge headlights of a car shone on the roadway, magnifying every rut in the asphalt, and bringing out strange, vivid shades in the grass and the hydrangea bushes. they were passing a frowning palace set on a piece of velvet turf as small as a pocket handkerchief--so small that the lighted windows were plainly visible from the road. "stop," said ben to his driver. he had suddenly realized how long it must be before he could rouse the cord household. he paid his driver, got out, and made his way up the driveway toward the house. groups of chauffeurs were standing about their cars--vigorous, smartly dressed men, young for the most part. ben wondered if it were possible that they were content with the present arrangement, and whether their wives and children were not stifling in the city at that very moment. he caught a sentence here and there as he passed. "and, believe me," one was saying, "as soon as he got into the box he did not do a thing to that fellar from tiverton--" ben's footsteps lagged a little. he was a baseball fan. he almost forgave the chauffeurs for being content. they seemed to him human beings, after all. he approached the house, and, walking past a narrow, unroofed piazza, he found himself opposite a long window. he looked straight into the ballroom. the ball was a fancy ball--the best of the season. it was called a balkan ball, which gave all the guests the opportunity of dressing pretty much as they pleased. the wood of the long paneled room was golden, and softened the light from the crystal appliques along the wall, and set off the bright dresses of the dancers as a gold bowl sets off the colors of fruit. every now and then people stepped out on the piazza, and as they did they became audible to ben for a few seconds. first, two middle-aged men, solid, bronzed, laughing rather wickedly together. ben drew back, afraid of what he might overhear, but it turned out to be no very guilty secret. "my dear fellow," one was saying, "i gave him a stroke a hole, and he's twenty years younger than i am--well, fifteen anyhow. the trouble with these young men is that they lack--" ben never heard what it was that young men lacked. next came a boy and a girl, talking eagerly, the girl's hand gesticulating at her round, red lips. ben had no scruples in overhearing them--theirs appeared to be the universal secret. but here again he was wrong. she was saying: "round and round--not up and down. my dentist says that if you always brush them round and round--" then two young men--boys, with cigarettes drooping from their lips; they were saying, "i haven't pitched a game since before the war, but he said to go in and get that tiverton fellow, and so--" ben saw that he was in the presence of the hero of the late game. he forgave him, too. as a matter of fact, he had never given the fashionable world enough attention to hate it. he knew that leo klein derived a very revivifying antagonism from reading about it, and often bought himself an entrance to the opera partly because he loved music, but partly, ben always thought, because he liked to look up at the boxes and hate the occupants for their jewels and inattention. but ben watched the spectacle with as much detachment as he would have watched a spring dance among the indians. and then suddenly his detachment melted away, for a lovely girl came through the window--lovely with that particular and specific kind of loveliness which ben thought of when he used the word--_his_ kind. he used to wonder afterward how he had known it at that first glimpse, for, in the dim light of the piazza, he could not see some of her greatest beauties--the whiteness of her skin, white as milk where her close, fine, brown hair began, or the blue of the eyes set at an angle which might have seemed oriental in eyes less enchanting turquoise in color. but he could see her slenderness and grace. she was dressed in clinging blues and greens and she wore a silver turban. she leaned her hands on the railings--she turned them out along the railings; they were slender and full of character--not soft. ben looked at the one nearest him. with hardly more than a turn of his head he could have kissed it. the idea appealed to him strongly; he played with it, just as when he was a child in a college town he had played with the idea of getting up in church and walking about on the backs of the pews. this would be pleasanter, and the subsequent getaway even easier. he glanced at the dark lawn behind him; there appeared to be no obstacle to escape. perhaps, under the spell of her attraction for him, and the knowledge that he would never see her again, he might actually have done it, but she broke the trance by speaking to a tall, stolid young man who was with her. "no, eddie," she said, as if answering something he had said some time ago, "i really was at home, at just the time i said, only this new butler does hate you so--" "you might speak to him about it--you might even get rid of him," replied the young man, in the tone of one deeply imposed upon. "good butlers are so rare nowadays." "and are devoted friends so easy to find?" "no, but a good deal easier than butlers, eddie dear." the young man gave an exclamation of annoyance. "let us find some place out of the way. i want to speak to you seriously--" he began, and they moved out of earshot--presumably to a secluded spot of eddie's choosing. when they had gone ben felt distinctly lonely, and, what was more absurd, slighted, as if eddie had deliberately taken the girl away from him--out of reach. how silly, he thought, for eddie to want to talk to her, when it was so clear the fellow did not know how to talk to her. how silly to say, in the sulky tone, "are devoted friends so easy to find?" of course they were--for a girl like that--devoted friends, passionate lovers, and sentimental idiots undoubtedly blocked her path. it might have been some comfort to him to know that in the remote spot of his own choosing, a stone bench under a purple beech, eddie was simply going from bad to worse. "dear crystal," he began, with that irritating reasonableness of manner which implies that the speaker is going to be reasonable for two, "i've been thinking over the situation. i know that you don't love me, but then i don't believe you will ever be deeply in love with any one. i don't think you are that kind of woman." "oh, eddie, how dreadful!" "i don't see that at all. just as well, perhaps. you don't want to get yourself into such a position as poor eugenia." "i do, i would. i'd give anything to be as much in love as eugenia." "what? with a fellow like that! a complete outsider." "outside of what? the human race?" "well, no," said eddie, as if he were yielding a good deal, "but outside of your traditions and your set." "my set! good for him to be outside of it, i say. what have they ever done to make anyone want to be inside of it? why, david is an educated gentleman. to hear him quote horace--" "horace who?" "really, eddie." "oh, i see. you mean the poet. that's nothing to laugh at, crystal. it was a natural mistake. i thought, of course, you meant some of those anarchists who want to upset the world." crystal looked at him more honestly and seriously than she had yet done. "well, don't you think there _is_ something wrong with the present arrangement of things, eddie?" "no, i don't, and i hate to hear you talk like a socialist." "i am a socialist." "you're nothing of the kind." "i suppose i know what i am." "not at all--not at all." "i certainly think the rich are too rich, while the poor are so horridly poor." "_you'd_ get on well without your maid and your car and your father's charge accounts at all the shops, wouldn't you?" though agreeable to talk seriously if you agree, it is correspondingly dangerous if you disagree. crystal stood up, trembling with an emotion which eddie, although he was rather angry himself, considered utterly unaccountable. "yes," she said, almost proudly, "i _am_ luxurious, i _am_ dependent on those things. but whose fault is that? it's the way i was brought up--it's all wrong. but, even though i am dependent on them, i believe i could exist without them. i'd feel like killing myself if i didn't think so. sometimes i want to go away and find out if i couldn't live and be myself without all this background of luxury. but at the worst--i'm just one girl--suppose i were weak and couldn't get on without them? that wouldn't prove that they are right. i'm not so blinded that i can't see that a system by which i profit may still be absolutely wrong. but you always seem to think, eddie, that it's part of the constitution of the united states that you should have everything you've always had." eddie rose, too, with the manner of a man who has allowed things to go far enough. "look here, my dear girl," he said, "i am a man and i'm older than you, and have seen more of the world. i know you don't mean any harm, but i must tell you that this is very wicked, dangerous talk." "dangerous, perhaps, eddie, but i can't see how it can be wicked to want to give up your special privileges." "where in the world do you pick up ideas like this?" "i inherited them from an english ancestor of mine, who gave up all that he had when he enlisted in washington's army." "you got that stuff," said eddie, brushing this aside, "from david moreton, and that infernal seditious paper his brother edits--and that white-livered book which i haven't read against war. i'd like to put them all in jail." "it's a pity," said crystal, "that your side can't think of a better argument than putting everyone who disagrees with you in jail." with this she turned and left him, and, entering the ballroom, flung herself into the arms of the first partner she met. it was a timid boy, who, startled by the eagerness with which she chose him, with her bright eyes and quickly drawn breath, was just coming to the conclusion that a lovely, rich, and admired lady, had fallen passionately in love with him, when with equal suddenness she stepped out of his arms and was presently driving her small, open car down the avenue. under the purple beech eddie, left alone, sank back on the stone bench and considered, somewhat as the persecutors of socrates may have done, suitable punishments for those who put vile, revolutionary ideas into the heads of young and lovely women. in the meantime ben, who had enjoyed the party more than most of the invited guests, and far more than the disconsolate eddie, had left his vantage point at the window. he had suddenly become aware of a strange light stealing under the trees, and, looking up, he saw with surprise that the stars were growing small and the heavens turning steel-color--in fact, that it was dawn. convinced that sunrise was a finer sight than the end of the grandest ball that ever was given, he made his way down a shabby back lane, and before long came out on the edge of the cliffs, with the whole panorama of sunrise over the atlantic spread out before him. he stood there a moment, somebody's close, well-kept lawn under his feet, and a pale-pink sea sucking in and out on the rocks a hundred feet below. the same hot, red sun was coming up; there wasn't a steady breeze, but cool salt puffs came to him now and then with a breaking wave. it was going to be a hot day, and ben liked swimming better than most things in life. he hesitated. if he had turned to the left, he would have come presently to a public beach and would have had his swim conventionally and in due time. but some impulse told him to turn to the right, and he began to wander westward along the edge of the cliffs--always on his left hand, space and the sea, and on his right, lawns or gardens or parapets crowned by cactus plants in urns, and behind these a great variety of houses--french chateaux and marble palaces and nice little white cottages, and, finally, a frowning gothic castle. all alike seemed asleep, with empty piazzas and closed shutters, and the only sign of life he saw in any of them was one pale housemaid shaking a duster out of a window in an upper gable. at last he came to a break in the cliffs--a cove, with a beach in it, a group of buildings obviously bathing-houses. the sacredness of this pavilion did not occur to ben; indeed, there was nothing to suggest it. he entered it light-heartedly and was discouraged to find the door of every cabin securely locked. the place was utterly deserted. but ben was persistent, and presently he detected a bit of a garment hanging over a door, and, pulling it out, he found himself in possession of a man's bathing suit. a little farther on he discovered a telephone room unlocked. here he undressed and a minute later was swimming straight out to sea. the level rays of the sun were doing to the water just what the headlights of the motors had done to the road; they were enlarging every ripple and edging the deep purple-blue with yellow light. except for a fishing dory chunking out to its day's work, ben had the sea and land to himself. he felt as if they were all his own, and, for a socialist, was guilty of the sin of pride of possession. he was enjoying himself so much that it was a long time before he turned to swim back. he was swimming with his head under water most of the time so that he did not at once notice that a raft he had passed on his way out was now occupied. as soon as he did see it his head came up. it was a female figure, and even from a distance he could see that she was unconscious of his presence and felt quite as sure of having the world to herself as he was. she was sitting on the edge of the raft, kicking a pair of the prettiest legs in the world in and out of the water. they were clad in the thinnest of blue-silk stockings, the same in which a few minutes before she had been dancing, but not being able to find any others in her bathhouse, she had just kept them on, recklessly ignoring the inevitable problem of what she should wear home. she was leaning back on her straightened arms, with her head back, looking up into the sky and softly whistling to herself. ben saw in a second that she was the girl of the silver turban. he stole nearer and nearer, cutting silently through the water, and then, when he had looked his fill, he put his head down again, splashed a little, and did not look up until his hand was on the raft, when he allowed an expression of calm surprise to appear on his face. "i beg your pardon," he said. "is this a private raft?" the young lady, who had had plenty of time since the splash to arrange her countenance, looked at him with a blank coldness, and then suddenly smiled. "i thought it was a private world," she replied. "it's certainly a very agreeable one," said ben, climbing on the raft. "and what i like particularly about it is the fact that no one is alive but you and me. newport appears to be a city of the dead." "it always was," she answered, contemptuously. "oh, come. not an hour ago you were dancing in blue and green and a silver turban at a party over there," and he waved his hand in the direction from which he had come. "did you think it was a good ball?" "i enjoyed it," he answered, truthfully. her face fell. "how very disappointing," she said. "i didn't see you there." "disappointing that you did not see me there?" "no," she replied, and then, less positively; "no; i meant it was disappointing that you were the kind of man who went to parties--and enjoyed them." "it would be silly to go if you didn't enjoy them," he returned, lightly. she turned to him very seriously. "you're right," she said; "it is silly--very silly, and it's just what i do. i consider parties like that the lowest, emptiest form of human entertainment. they're dull; they're expensive; they keep you from doing intelligent things, like studying; they keep you from doing simple, healthy things, like sleeping and exercising; they make you artificial; they make you civil to people you despise--they make women, at least, for we must have partners--" "but why do you go, then?" she was silent, and they looked straight and long at each other. then she said, gravely: "the answer's very humiliating. i go because i haven't anything else to do." he did not reassure her. "yes, that's bad," he said, after a second. "but of course you could not expect to have anything else to do when all your time is taken up like that. 'when the half gods go,' you know, 'the gods arrive.'" the quotation was not new to crystal; in fact, she had quoted it to eddie not very long before, apropos of another girl to whom he had shown a mild attention, but it seemed to her as if she took in for the first time its real meaning. whether it was the dawn, exhaustion, a stimulating personality, love, or mere accident, the words now came to her with all the beauty and truth of a religious conviction. they seemed to shake her and make her over. she felt as if she could never be sufficiently grateful to the person who had thus made all life fresh and new to her. "ah," she said, very gently, "that's it. i see. you won't believe me, but i assure you from now on i mean to be entirely different." "please, not too different." "oh yes, yes, as different as possible. i've been so unhappy, and unhappy about nothing definite--that's the worst kind, only that i have not liked the life i was leading." she glanced at him appealingly. she had tried to tell this simple story to so many people, for she had many friends, and yet no one had ever really understood. some had told her she was spoiled, more, that there was no use in trying to change her life because she would soon marry; most of them had advised her to marry and find out what real trouble was. now, as she spoke she saw that this strange young man from the sea not only understood her discontent, but thought it natural, almost commonplace. she poured it all out. "only the worst thing," she ended, "is that i'm not really any good. there isn't anything else that i know how to do." "i doubt that," he answered, and she began to doubt it, too. "i'm sure there are lots of things you could do if you put your mind on it. did you ever try to write?" now, indeed, she felt sure that he was gifted with powers more than mortal--to have guessed this secret which no one else had ever suspected. she colored deeply. "why, yes," she answered, "i think i can--a little, only i've so little education." "so little education?" "yes, i belong to the cultivated classes--three languages and nothing solid." "well, you know, three languages seem pretty solid to me," said ben, who had wrestled very unsuccessfully with the french tongue. "you speak three languages, and let me see, you know a good deal about painting and poetry and jade and chinese porcelains?" she shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "oh, of course everyone knows about those things, but what good are they?" they were a good deal of good to ben. he pressed on toward his final goal. "what is your attitude toward fairies?" he asked, and miss cox would have heard in his tone a faint memory of his voice when he engaged a new office-boy. her attitude toward fairies was perfectly satisfactory, and he showed so much appreciation that she went on and told him her great secret in full. she had once had something published and been paid money for it--fifteen dollars--and probably never in her life had she spoken of any sum with so much respect. it had been, well, a sort of a review of a new illustrated edition of hans andersen's tales, treating them as if they were modern stories, commenting on them from the point of view of morals and probability--making fun of people who couldn't give themselves up to the charm of a story unless it tallied with their own horrid little experiences of life. she told it, she said, very badly, but perhaps he could get the idea. he got it perfectly. "good," he said. "i'll give you a job. i'm a newspaper editor." "oh," she exclaimed, "you're not mr. munsey, are you, or mr. reid, or mr. ochs?" her knowledge of newspaper owners seemed to come to a sudden end. "no," he answered, smiling, "nor even mr. hearst. i did not say i owned a newspaper. i edit it. i need some one just like you for my book page, only you'd have to come to new york and work hard, and there wouldn't be very much salary. can you work?" "anyone can." "well, will you?" "indeed i will." (it was a vow.) "and now i must go. i have to drive myself home in an open car, and the tourists do stare at one so--in fancy dress." "yes, but when am i to see you again? i leave newport to-night." "telephone me--2079--and we'll arrange to do something this afternoon." "and whom shall i ask for?" "telephone at two-fifteen to the minute, and i'll answer the telephone myself." she evidently rather enjoyed the mystery of their not knowing each other's names. but a black idea occurred to ben. she had slid off the raft and swum a few strokes before he shouted to her: "look here. your name isn't eugenia, is it?" she waved her hand. "no, i'm crystal," she called back. "good-by, crystal." this time she did not wave, but, swimming on her side with long, easy strokes, she gave him a sweet, reassuring look. after she had gone he lay down on the raft with his face buried in his arms. a few moments before he had thought he could never see enough of the sunrise and the sea, but now he wanted to shut it out in favor of a much finer spectacle within him. so this was love. strange that no one had ever been able to prepare you for it. strange that poets had never been able to give you a hint of its stupendous inevitability. he wondered if all miracles were like that--so simple--so-suddenly he heard her voice near him. he lifted his head from his arms. she was there in the water below him, clinging to the raft with one hand. "i just came back to tell you something," she said. "i thought you ought to know it before things went any farther." he thought, "good god! she's in love with some one else!" and the horror of the idea made him look at her severely. "i'm not perhaps just as i seem--i mean my views are rather liberal. in fact"--she brought it out with an effort--"i'm almost a socialist." the relief was so great that ben couldn't speak. he bent his head and kissed the hand that had tempted him a few hours before. she did not resent his action. her special technique in such matters was to pretend that such little incidents hardly came into the realm of her consciousness. she said, "at two-fifteen, then," and swam away for good. later in the day a gentleman who owned both a bathing house and a bathing suit on bailey's beach was showing the latter possession to a group of friends. "no one can tell me that newport isn't damp," he said. "i haven't been in bathing for twenty-four hours, and yet i can actually wring the water out of my suit." chapter ii that same morning, about ten o'clock, mr. william cord was shut up in the study of his house--shut up, that is, as far as entrance from the rest of the house was concerned, but very open as to windows looking out across the grass to the sea. it was a small room, and the leather chairs which made up most of its furnishings were worn, and the bookshelves were filled with volumes like railroad reports and _poor's manual_, but somehow the total effect of the room was so agreeable that the family used it more than mr. cord liked. he was an impressive figure, tall, erect, and with that suggestion of unbroken health which had had something to do with his success in life. his hair must have been of a sandy brown, for it had turned, not gray nor white, but that queer no-color that sandy hair does turn, melting into all pale surroundings. his long face was not vividly colored, either, but was stamped with the immobility of expression that sensitive people in contact with violent life almost always acquire. the result was that there seemed to be something dead about his face until you saw his eyes, dark and fierce, as if all the fire and energy of the man were concentrated in them. he was dressed in gray golfing-clothes that smelled more of peat than peat does, and, though officially supposed to be wrestling with the more secret part of correspondence which even his own secretary was not allowed to see, he was actually wiggling a new golf-club over the rug, and toying with the romantic idea that it would enable him to drive farther than he had ever driven before. there was a knock at the door. mr. cord leaned the driver in a corner, clasped his hands behind his back, straddled his legs a trifle, so that they seemed to grow out of the rug as the eternal oak grows out of the sod, and said, "come in," in the tone of a man who, considering the importance of his occupation, bears interruption exceedingly well. tomes, the butler, entered. "mr. verriman, sir, to see you." "to see _me_?" "yes, sir." cord just nodded at this, which evidently meant that the visitor was to be admitted, for tomes never made a mistake and verriman presently entered. mr. cord had seen eddie verriman the night before at the ball, and had thought him a very fine figure of a man, so now, putting two and two together, he said to himself, "is he here to ask my blessing?" aloud he said nothing, but just nodded; it was a belief that had translated itself into a habit--to let the other man explain first. "i know i'm interrupting you, mr. cord," verriman began. mr. cord made a lateral gesture with his hand, as if all he had were at the disposal of his friends, even his most precious asset--time. "it's something very important," eddie went on. "i'm worried. i haven't slept. mr. cord, have you checked up crystal's economic beliefs lately?" "lately?" said mr. cord. "i don't know that i ever have. have a cigar?" eddie waved the cigar aside as if his host had offered it to him in the midst of a funeral service. "well, i have," he said, as if some one had to do a parent's duty, "and i've been very much distressed--shocked. i had a long talk with her about it at the dance last night." "about economics?" "yes, sir." "why, eddie, don't i seem to remember your telling me you were in love with crystal?" "yes, mr. cord, i am." "then what do you want to talk economics for? or is it done like that nowadays?" "i don't want to," answered eddie, almost in a wail. "_she_ does. she gets me going and then we quarrel because she has terrible opinions. she talks wildly. i have to point out to her that she's wrong. and last night she told me"--eddie glanced about to be sure he was not overheard--"she told me that she was a socialist." mr. cord had just lit the very cigar which eddie had waved away, and he took the first critical puffs at it before he answered: "did you ask her what that was?" "no--no--i didn't." "missed a trick there, eddie." it was impossible to accuse so masklike a magnate of frivolity, but eddie was often dissatisfied with mr. cord's reactions to the serious problems of life. "but don't you think it's terrible," he went on, eagerly, "for crystal to be a socialist? in this age of the world--civilization trembling on the brink--chaos"--eddie made a gesture toward the perfectly ordered shelves containing _poor's manual_--"staring us in the face? you say that the half-baked opinions of an immature girl make no difference?" "no, i shouldn't say that--at least not to crystal," murmured her father. "but the mere fact that she picks up such ideas proves that they are in the air about us and that terrifies me--terrifies me," ended eddie, his voice rising as he saw that his host intended to remain perfectly calm. "which terrifies you, eddie--crystal or the revolution?" "the general discontent--the fact that civilization is tr--" "oh yes, that," said mr. cord, hastily. "well, i wouldn't allow that to terrify me, eddie. i should have more sympathy with you if it had been crystal. crystal is a good deal of a proposition, i grant you. the revolution seems to me simpler. if a majority of our fellow countrymen really want it, they are going to get it in spite of you and me; and if they don't want it, they won't have it no matter how crystal talks to you at parties. so cheer up, eddie, and have a cigar." "they can, they will," said eddie, not even troubling to wave away the cigar this time. "you don't appreciate what an organized minority of foreign agitators can do in this country. why, they can--" "well, if a minority of foreigners can put over a revolution against the will of the american people, we ought to shut up shop, eddie." "you're not afraid?" "no." "you mean you wouldn't fight it?" "you bet your life i'd fight it," said mr. cord, gayly, "but i fight lots of things without being afraid of them. what's the use of being afraid? here i am sixty-five, conservative and trained to only one game, and yet i feel as if i could manage to make my own way even under soviet rule. anyway, i don't want to die or emigrate just because my country changes its form of government. only it would have to be the wish of the majority, and i don't believe it ever will be. in the meantime there is just one thing i _am_ afraid of--and that's the thing that you and most of my friends want to do first--suppressing free speech; if you suppress it, we won't know who wants what. then you really do get an explosion." eddie had got mr. cord to be serious now, with the unfortunate result that the older man was more shocking than ever. "free speech doesn't mean treason and sedition," eddie began. "it means the other man's opinion." there was a pause during which eddie became more perturbed and mr. cord settled back to his habitual calm. "wouldn't you suppress _anything_?" verriman asked at length, willing to know the worst. "not even such a vile sheet as _liberty_?" "do you ever see it, eddie?" "read a rotten paper like that? certainly not. do you?" "i subscribe to it." and, bending down, mr. cord unlocked a drawer in his desk and produced the issue of the preceding day. "i notice you keep it locked up," said eddie, and felt that he had scored. "i have to," replied mr. cord, "or else crystal gets hold of it and cuts it all up into extracts--she must have sent you some--before i get a chance to read it. besides, it shocks tomes. you ought to talk to tomes, eddie. he thinks about as you do--" at this moment the door opened and tomes himself entered. "mr. moreton would like to see you, sir." even cord's calm was a little disturbed by this unexpected news. "mr. moreton!" he exclaimed. "not--not--not--not?" "no, sir," said tomes, always in possession of accurate information. "his brother, i believe." "show him in here," said cord, and added to eddie, as tomes left the room: "well, here he is--the editor himself, eddie. you can say it all to him." "i don't want to see such fellows," verriman began. "stay and protect me, eddie. he may have a bomb in his pocket." "you don't really believe that he's come to--" "no, eddie, i don't. i think he's come like young lochinvar--to dance a little late at the wedding. to try to persuade me to accept that lazy, good-looking brother of his as a son-in-law. he'll have quite a job over that." then, as the door opened, mr. cord's eyes concentrated on it and his manner became a shade sharper. "ah, mr. moreton, good morning. mr. verriman--mr. moreton." ben was a good-looking young man, but it was his expression--at once illuminated and determined--that made him unusual. and the effect of his night and morning had been to intensify this, so that now, as he stood a moment in the doorway, he was a very attractive and compelling figure. "i came to see my brother, mr. cord," he said, simply, "but i hear he's not here any more. if i could speak to you alone for a few minutes--" he glanced at eddie, whom he instantly recognized as the man who had not known how to talk to the woman in the world best worth talking to. "oh, you may speak before mr. verriman," said cord. "he knows the situation--knows your brother--knows my children--knows about you. in fact, we were just speaking about your paper when you came in. however, i must tell you that mr. verriman doesn't approve of _liberty_. at least, i believe i understood you right, eddie." and mr. cord, having thus assured himself a few minutes to regain his poise, leaned back comfortably in his chair. "what's wrong with the paper, mr. verriman?" said ben, pleasantly. eddie did not love the adventure of mental combat, but he was no coward. "it seems to me," he said, "that it preaches such radical changes in our government that it is seditious. to be frank, mr. moreton, i think the government ought to suppress it." "but we don't break the law. the government can't suppress us." "then the laws ought to be changed so that it can." "that's all we advocate, mr. verriman, the changing of the law. it isn't any more seditious for me to say it than for you to, is it?" of course in eddie's opinion it was--much, much more seditious. only somehow it was a difficult point to make clear, if a person was so wrongheaded he couldn't see it for himself. the point was that he, eddie, was right in wanting the laws changed and moreton was wrong. anyone, it seemed to eddie, would agree to that, unless he happened to agree with moreton beforehand, and those were just the people who ought to be deported, imprisoned, or even perhaps in rare instances, as examples, strung up to lamp-posts. only each time he tried to put these very natural opinions in words, they kept sounding wrong and tyrannical and narrow--qualities which eddie knew he was entirely without. in order to counteract this effect, he tried at first to speak very temperately and calmly, but, unhappily, this only had the effect of making him sound patronizing to ben's ears. in short, it was hardly to be expected that the discussion would be amicable, and it was not. each man began to be angry in his own way. eddie shouted a little, and ben expressed himself with turns of phrase quite needlessly insulting. ben found verriman's assumption that the profits of capital were bound up with patriotism, family life, and the christian religion almost as irritating as verriman found ben's assumption that the government of labor as a class would be entirely without the faults that have always marked every form of class government. "and suppose you got socialism," said eddie, at last, "suppose you did divide everything up equally, don't you suppose that in a few years the clever, strong, industrious men would have it all in their own hands?" "very likely," said ben, "but that would be quite a change from the present arrangement, wouldn't it?" mr. cord had a narrow escape from laughing out loud, which would have cost him the friendship of the man with whom on the whole he really agreed. he thought it was time to interfere. "this is very interesting, mr. moreton," he said, "but i fancy it wasn't about the general radical propaganda that you came to see me." "no," said ben, turning slowly. he felt as a dog feels who is dragged out of the fight just as it begins to get exciting. "no, i came to see you about this unfortunate engagement of my brother's." "unfortunate?" asked mr. cord, without criticism. "i should consider it so, and i understand you do, too." cord did not move an eyelash; this was an absolutely new form of attack. it had certainly never crossed his mind that any objection could come from the moreton family. "you consider it unfortunate?" said eddie, as if it would be mere insolence on ben's part to object to his brother's marrying anyone. "will you give me your reasons for objecting?" said cord. ben smiled. "you ought to understand them," he said, "for i imagine they're pretty much the same as your own. i mean they are both founded on class consciousness. i feel that it will be destructive to the things i value most in david to be dependent on, or associated with, the capitalistic group. just as you feel it will be destructive to your daughter to be married to a tutor--a fellow with radical views and a seditious brother--" "one moment, one moment," said cord; "you've got this all wrong so far as i'm concerned. i do most emphatically disagree with the radical propaganda. i think the radical is usually just a man who hasn't got something he wants." "and the conservative is a man who wants to keep something he's got," said ben, less hostilely than he had spoken to eddie. "exactly, exactly," said cord. "in ideality there isn't much to choose between them, but, generally speaking, i have more respect for the man who has succeeded in getting something to preserve than for the man who hasn't got anything to lose." "if their opportunities were equal." "i say in general. there is not much to choose between the two types; but there is in my opinion a shade in favor of the conservative on the score of efficiency, and i am old-fashioned perhaps, but i like efficiency. if it came to a fight, i should fight on the conservative side. but this is all beside the point. my objections to your brother, mr. moreton, are not objections to his group or class. they are personal to him. damned personal." "you don't like david?" "why, he's an attractive young fellow, but, if you'll forgive my saying so, mr. moreton, i don't think he's any good. he's weak, he's idle, he entirely lacks that aggressive will that--whether we have your revolution or not--is the only bulwark a woman has in this world. why, mr. moreton, you are evidently a very much more advanced and dangerous radical than your brother, but i should not have half the objection to you that i have to him. there is only one thing that makes a difference in this world--character. your brother hasn't got it." for an instant the perfect accuracy of cord's statements about david left ben silent. then he pulled himself together and said, with a firmness he did not wholly feel: "you hardly do david justice. he may not have great force, but he has talent, great sweetness, no vices--" "oh, quite, quite, quite, quite," said cord, with a gesture of his long hand that should somehow have recalled to ben the motion of a hand he had recently kissed. "however," said ben, "there is no use in arguing about our differences. the point is we are agreed that this marriage ought not to be. let us co-operate on that. where could i find david? i believe if i could see him i'd have some effect on him." "you mean you could talk him out of marrying the girl he loves?" "i might make him see the folly of it." "well, i haven't said anything as bad about your brother as that, mr. moreton. but you do him injustice. you couldn't talk him out of it, and if you could, she'd talk him right back into it again. but there is one thing to consider. i understand you make him an allowance. how about stopping that?" "i wouldn't consider that for a moment," said ben, with more temper than he had so far shown. "i don't make him that allowance so that i can force him to do what i think best. i give it to him because he needs it. i don't believe in force, mr. cord." "oh yes, you do, mr. moreton." "what do you mean?" "you were proposing to use a much more pernicious kind of force when you proposed talking the boy out of his first love. however, to be candid with you, i must tell you that the issue is dead. they ran off yesterday and were married in boston." there was a short silence and then ben moved toward the door. "won't you stay to lunch?" said mr. cord, politely. "thank you, no," said ben. he wanted to be alone. like all dominating people who don't get their own way in an altruistic issue, his feelings were deeply wounded. he took his hat from the disapproving tomes, and went out to the sea to think. he supposed he was going to think about david's future and the terrible blow his paper had just received. as the door closed behind him, eddie turned to mr. cord with a world of reproach in his eyes. "well," he said, "i must say, sir, i think you were unnecessarily gentle with that fellow." "seemed to me a fine young fellow," said mr. cord. "asking him to lunch," said eddie. "i did that for crystal," replied cord, getting up and slapping his pockets--a gesture which in some subconscious way he hoped would make eddie go home. "she's always so keen to meet new people. if she heard that the editor of _liberty_ had been here while she was asleep and that i had not tried to keep him for her to see--whew!--she would make a scene." "but she oughtn't to see people like that," protested eddie, as if he were trying to talk sense in a madhouse. "that was what i was just explaining to you, mr. cord, when--" "so you were, eddie, so you were," said mr. cord. "stay to lunch and tell crystal. or, rather," he added, hastily glancing at the clock, "come back to lunch in an hour. i have to go now and see--" mr. cord hesitated for the fraction of a second--"the gardener. if you don't see gardeners now and then and let them scold you about the weather and the lord's arrangement of the seasons, they go mad and beat their wives. see you later, eddie," and mr. cord stepped out through the french window. it was only great crises like these that led him to offer himself up to the attacks of his employees. a severe elderly man with a long, flat upper lip and side whiskers immediately sprang apparently from the earth and approached him. he had exactly the manner of resolute gloom that a small boy has when something has gone wrong at school and he wants his mother to drag it out of him. "good morning, sir," he said. "morning, mckellar," said cord, gayly. "everything's all right, i suppose." mckellar shook his head. everything was about as far from all right as it well could be. the cook was a violent maniac who required peas to be picked so young that they weren't worth the picking. tomes and his footman were a band of malicious pirates who took pleasure in cutting for the table the very buds which mckellar was cherishing for the horticultural show. and as for the season--mckellar could not remember such a devastatingly dry august since he was a lad at home. "why, mckellar, we had rain two days ago." "you wouldn't call that little mist rain, sir." "and last week a perfect downpour." "ah, that's the kind doesn't sink into the soil." looking up critically at the heavens, mckellar expressed his settled conviction that in two weeks' time hardly a blade or a shrub would be alive in the island at newport. "well, that will save us all a lot of trouble, mckellar," said mr. cord, and presently left his gloomy gardener. he had attained his object. when he went back into the house, eddie had gone, and he could go back to his new driver in peace. he was not interrupted until ten minutes past one, when crystal came into the room, her eyes shining with exactly the same color that, beyond the lawn, the sea was displaying. unlike eddie, she looked better than in her fancy dress. she had on flat tennis shoes, a cotton blouse and a duck skirt, and a russet-colored sweater. miss cox would have rejected every item of her costume except the row of pearls, which just showed at her throat. she kissed her father rapidly, and said: "good morning, dear. are you ready for breakfast--lunch i mean?" she was a little bit flustered for the reason that it seemed to her as if any one would be able to see that she was an entirely different crystal from the one of the evening before, and she was not quite sure what she was going to answer when her father said, as she felt certain he must say at any moment, "my dear child, what has come over you?" he did not say this, however. he held out his golf-club and said, "got a new driver." "yes, yes, dear, very nice," said crystal. "but i want to have lunch punctually, to-day." mr. cord sighed. crystal wasn't always very sympathetic. "i'm ready," he said, "only eddie's coming." "_eddie!_" exclaimed crystal, drawing her shoulders up, as if at the sight of a cobra in her path. "why is eddie coming to lunch? i did not ask him." "no, my dear, i took that liberty," replied her father. "it seemed the only way of getting rid of him." "well, i sha'n't wait for him," said crystal, ringing the bell. "i have an engagement at a quarter past two." "at the golf club?" asked her father, his eye lighting a little. "you might drive me out, you know." "no, dear; quite in the other direction--with a man who was at the party last night." "you enjoyed the party?" "no, not a bit." "but you stayed till morning." "i stopped and took a swim." "you enjoyed that, i suppose?" his daughter glanced at him and turned crimson; but she did not have to answer, for at that moment tomes came, in response to her ring, and she said: "we won't wait lunch for mr. verriman, tomes." then, as he went away, she asked, "and what was eddie doing here this morning, anyhow?" "he was scolding me," replied mr. cord. "have you noticed, crystal, what a lot of scolding is going on in the world at present? i believe that that is why no one is getting any work done--everyone is so busy scolding everybody else. the politicians are scolding, and the newspapers are scolding, and most of the fellows i know are scolding. i believe i've got hold of a great truth--" "and may i ask what eddie was scolding about?" asked crystal, no more interested in great truths than most of us. "about you." crystal moved her head about as if things had now reached a point where it wasn't even worth while to be angry. "about me?" "it seems you're a socialist, my dear. eddie asked me how long it was since i had taken an inventory of your economic beliefs. i could not remember that i ever had, but perhaps you will tell them to me now. that is," mr. cord added, "if you can do it without scolding me--probably an impossible condition to impose nowadays." "it's a pity about eddie," said crystal, fiercely. "if only stupid people would be content to be stupid, instead of trying to run the world--" "ah, my dear, it's only stupid people who are under the impression that they can. good morning again, eddie, we were just speaking of you." mr. cord added the last sentence without the slightest change of tone or expression as his guest was ushered in by tomes, who, catching crystal's eyes for a more important fact than eddie's arrival, murmured that luncheon was served. "well, eddie," said crystal, and there was a sort of gay vibration in her whole figure, and her tone was like a bright banner of war, "and so you came round to complain to my father, did you?" mr. cord laid his hand on her shoulder. "do you think you could demolish eddie just as well at table, my dear?" he said. "if so, there's no use in letting the food get cold." "oh, she can do it anywhere," replied eddie, bitterly, and then, striking his habitual note of warning, he went on, "but, honestly, crystal, if you had heard what your father and i heard this morning--" "i had a visit from david's brother this morning," put in mr. cord, "the editor of your favorite morning paper." "ben moreton, here! oh, _father_, why didn't you call me? yes, i know," she added, as her father opened his mouth to say that she had left most particular instructions that she was to be allowed to sleep as late as she could, "i know, but you must have known i should have wanted to look david's brother over. has he long hair? does he wear a soft tie? did you hate him?" "eddie didn't take much of a fancy to him." "i should say not. a damned, hollow-eyed fanatic." "is he as good-looking as david, father? what does he look like?" mr. cord hesitated. "well, a little like my engraving of thomas jefferson as a young man." "he looks as if he might have a bomb in his pocket." "oh, eddie, do keep quiet, there's a dear, and let father give me one of his long, wonderful accounts. go ahead, father." "well," said mr. cord, helping himself from a dish that tomes was presenting to him, "as i told you, eddie had dropped in very kindly to scold me about you, when tomes announced mr. moreton. tomes thought he ought to be put straight out of the house. didn't you, tomes?" "no, sir," said tomes, who was getting used to his employer, although he did not encourage this sort of thing, particularly before the footmen. "well, moreton came in and said, very simply--" "has he good manners, father?" "he has no manners at all," roared eddie. "oh, how nice," said crystal, of whom it might be asserted without flattery that she now understood in perfection the art of irritating eddie. "he is very direct and natural," her father continued. "he has a lot more punch than your brother-in-law, my dear. in fact, i was rather impressed with the young fellow until he and eddie fell to quarreling. things did not go so well, then." "you mean," said crystal, the gossip rather getting the best of the reformer in her, "that he lost his temper horribly?" "i should say he did," said eddie. "well, eddie, you know you were not perfectly calm," answered cord. "let us say that they both lost their tempers, which is strange, for as far as i could see they were agreed on many essentials. they both believe that one class in the community ought to govern the other. they both believe the world is in a very bad way; only, according to eddie, we are going to have chaos if capital loses its control of the situation; and according to moreton we are going to have chaos if labor doesn't get control. so, as one or the other seems bound to happen, we ought to be able to adjust ourselves to chaos. in fact, crystal, i have been interviewing mckellar about having a chaos cellar built in the garden." eddie pushed back his plate; it was empty, but the gesture suggested that he could not go on choking down the food of a man who joked about such serious matters. "i must say, mr. cord," he began, "i really must say--" he paused, surprised to find that he really hadn't anything that he must say, and crystal turned to her father: "but you haven't told me why he came. to see eugenia, i suppose?" "no; he hadn't heard of the marriage. he came to talk to his brother." "for you must know," put in eddie, hastily, "that mr. ben moreton does not approve of the marriage--oh, dear, no. he would consider such a connection quite beneath his family. he disapproves of eugenia as a sister-in-law." "how could any one disapprove of her?" asked her sister, hotly. "jevver hear such nerve?" said eddie. "it's not eugenia; it's capital moreton disapproves of," mr. cord went on, patiently explaining. "you see it never crossed our minds that the moretons might object, but of course they do. they regard us as a very degrading connection. doubtless it will hurt ben moreton with his readers to be connected with a financial pirate like myself, quite as much as it will hurt me in the eyes of most of my fellow board members when it becomes known that my son-in-law's brother is the editor of _liberty_." "the moretons disapprove," repeated crystal, to whom the idea was not at all agreeable. "disapprove, nonsense!" said eddie. "i believe he came to blackmail you. to see what he could get out of you if he offered to stop the marriage. well, why not? if these fellows believe all the money ought to be taken away from the capitalists, why should they care how it's done? i can't see much difference between robbing a man, and legislating his fortune out of--" "well, i must tell you, father dear," said crystal, exactly as if eddie had not been speaking, "that i think it was horrid of you not to have me called when you must have known--" "crystal, you're scolding me," wailed her father. "and most unjustly. i did ask him to lunch just for your sake, although i saw eddie was shocked, and i was afraid tomes would give warning. but i did ask him, only he wouldn't stay." crystal rose from the table with her eye on the clock, and they began to make their way back to mr. cord's study, as she asked: "why wouldn't he stay?" "i gathered because he didn't want to. perhaps he was afraid he'd have to argue with eddie about capital and labor all through lunch. and of course he did not know that i had another beautiful daughter sleeping off the effects of a late party, or very likely he would have accepted." very likely he would. just as they entered the study, the telephone rang. crystal sprang to the instrument, brushing away her father's hand, which had moved toward it. "it's for me, dear," she said, and continued, speaking into the mouthpiece: "yes, it's i." (a pause.) "where are you?... oh, yes, i know the place. i'll be there in five minutes, in a little blue car." she hung up the receiver, sprang up, and looked very much surprised to see eddie and her father still there just as before. "good-by, eddie," she said, "i'm sorry, but i have an engagement. good-by, father." "you don't want to run me out to the golf club first?" "not possible, dear. the chauffeur can take you in the big car." "yes, but he'll scold me all the way about there not being room enough in the garage." crystal was firm. "i'm sorry, but i can't, dear. this is important. i may take a job. i'll tell you all about it this evening." and she left the room, with a smile that kept getting entirely beyond her control. "what's this? what's this?" cried eddie as the door shut. "a job. you wouldn't let crystal take a job, would you, mr. cord?" "i haven't been consulted," said mr. cord, taking out his new driver again. "but didn't you notice how excited she was. i'm sure it's decided." "yes, i noticed, eddie; but it looked to me more like a man than a job. how do you think we'd come out if i gave you a stroke and a half a hole?" eddie was too perturbed even to answer. in the meantime, crystal was spinning along bellevue avenue, forgetting to bow to her friends, and wondering why the car was going so badly until, her eye falling on the speedometer, she noticed that she was doing a mild thirty-five miles an hour. sooner, therefore, than the law allowed, she reached a small park that surrounds a statue of perry, and there she picked up a passenger. ben got in and shut the little door almost before she brought the car to a standstill. [illustration: "i'll be there in five minutes, in a little blue car"] "when you were little," he said, "did you ever imagine something wonderful that might happen--like the door's opening and a delegation coming to elect you captain of the baseball team, or whatever is a little girl's equivalent of that--and keep on imagining it and imagining it, until it seemed as if it really were going to happen? well, i have been standing here saying to myself, wouldn't it be wonderful if crystal should come in a little blue car and take me to drive? and, by heaven! you'll never believe me, but she actually did." "tell me everything you've done since i saw you," she answered. "i haven't done anything but think about you. oh yes, i have, too. i've reappraised the universe. you see, you've just made me a present of a brand-new world, and i've been pretty busy, i can tell you, untying the string and unwrapping the paper, and bless me, crystal, it looks like a mighty fine present so far." "oh," she said, "i think you talk charmingly." she had started to say, "you make love charmingly," but on second thoughts decided that the overt statement had better come from him. "dear me," she went on, "we have so much to talk about. there's my job. can't we talk a little about that?" they could and did. their talk consisted largely in his telling her how much richer a service she could render his paper through having been unconsciously steeped in beauty than if she had been merely intellectually instructed--than if, as she more simply put it, she had known something. and as he talked, her mind began to expand in the warm atmosphere of his praise and to give off its perfume like a flower. but the idea of her working with him day after day, helping the development of the paper which had grown as dear as a child to him, was so desirable that he did not dare to contemplate it unless it promised realization. "oh," he broke out, "you won't really do it. your family will object, or something. probably when i go away to-night, i shall never see you again." "you are still going away to-night?" "i must." she looked at him and slowly shook her head, as a mother shakes her head at the foolish plans of a child. "i thought i was going," he said, weakly. "why?" he groaned, but did not answer. she thought, "oh, dear, i wish when men want to be comforted they would not make a girl spend so much time and energy getting them to say that they do want it." aloud she said: "you must tell me what's the matter." "it's a long story." "we have all afternoon." "that's it--we haven't all eternity." "oh, eternity," said crystal, dismissing it with the cord wave of the hand. "who wants eternity? 'since we must die how bright the starry track,' you know." "no; what is that?" "i don't remember." "oh." after this meeting of minds they drove for some time in silence. ben was seeing a new aspect of newport--bare, rugged country, sandy roads, a sudden high rock jutting out toward the sea, a rock on which tradition asserts that bishop berkeley once sat and considered the illusion of matter. they stopped at length at the edge of a sandy beach. crystal parked her car neatly with a sharp turn of the wheel, and got out. "there's a tea basket," she called over her shoulder. ben's heart bounded at the news--not that he was hungry, but as the hour was now but little past half after two a tea basket indicated a prolonged interview. he found it tucked away in the back of the car, and followed her. they sat down at the edge of the foam. he lit a pipe, clasped his hands about his knees and stared out to sea; she curled her feet backward, grasped an ankle in her hand, and, looking at him, said: "now what makes you groan so?" "i haven't meant to be dishonest," he said, "but i have been obtaining your friendship--trying to--under false pretenses." "trying to?" said crystal. "now isn't it silly to put that in." he turned and smiled at her. she was really incredibly sweet. "but, all the same," he went on, "there is a barrier, a real, tangible barrier between us." crystal's heart suffered a chill convulsion at these words. "good gracious!" she thought. "he's entangled with another woman--oh dear!--_marriage_"--but she did not interrupt him, and he continued: "i let you think that i was one of the men you might have known--that i was asked to your party last night, whereas, as a matter of fact, i only watched you--" crystal's mind, working with its normal rapidity, invented, faced, and passed over the fact that he must have been one of the musicians. she said aloud: "i think i ought to tell you that i'm not much of a believer in barriers--between sensible people who want friendship." "friendship!" exclaimed ben, as if that were the last thing he had come out on a lovely summer afternoon to discuss. "there aren't any real barriers any more," crystal continued. "differences of position, and religion, and all those things don't seem to matter now. romeo and juliet wouldn't have paid any attention to the little family disagreement if they had lived to-day." "in the case of romeo and juliet, if i remember correctly," said ben, "it was not exactly a question of friendship." she colored deeply, but he refused to modify his statement, for, after all, it was correct. "but difference of opinion _is_ an obstacle," he went on. "i have seen husbands and wives parted by differences of opinion in the late war. and as far as i'm concerned there's a war on now--a different war, and i came here to try to prevent my brother marrying into an enemy influence--" "good heavens!" cried crystal. "you are ben moreton! why didn't i see it sooner? i'm crystal cord," and, lifting up her chin, she laughed. that she could laugh as the gulf opened between them seemed to him terrible. he turned his head away. she stopped laughing. "you don't think it's amusing?" (he shook his head.) "that we're relations-in-law, when we thought it was all so unknown and romantic? no wonder i felt at home with you, when i've read so many of your letters to david--such nice letters, too--and i subscribe to your paper, and read every word of the editorials. and to think that you would not lunch with me to-day, when my father asked you." "to think that it was you i was being asked to lunch with, and didn't know it!" "well, you dine with us to-morrow," she answered, stating a simple fact. "crystal," he said, and put his hand on hers as if this would help him through his long explanation; but the continuity of his thought was destroyed and his spirit wounded by her immediately withdrawing it; and then--so exactly does the spring of love resemble the uncertain glory of an april day--he was rendered perfectly happy again by perceiving that her action was due to the publicity of their position and not to repugnance to the caress. fortunately he was a man not without invention, and so when a few minutes later she suggested opening the tea basket, he insisted on moving to a more retired spot on the plea that the teakettle would burn better out of the wind; and crystal, who must have known that tomes never gave her a teakettle, but made the tea at home and put it in a thermos bottle, at once agreed to the suggestion. they moved back across the road, where irregular rocks sheltered small plots of grass and wild flowers, and here, instead of an arcadian duet, they had, most unsuitably, their first quarrel. it began as quarrels are so apt to do, by a complete agreement. of course he would stay over the next day, which was sunday, and not very busy in the office of _liberty_. in return he expected her undivided attention. she at once admitted that this was part of the plan--only there would have to be one little exception; she was dining out this evening. oh, well, that could be broken, couldn't it? she would like to break it, but it happened to be one of those engagements that had to be kept. ben could not understand that. at first she tried to explain it to him: she had chosen her own evening several weeks ago with these people, who wanted her to meet a friend of theirs who was motoring down specially from boston. she felt she must keep her word. "i assure you i don't want to, but you understand, don't you?" if she had looked at his face she would not have asked the last question. he did not understand; indeed, he had resolved not to. "no," he said, "i must own, i don't. if you told me that you _wanted_ to go, that would be one thing. i shouldn't have a word to say then." "oh yes, you would, ben," said crystal, but he did not notice her. "i can't understand your allowing yourself to be dragged there against your will. you say you despise this life, but you seem to take it pretty seriously if you can't break any engagement that you may make." "how absurd you are! of course i often break engagements." "i see. you do when the inducement is sufficient. well, that makes it all perfectly clear." she felt both angry and inclined to cry. she knew that to yield to either impulse would instantly solve the problem and bring a very unreasonable young man to reason. she ran over both scenes in her imagination. registering anger, she would rise and say that, really, mr. moreton, if he would not listen to her explanation there was no use in prolonging the discussion. that would be the critical moment. he would take her in his arms then and there, or else he would let her go, and they would drive in silence, and part at the little park, where of course she might say, "aren't you silly to leave me like this?"--only her experience was that it was never very practical to make up with an angry man in public. to burst into tears was a safer method, but she had a natural repugnance to crying, and perhaps she was subconsciously aware that she might be left, after the quarrel was apparently made up by this method, with a slight resentment against the man who had forced her to adopt so illogical a line of conduct. a middle course appealed to her. she laid her hand on ben's. a few minutes before it would have seemed unbelievable to ben that his own hand would have remained cold and lifeless under that touch, but such was now the case. "ben," she said, "if you go on being disagreeable a second longer you must make up your mind how you will behave when i burst into tears." "how i should behave?" she nodded. his hands clasped hers. he told her how he should behave. he even offered to show her, without putting her to the trouble of tears. "you mean," she said, "that you would forgive me? well, forgive me, anyhow. i'm doing what i think is right about this old dinner. perhaps i'm wrong about it; perhaps you're mistaken and i'm not absolutely perfect, but if i were, think what a lot of fun you would miss in changing me. and you know i never meant to abandon you for the whole evening. i'll get away at half past nine and we'll take a little turn." so that was settled. chapter iii as they drove back she revealed another plan to him--she was taking him for a moment to see a friend of hers. he protested. he did not want to see anyone but herself, but crystal was firm. he must see this woman; she was their celebrated parlor bolshevist. ben hated parlor bolshevists. did he know any? no. well, then. anyhow, sophia would never forgive her if she did not bring him. sophia adored celebrities. sophia who? sophia dawson. the name seemed dimly familiar to ben, and then he remembered. it was the name on the thousand-dollar check for the strike sufferers that had come in the day before. they drove up an avenue of little oaks to a formidable palace built of gray stone, so smoothly faced that there was not a crevice in the immense pale faã§ade. two men in knee-breeches opened the double doors and they went in between golden grilles and rows of tall white lilies. they were led through a soundless hall, and up stairs so thickly carpeted that the feet sank in as in new-fallen snow, and finally they were ushered through a small painted door into a small painted room, which had been brought all the way from sienna, and there they found mrs. dawson--a beautiful, worn, world-weary mrs. dawson, with one streak of gray in the front of her dark hair, her tragic eyes, and her long violet and black draperies--a perfect sibyl. crystal did not treat her as a sibyl, however. "hullo, sophie!" she said. "this is my brother-in-law's brother, ben moreton. he's crazy to meet you. you'll like him. i can't stay because i'm dining somewhere or other, but he's not." "will he dine with me?" said mrs. dawson in a wonderful deep, slow voice--"just stay on and dine with me alone?" ben began to say that he couldn't, but crystal said yes, that he would be delighted to, and that she would stop for him again about half past nine, and that it was a wonderful plan, and then she went away. mrs. dawson seemed to take it all as a matter of course. "sit down, mr. moreton," she said. "i have a quarrel with you." ben could not help feeling a little disturbed by the way he had been injected into mrs. dawson's evening without her volition. he did not sit down. "you know," he said, "there isn't any reason why you should have me to dine just because crystal says so. i do want to thank you for the check you sent in to us for the strike fund. it will do a lot of good." "oh, that," replied mrs. dawson. "they are fighting all our battles for us." "it cheered us up in the office. i wanted to tell you, and now i think i'll go. i dare say you are dining out, anyhow--" her eyes flashed at him. "dining out!" she exclaimed, as if the suggestion insulted her. "you evidently don't know me. i never dine out. i have nothing in common with these people. i lead a very lonely life. you do me a favor by staying. you and i could exchange ideas. there is no one in newport whom i can talk to--reactionaries." "miss cord is not exactly a reactionary," said ben, sitting down. mrs. dawson smiled. "crystal is not a reactionary; crystal is a child," she replied. "but what can you expect of william cord's daughter? he is a dangerous and disintegrating force--cold--cynical--he feels not the slightest public responsibility for his possessions." mrs. dawson laid her hand on her heart as if it were weighted with all her jewels and footmen and palaces. "most bourbons are cynical about human life, but he goes farther; he is cynical about his own wealth. and that brings me to my quarrel with you, mr. moreton. how could you let your brother spend his beautiful vigorous youth as a parasite to cord's vapid son? was that consistent with your beliefs?" this attack on his consistency from a lady whose consistency seemed even more flagrant amused ben, but as he listened he was obliged to admit that there was a great deal of good sense in what she had to say about david, whom she had met once or twice at the cords'. ben was too candid and eager not to ask her before long the question that was in his mind--how it was possible for a woman holding her views to be leading a life so opposed to them. she was not at all offended, and even less at a loss for an answer. "i am not a free agent, mr. moreton," she said. "unhappily, before i began to think at all, i had undertaken certain obligations. the law allows a woman to dispose of everything but her property while she is still a child. i married at eighteen." it was a story not without interest and mrs. dawson told it well. there does not live a man who would not have been interested. they dined, not in the great dining room downstairs, nor even in the painted room from sienna, but in a sort of loggia that opened from it, where, beyond the shaded lights, ben could watch the moon rise out of the sea. it was a perfect little meal, short, delicious, and quickly served by three servants. he enjoyed it thoroughly, although he found his hostess a strangely confusing companion. he would make up his mind that she was a sincere soul captured by her environment, when a freshly discovered jewel on her long fingers would shake his faith. and he would just decide that she was a melodramatic fraud, when she would surprise him by her scholarly knowledge of social problems. she had read deeply, knew several languages, and had known many of the european leaders. such phrases as "jaurã¨s wrote me ten days before he died--" were frequent, but not too frequent, on her lips. by the time crystal stopped for him ben had begun to feel like a child who has lost his mother in a museum, or as dante might have felt if he had missed virgil from his side. when he bade mrs. dawson good night, she asked him to come back. "come and spend september here," she said, as if it were a small thing. "you can work all day if you like. i sha'n't disturb you, and you need never see a soul. it will do you good." he was touched by the invitation, but of course he refused it. he tried to explain tactfully, but clearly, why it was that he couldn't do that sort of thing--that the editor of _liberty_ did not take his holiday at newport. she understood, and sighed. "ah, yes," she said. "i'm like that man in mythology whom neither the sky nor the earth would receive. i'm very lonely, mr. moreton." he found himself feeling sorry for her, as he followed a footman downstairs, his feet sinking into the carpets at each step. crystal in the blue car was at the door. she was bareheaded and the wind had been blowing her hair about. "well," she said, as he got in, "did you have a good time? i'm sure you had a good dinner." "excellent, but confusing. i don't quite get your friend." "you don't understand sophia?" crystal's tone expressed surprise. "you mean her jewels and her footmen? why, ben, it's just like the fathers of this country who talked about all men being equal and yet were themselves slaveholders. she sincerely believes those things in a way, and then it's such a splendid role to play, and she enjoys that; and then it teases freddie dawson. freddie is rather sweet if he's thoroughly unhappy, and this keeps him unhappy almost all the time. did she ask you to stay? i meant her to." "yes, she did; but of course i couldn't." "oh, ben, why not?" this brought them once more to the discussion of the barrier. this time ben felt he could make her see. he said that she must look at it this way--that in a war you could not go and stay in enemy country, however friendly your personal relations might be. well, as far as he was concerned this was a war, a class war. they were headed for the ocean drive, and crystal rounded a sharp turn before she answered seriously: "but i thought you didn't believe in war." "i don't," he answered. "i hate it--i hate all violence. we--labor, i mean--didn't initiate this, but when men won't see, when they have power and won't stop abusing it, there is only one way to make--" "why, ben," said crystal, "you're just a pacifist in other people's quarrels, but as militaristic as can be in your own. i'm not a pacifist, but i'm a better one than you, because i don't believe in emphasizing any difference between human beings. that's why i want a league of nations. i hate gangs--all women really do. little girls don't form gangs like little boys. every settlement worker knows that. i won't have you say that i belong to the other group. i won't be classified. i'm a human being--and i intend to behave as such." since she had left him she had been immersed again in her old life--her old friends--and the result had been to make her wonder if her experience with ben had been as wonderful as it had seemed. when she stopped for him she had been almost prepared to find that the wild joy of their meetings had been something accidental and temporary, and that only a stimulating and pleasant friendship was left. but as soon as she saw that he really regarded their differences seriously, all her own prudence and doubt melted away. she knew she was ready to make any sacrifices for him, and in view of that all talk of obstacles was folly. she stopped the car on the point of the island, with the open sea on one hand, the harbor on the other. in front of them the lightship was moving with a slow, majestic roll, and to the right was the long festoon of narragansett lights, and as they stopped the lighted bulk of the new york boat appeared, making its way toward point judith. his prolonged silence began to frighten her. "ben," she said, "do you seriously mean that you believe friendship between us is impossible?" "friendship, nothing," answered moreton. "i love you." he said it as if it had always been understood between them, as of course it had, but the instant he said it, he gave her a quick, appealing look to see how she would take so startling an assertion. if crystal had poured out just what was in her mind at that second she would have answered: "of course you do. i've known that longer than you have. and can't you see that if i had had any doubt about its being true, i'd have taken steps to make it true? but, as i really did not doubt it, i've been able to be quite passive and leave it mostly to you, which i so much prefer." but rigorous candor is rarely attained, and crystal did not say this. in fact, for a few seconds she did not say anything, but merely allowed her eyes to shine upon him, with the inevitable result that at the end of precisely six seconds of their benevolent invitation he took her in his arms and kissed her. it was a very unprotected point, and several cars were standing not too far away, but crystal, who had an excellent sense of proportion, made no objection whatever. she was being proved right in two important particulars--first, that she was a human being, and second, that there was no barrier between them. she was very generous about it. she did not say, "where's your barrier now?" or anything like that; she simply said nothing, and the barrier passed out of the conversation and was no more seen. very soon, alleging that she must get home at the time at which she usually did get home from dinners, she took him back; but she soothed him with the promise of an uninterrupted day to follow. time--the mere knowledge of unbroken hours ahead--is a boon which real love cannot do without. minor feelings may flourish on snatched interviews and stolen meetings, but love demands--and usually gets--protected leisure. the next day these lovers had it. they spent the morning, when mr. cord was known to be playing golf, at the cords' house, and then when mr. cord telephoned that he was staying to luncheon at the club, if crystal did not object (and crystal did not), she and ben arranged a picnic--at least tomes did, and they went off about one o'clock in the blue car. they went to a pool in the rocks that crystal had always known about, with high walls around it, and here, with a curtain of foam between them and the sea, for the waves were rising, they ate lunch, as much alone as on a desert island. it was here that ben asked her to marry him, or, to be accurate, it was here that they first began talking about their life together, and whether nora would become reconciled to another woman about the flat. the nearest approach to a definite proposal was ben's saying: "you would not mind my saying something about all this to your father before i go this evening, would you?" and crystal replied: "poor father! it will be a blow, i'm afraid." "well," said ben, "he told me himself that he liked me better than david." "that's not saying much." at this ben laughed lightly. he might have had his wrong-headed notions about barriers, but he was not so un-american as to regard a father as an obstacle. "but, oh, crystal," he added, "suppose you find you do hate being poor. it is a bore in some ways." crystal, who had been tucking away the complicated dishes of her luncheon basket, looked at ben and lightly sucked one finger to which some raspberry jam from tomes's supernal sandwiches had adhered. "i sha'n't mind it a bit, ben," she said, "and for a good reason--because i'm terribly conceited." he did not understand at all, and she went on: "i believe i shall be just as much of a person--perhaps more--without money. the women who really mind being poor are the humble-minded ones, who think that they are made by their clothes and their lovely houses and their maids and their sables. when they lose them they lose all their personality, and of course that terrifies them. i don't think i shall lose mine. does it shock you to know that i think such a lot of myself?" it appeared it did not shock him at all. [illustration: "suppose you find you do hate being poor?"] when they reached the house she established him in the drawing-room and went off to find her father. she was a true woman, by which is meant now and always that she preferred to allow a man to digest his dinner before she tried to bring him to a rational opinion. but in this case her hands were tied. the cords dined at eight--or sometimes a little later, and ben's boat left for new york at half past nine, so that it would be utterly impossible to postpone the discussion of her future until after dinner. it had to be done at once. crystal ran up and knocked at his bedroom door. loud splashings from the adjoining bathroom were all the answer she got. she sat down on the stairs and waited. those are the moments that try men's and even women's souls. for the first time her enterprise seemed to her a little reckless. for an instant she had the surprising experience of recognizing the fact that ben was a total stranger. she looked at the gray-stone stairway on which she was sitting and thought that her life had been as safe and sheltered as a cloister, and now, steered by this total stranger, she proposed to launch herself on an uncharted course of change. and to this program she was to bring her father's consent--for she knew very well that if she couldn't, ben wouldn't be able to--in the comparatively short time between now and dinner. then, the splashing having ceased, the sound of bureau drawers succeeded, and crystal sprang up and knocked again. "that you, peters?" said an unencouraging voice. (peters was mr. cord's valet.) "no, dear, it's i," said crystal. "oh, come in," said mr. cord. he was standing in the middle of the room in his shirt sleeves and gloomily contemplating the shirt he wore. "what's this laundress, anyhow? a bolshevist or a pastry-cook?" he said. "did you ever see anything like this shirt?" crystal approached and studied the shirt. it appeared to her to be perfectly done up, but she said: "yes, dear, how terrible! i'll pack her off to-morrow, but you always look all right whatever you wear; that's some comfort." she saw that even this hadn't done much good, and, going to the heart of the problem, she asked, "how did your golf go?" mr. cord's gloom gathered as he answered, with resignation, "oh, all right." his manner was exactly similar to ben's in his recent moment of depression, and not unlike mckellar's when he had explained what he suffered under the good lord's weather. "is eddie's game any better?" asked crystal, feeling her way. "no," cried her father, contemptuously. "he's rotten, but i'm worse. and golf-clubs, crystal! no one can make a club any more. have you noticed that? but the truth of the matter is, i'm getting too old to play golf." and mr. cord sat down with a good but unconscious imitation of a broken old man. of course crystal swept this away. she scolded him a little, pointed out his recent prowess, and spoke slightingly of all younger athletes, but she really had not time to do the job thoroughly, for the thought of ben, sitting so anxious in the drawing-room alone, hurried her on. "anyhow, dear," she said, "i've come to talk to you about something terribly important. what would you say, father, if i told you i was engaged?" mr. cord was so startled that he said, what was rare for him, the first thing that came into his head: "not to eddie?" the true diplomatist, we have been told, simply takes advantage of chance, and crystal was diplomatic. "and suppose it is?" she replied. "i should refuse my consent," replied her father. crystal looked hurt. "is there anything against eddie," she asked, "except his golf?" "yes," answered her father, "there are two of the most serious things in the world against him--first, that he doesn't amount to anything; and second, that you don't love him." "no," crystal admitted, "i don't, but then--love--father, isn't love rather a serious undertaking nowadays? is it a particularly helpful adjunct to marriage? look at poor eugenia. isn't it really more sensible to marry a nice man who can support one, and then if in time one does fall in love with another man--" "never let me hear you talk like that again, crystal," said her father, with a severity and vigor he seldom showed outside of board meetings. "it's only your ignorance of life that saves you from being actually revolting. i'm an old man and not sentimental, you'll grant, but, take my word for it, love is the only hope of pulling off marriage successfully, and even then it's not easy. as for eugenia, i think she's made a fool of herself and is going to be unhappy, but i'd rather do what she has done than what you're contemplating. at least she cared for that fellow--" "i'm glad you feel like that, darling," said crystal, "because it isn't eddie i'm engaged to, but ben moreton. he's waiting downstairs now." mr. cord started up--his eyes shining like black flames. "by god! crystal," he said, "you sha'n't marry that fellow--eugenia--perhaps--but not you." "but, father, you said yourself, you thought he was a fine--" "i don't care what i said," replied mr. cord, and, striding to the door, he flung it open and called in a voice that rolled about the stone hall: "mr. moreton, mr. moreton! come up here, will you?" ben came bounding up the stairs like a panther. cord beckoned him in with a sharp gesture and shut the door. "this won't do at all, moreton," he said. "you can't have crystal." ben did not answer; he looked very steadily at cord, who went on: "you think i can't stop it--that she's of age and that you wouldn't take a penny of my money, anyhow. that's the idea, isn't it?" "that's it," said ben. cord turned sharply to crystal. "does what i think make any difference to you?" he asked. "a lot, dear," she answered, "but i don't understand. you never seemed so much opposed to the radical doctrine." "no, it's the radical, not the doctrine, your father objects to," said ben. "exactly," answered mr. cord. "you've put it in a nutshell. crystal, i'm going to tell you what these radicals really are--they're failures--everyone of them. sincere enough--they want the world changed because they haven't been able to get along in it as it is--they want a new deal because they don't know how to play their cards; and when they get a new hand, they'll play it just as badly. it's not their theories i object to, but them themselves. you think if you married moreton you'd be going into a great new world of idealism. you wouldn't. you'd be going into a world of failure--of the pettiest, most futile quarrels in the world. the chief characteristic of the man who fails is that he always believes it's the other fellow's fault; and they hate the man who differs with them by one per cent more than they hate the man who differs by one hundred. has there ever been a revolution where they did not persecute their fellow revolutionists worse than they persecuted the old order, or where the new rule wasn't more tyrannical than the old?" "no one would dispute that," said ben. "it is the only way to win through to--" "ah," said cord, "i know what you're going to say, but i tell you, you win through to liberal practices when, and only when, the conservatives become converted to your ideas, and put them through for you. that's why i say i have no quarrel with radical doctrines--they are coming, always coming, but"--cord paused to give his words full weight--"i hate the radical." there was a little pause. crystal, who had sunk into a low chair, raised her eyes to ben, as if she expected a passionate contradiction from him, but it did not come. "yes," he said, after a moment, "that's all true, mr. cord--with limitations; but, granting it, you've put my side, too. what are we to say of the conservative--the man who has no vision of his own--who has to go about stealing his beliefs from the other side? he's very efficient at putting _them_ into effect--but efficient as a tool, as a servant. look at the mess he makes of his own game when he tries to act on his own ideas. he crushes democracy with an iron efficiency, and he creates communism. he closes the door to trade-unionism and makes a revolution. that's efficiency for you. we radicals are not so damned inefficient, while we let the conservatives do our work for us." "well, let it be revolution, then," said cord. "i believe you're right. it's coming, but do you want to drag a girl like crystal into it? think of her! say you take her, as i suppose a young fellow like you can do. she'd have perhaps ten years of an exciting division of allegiance between your ideas and the way she had been brought up, and the rest of her life (for, believe me, as we get older we all return to our early traditions)--the rest of her life she'd spend regretting the ties and environment of her youth. on the other hand, if she gives you up she will have regrets, too, i know, but they won't wreck her and embitter her the way the others will." ben's face darkened. no man not a colossal egotist could hear such a prophesy with indifference. he did not at once answer, and then he turned to crystal. "what do you think of that?" he asked. to the surprise of both men, crystal replied with a laugh. "i was wondering," she said, "when either of you would get round to asking what i thought of it all." "well, what do you think?" said cord, almost harshly. crystal rose, and, slipping her arm through his, leaned her head on the point of her father's shoulder--he was of a good height. "i think," she said, "you both talk beautifully. i was so proud of you both--saying such profound things so easily, and keeping your tempers so perfectly" (both brows smoothed out), "and it was all the more wonderful because, it seemed to me, you were both talking about things you knew nothing about." "what do you mean?" burst from both men with simultaneous astonishment. "ben, dear, father doesn't know any radicals--except you, and he's only seen you twice. father dear, i don't believe ben ever talked five minutes with an able, successful conservative until he came here to-day." "you're going to throw me over, crystal?" said ben, seeing her pose more clearly than he heard her words. "no," said mr. cord, bitterly, "she's going to throw over an old man in favor of a young one." "you silly creatures," said crystal, with a smile that made the words affectionate and not rude. "how can i ever throw either of you over? i'm going to be ben's wife, and i am my father's daughter. i'm going to be those two things for all my life." ben took her hand. she puzzled him, but he adored her. "but some day, crystal," he said, "you will be obliged to choose between our views--mine or your father's. you must see that." "he's right," her father chimed in. "this is not a temporary difference of opinion, you know, crystal. this cleavage is as old as mankind--the radical against the conservative. time doesn't reconcile them." again the idea came to her: "they do love to form gangs, the poor dears." aloud she said: "yes, but the two types are rarely pure ones. why, father, you think ben is a radical, but he's the most hidebound conservative about some things--much worse than you--about free verse, for instance. i read a long editorial about it not a month ago. he really thinks anyone who defends it ought to be deported to some poetic limbo. ben, you think my father is conservative. but there's a great scandal in his mental life. he's a baconian--" "he thinks bacon wrote the plays!" exclaimed ben, really shocked. "certainly i do," answered mr. cord. "every man who uses his mind must think so. there is nothing in favor of the shakespeare theory, except tradition--" he would have talked for several hours upon the subject, but crystal interrupted him by turning to ben and continuing what she had meant to say: "when you said i should have to choose between your ideas, you meant between your political ideas. perhaps i shall, but i won't make my choice, rest assured, until i have some reason for believing that each of you knows something--honestly knows something about the other one's point of view." "i don't get it, exactly," said ben. she addressed mr. cord. "father," she went on, "ben has a little flat in charles street, and an old servant, and that's where i'm going to live." her father, though bitterly wounded, had regained his sardonic calm. "perhaps," he said, "you'll bring him up to seventy-ninth street for sunday dinner now and then." crystal shook her head. "no, dear," she said. "that isn't the way it's going to be. as soon as i get settled and have time to look about me, i shall take another little flat for you. you will live with us, for a few months in the winter, and get to know ben's friends--his gang, as you would say--get to know them not as a philanthropist, or an employer, or an observer, but just as one of our friends--see if they really are the way you think they are. and then, in march you shall go off to palm beach or virginia just as usual." "that's a fine idea," said mr. cord, sarcastically. "do you realize that i shall hardly survive your marriage with the editor of _liberty_. i shall be kicked off--requested to resign from half a dozen boards for having such a son-in-law--" "there's freedom for you," said ben. "and," continued mr. cord, "if it were known that i consented to the marriage, and actually consorted with such fellows! you must realize, crystal, that most of the most influential men in the country think the way eddie does. half my boards are composed of older eddies." "you'll do better to resign from them, then," said crystal. ben had been very much struck by crystal's suggestion. "really, mr. cord," he said, "i believe that is a great idea of crystal's. i really believe if capital had more idea of the real views of labor--as you said, you eventually adopt all our ideas, why wouldn't an intimate knowledge of individuals hurry that process?" "simply because i should lose all influence with my own people by merely investigating you in a friendly spirit." "glory!" exclaimed ben, with open contempt for such people. "think of penalizing the first honest attempt to understand!" "you see the point of my plan, don't you, ben?" said crystal. "you bet i do." "that's wonderful," she answered, "for you've only heard half of it. in july, august, and september, we will come here to newport, and you will get to understand father's--" "hold on," cried ben, "just a moment. that is absolutely impossible, crystal. you don't understand. the paper couldn't keep me a day if i did that." "ha!" cried mr. cord, coming suddenly to life. "there's freedom for you!" "that would be very cruel of the owners, ben, but if they did--" "it wouldn't be cruel at all," said moreton. "they wouldn't have any choice. i should have lost all influence with my readers, if it were known--" "glory!" said mr. cord. "think of penalizing the first honest attempt to understand the capitalistic class!" ben stood silent, caught in the grip of an intellectual dilemma which he felt every instant would dissolve itself and which didn't. crystal for the first time moved away from her father. "those are my terms," she said. "i stay with the man who agrees to them, and if you both decline them--well, i'll go off and try and open the oyster by myself." there was a long momentous pause, and then tomes's discreet knock on the door. "mr. verriman on the telephone, madam." "i can't come," said crystal. "ask him to send a message." "don't you see, crystal, what your plan would do?" said her father. "either it would make moreton a red revolutionist and me a persecuting bourbon, or else it would just ruin us both for either of our objectives." "it won't ruin you for my objectives," said crystal, "and women are more human, you know, than men." another knock at the door. tomes's voice again: "mr. verriman wishes to know if he might dine here this evening?" "no," said cord, looking at crystal. crystal raised her voice. "certainly, tomes. say we shall be delighted to have him--at eight." both men turned to her. "why did you do that, crystal? verriman--here--to-night?" crystal did not answer--the identity of their tones, their words, and their irritation with her should have told them the answer, but didn't. she knew that only opposition to eddie and eddie's many prototypes could weld her two men solidly together. the end transcriber's note: i have closed contractions in the text, e.g., "did n't" becoming "didn't" for example; i have also added the missing period after "caress" in line 11 of page 61, and have changed "ever" to "over" in line 16 of page 121. oldport days. by thomas wentworth higginson. boston: lee and shepard, publishers. new york: charles t. dillingham. 1888. entered according to act of congress, in the year 1873, by james r. osgood & co., in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. university press: john wilson and son, cambridge. contents. oldport in winter oldport wharves the haunted window a drift-wood fire an artist's creation in a wherry madam delia's expectations sunshine and petrarch a shadow footpaths oldport days. oldport in winter. our august life rushes by, in oldport, as if we were all shot from the mouth of a cannon, and were endeavoring to exchange visiting-cards on the way. but in september, when the great hotels are closed, and the bronze dogs that guarded the portals of the ocean house are collected sadly in the music pavilion, nose to nose; when the last four-in-hand has departed, and a man may drive a solitary horse on the avenue without a pang,--then we know that "the season" is over. winter is yet several months away,--months of the most delicious autumn weather that the american climate holds. but to the human bird of passage all that is not summer is winter; and those who seek oldport most eagerly for two months are often those who regard it as uninhabitable for the other ten. the persian poet saadi says that in a certain region of armenia, where he travelled, people never died the natural death. but once a year they met on a certain plain, and occupied themselves with recreation, in the midst of which individuals of every rank and age would suddenly stop, make a reverence to the west, and, setting out at full speed toward that part of the desert, be seen no more. it is quite in this fashion that guests disappear from oldport when the season ends. they also are apt to go toward the west, but by steamboat. it is pathetic, on occasion of each annual bereavement, to observe the wonted looks and language of despair among those who linger behind; and it needs some fortitude to think of spending the winter near such a wharf of sighs. but we console ourselves. each season brings its own attractions. in summer one may relish what is new in oldport, as the liveries, the incomes, the manners. there is often a delicious freshness about these exhibitions; it is a pleasure to see some opulent citizen in his first kid gloves. his new-born splendor stands in such brilliant relief against the confirmed respectability of the "old stone mill," the only thing on the atlantic shore which has had time to forget its birthday! but in winter the old mill gives the tone to the society around it; we then bethink ourselves of the crown upon our trinity church steeple, and resolve that the courtesies of a bygone age shall yet linger here. is there any other place in america where gentlemen still take off their hats to one another on the public promenade? the hat is here what it still is in southern europe,--the lineal successor of the sword as the mark of a gentleman. it is noticed that, in going from oldport to new york or boston, one is liable to be betrayed by an over-flourish of the hat, as is an arkansas man by a display of the bowie-knife. winter also imparts to these spacious estates a dignity that is sometimes wanting in summer. i like to stroll over them during this epoch of desertion, just as once, when i happened to hold the keys of a church, it seemed pleasant to sit, on a week-day, among its empty pews. the silent walls appeared to hold the pure essence of the prayers of a generation, while the routine and the ennui had vanished all away. one may here do the same with fashion as there with devotion, extracting its finer flavors, if such there be, unalloyed by vulgarity or sin. in the winter i can fancy these fine houses tenanted by a true nobility; all the sons are brave, and all the daughters virtuous. these balconies have heard the sighs of passion without selfishness; those cedarn alleys have admitted only vows that were never broken. if the occupant of the house be unknown, even by name, so much the better. and from homes more familiar, what lovely childish faces seem still to gaze from the doorways, what graceful absences (to borrow a certain poet's phrase) are haunting those windows! there is a sense of winter quiet that makes a stranger soon feel at home in oldport, while the prospective stir of next summer precludes all feeling of stagnation. commonly, in quiet places, one suffers from the knowledge that everybody would prefer to be unquiet; but nobody has any such longing here. doubtless there are aged persons who deplore the good old times when the oldport mail-bags were larger than those arriving at new york. but if it were so now, what memories would there be to talk about? if you wish for "syrian peace, immortal leisure,"--a place where no grown person ever walks rapidly along the street, and where few care enough for rain to open an umbrella or walk faster,--come here. my abode is on a broad, sunny street, with a few great elms overhead, and with large old houses and grass-banks opposite. there is so little snow that the outlook in the depth of winter is often merely that of a paler and leafless summer, and a soft, springlike sky almost always spreads above. past the window streams an endless sunny panorama (for the house fronts the chief thoroughfare between country and town),--relics of summer equipages in faded grandeur; great, fragrant hay-carts; vast moving mounds of golden straw; loads of crimson onions; heaps of pale green cabbages; piles of gray tree-prunings, looking as if the patrician trees were sending their superfluous wealth of branches to enrich the impoverished orchards of the poor farm; wagons of sea-weed just from the beach, with bright, moist hues, and dripping with sea-water and sea-memories, each weed an argosy, bearing its own wild histories. at this season, the very houses move, and roll slowly by, looking round for more lucrative quarters next season. never have i seen real estate made so transportable as in oldport. the purchaser, after finishing and furnishing to his fancy, puts his name on the door, and on the fence a large white placard inscribed "for sale". then his household arrangements are complete, and he can sit down to enjoy himself. by a side-glance from our window, one may look down an ancient street, which in some early epoch of the world's freshness received the name of spring street. a certain lively lady, addicted to daring scriptural interpretations, thinks that there is some mistake in the current versions of genesis, and that it was spring street which was created in the beginning, and the heavens and earth at some subsequent period. there are houses in spring street, and there is a confectioner's shop; but it is not often that a sound comes across its rugged pavements, save perchance (in summer) the drone of an ancient hand-organ, such as might have been devised by adam to console his eve when paradise was lost. yet of late the desecrating hammer and the ear-piercing saw have entered that haunt of ancient peace. may it be long ere any such invasion reaches those strange little wharves in the lower town, full of small, black, gambrel-roofed houses, with projecting eaves that might almost serve for piazzas. it is possible for an unpainted wooden building to assume, in this climate, a more time-worn aspect than that of any stone; and on these wharves everything is so old, and yet so stunted, you might fancy that the houses had been sent down there to play during their childhood, and that nobody had ever remembered to fetch them back. the ancient aspect of things around us, joined with the softening influences of the gulf stream, imparts an air of chronic languor to the special types of society which here prevail in winter,--as, for instance, people of leisure, trades-people living on their summer's gains, and, finally, fishermen. those who pursue this last laborious calling are always lazy to the eye, for they are on shore only in lazy moments. they work by night or at early dawn, and by day they perhaps lie about on the rocks, or sit upon one heel beside a fish-house door. i knew a missionary who resigned his post at the isles of shoals because it was impossible to keep the sunday worshippers from lying at full length on the seats. our boatmen have the same habit, and there is a certain dreaminess about them, in whatever posture. indeed, they remind one quite closely of the german boatman in uhland, who carried his reveries so far as to accept three fees from one passenger. but the truth is, that in oldport we all incline to the attitude of repose. now and then a man comes here, from farther east, with the new england fever in his blood, and with a pestilent desire to do something. you hear of him, presently, proposing that the town hall should be repainted. opposition would require too much effort, and the thing is done. but the gulf stream soon takes its revenge on the intruder, and gradually repaints him also, with its own soft and mellow tints. in a few years he would no more bestir himself to fight for a change than to fight against it. it makes us smile a little, therefore, to observe that universal delusion among the summer visitors, that we spend all winter in active preparations for next season. not so; we all devote it solely to meditations on the season past. i observe that nobody in oldport ever believes in any coming summer. perhaps the tide is turned, we think, and people will go somewhere else. you do not find us altering our houses in december, or building out new piazzas even in march. we wait till the people have actually come to occupy them. the preparation for visitors is made after the visitors have arrived. this may not be the way in which things are done in what are called "smart business places." but it is our way in oldport. it is another delusion to suppose that we are bored by this long epoch of inactivity. not at all; we enjoy it. if you enter a shop in winter, you will find everybody rejoiced to see you--as a friend; but if it turns out that you have come as a customer, people will look a little disappointed. it is rather inconsiderate of you to make such demands out of season. winter is not exactly the time for that sort of thing. it seems rather to violate the conditions of the truce. could you not postpone the affair till next july? every country has its customs; i observe that in some places, new york for instance, the shopkeepers seem rather to enjoy a "field-day" when the sun and the customers are out. in oldport, on the contrary, men's spirits droop at such times, and they go through their business sadly. they force themselves to it during the summer, perhaps,--for one must make some sacrifices,--but in winter it is inappropriate as strawberries and cream. the same spirit of repose pervades the streets. nobody ever looks in a hurry, or as if an hour's delay would affect the thing in hand. the nearest approach to a mob is when some stranger, thinking himself late for the train (as if the thing were possible), is tempted to run a few steps along the sidewalk. on such an occasion i have seen doors open, and heads thrust out. but ordinarily even the physicians drive slowly, as if they wished to disguise their profession, or to soothe the nerves of some patient who may be gazing from a window. yet they are not to be censured, since death, their antagonist, here drives slowly too. the number of the aged among us is surprising, and explains some phenomena otherwise strange. you will notice, for instance, that there are no posts before the houses in oldport to which horses may be tied. fashionable visitors might infer that every horse is supposed to be attended by a groom. yet the tradition is, that there were once as many posts here as elsewhere, but that they were removed to get rid of the multitude of old men who leaned all day against them. it obstructed the passing. and these aged citizens, while permitted to linger at their posts, were gossiping about men still older, in earthly or heavenly habitations, and the sensation of longevity went on accumulating indefinitely in their talk. their very disputes had a flavor of antiquity, and involved the reputation of female relatives to the third or fourth generation. an old fisherman testified in our police court, the other day, in narrating the progress of a street quarrel; "then i called him 'polly garter,'--that's his grandmother; and he called me 'susy reynolds,'--that's my aunt that's dead and gone." in towns like this, from which the young men mostly migrate, the work of life devolves upon the venerable and the very young. when i first came to oldport, it appeared to me that every institution was conducted by a boy and his grandfather. this seemed the case, for instance, with the bank that consented to assume the slender responsibility of my deposits. it was further to be observed, that, if the elder official was absent for a day, the boy carried on the proceedings unaided; while if the boy also wished to amuse himself elsewhere, a worthy neighbor from across the way came in to fill the places of both. seeing this, i retained my small hold upon the concern with fresh tenacity; for who knew but some day, when the directors also had gone on a picnic, the senior depositor might take his turn at the helm? it may savor of self-confidence, but it has always seemed to me, that, with one day's control of a bank, even in these degenerate times, something might be done which would quite astonish the stockholders. longer acquaintance has, however, revealed the fact, that these oldport institutions stand out as models of strict discipline beside their suburban compeers. a friend of mine declares that he went lately into a country bank, nearby, and found no one on duty. being of opinion that there should always be someone behind the counter of a bank, he went there himself. wishing to be informed as to the resources of his establishment, he explored desks and vaults, found a good deal of paper of different kinds, and some rich veins of copper, but no cashier. going to the door again in some anxiety, he encountered a casual school-boy, who kindly told him that he did not know where the financial officer might be at the precise moment of inquiry, but that half an hour before he was on the wharf, fishing. death comes to the aged at last, however, even in oldport. we have lately lost, for instance, that patient old postman, serenest among our human antiquities, whose deliberate tread might have imparted a tone of repose to broadway, could any imagination have transferred him thither. through him the correspondence of other days came softened of all immediate solicitude. ere it reached you, friends had died or recovered, debtors had repented, creditors grown kind, or your children had paid your debts. perils had passed, hopes were chastened, and the most eager expectant took calmly the missive from that tranquillizing hand. meeting his friends and clients with a step so slow that it did not even stop rapidly, he, like tennyson's mariana, slowly "from his bosom drew old letters." but a summons came at last, not to be postponed even by him. one day he delivered his mail as usual, with no undue precipitation; on the next, the blameless soul was himself taken and forwarded on some celestial route. irreparable would have seemed his loss, did there not still linger among us certain types of human antiquity that might seem to disprove the fabled youth of america. one veteran i daily meet, of uncertain age, perhaps, but with at least that air of brevet antiquity which long years of unruffled indolence can give. he looks as if he had spent at least half a lifetime on the sunny slope of some beach, and the other half in leaning upon his elbows at the window of some sailor boarding-house. he is hale and broad, with a head sunk between two strong shoulders; his beard falls like snow upon his breast, longer and longer each year, while his slumberous thoughts seem to move slowly enough to watch it as it grows. i always fancy that these meditations have drifted far astern of the times, but are following after, in patient hopelessness, as a dog swims behind a boat. what knows he of the president's message? he has just overtaken some remarkable catch of mackerel in the year thirty-eight. his hands lie buried fathom-deep in his pockets, as if part of his brain lay there to be rummaged; and he sucks at his old pipe as if his head, like other venerable hulks, must be smoked out at intervals. his walk is that of a sloth, one foot dragging heavily behind the other. i meet him as i go to the post-office, and on returning, twenty minutes later, i pass him again, a little farther advanced. all the children accost him, and i have seen him stop--no great retardation indeed--to fondle in his arms a puppy or a kitten. yet he is liable to excitement, in his way; for once, in some high debate, wherein he assisted as listener, when one old man on a wharf was doubting the assertion of another old man about a certain equinoctial gale, i saw my friend draw his right hand slowly and painfully from his pocket, and let it fall by his side. it was really one of the most emphatic gesticulations i ever saw, and tended obviously to quell the rising discord. it was as if the herald at a tournament had dropped his truncheon, and the fray must end. women's faces are apt to take from old age a finer touch than those of men, and poverty does not interfere with this, where there is no actual exposure to the elements. from the windows of these old houses there often look forth delicate, faded countenances, to which belongs an air of unmistakable refinement. nowhere in america, i fancy, does one see such counterparts of the reduced gentlewoman of england,--as described, for instance, in "cranford,"--quiet maiden ladies of seventy, with perhaps a tradition of beauty and bellehood, and still wearing always a bit of blue ribbon on their once golden curls,--this headdress being still carefully arranged, each day, by some handmaiden of sixty, so long a house-mate as to seem a sister, though some faint suggestion of wages and subordination may be still preserved. among these ladies, as in "cranford," there is a dignified reticence in respect to money-matters, and a courteous blindness to the small economies practised by each other. it is not held good breeding, when they meet in a shop of a morning, for one to seem to notice what another buys. these ancient ladies have coats of arms upon their walls, hereditary damasks among their scanty wardrobes, store of domestic traditions in their brains, and a whole court guide of high-sounding names at their fingers' ends. they can tell you of the supposed sister of an english queen, who married an american officer and dwelt in oldport; of the scotch lady janet, who eloped with her tutor, and here lived in poverty, paying her washerwoman with costly lace from her trunks; of the oldport dame who escaped from france at the opening of the revolution, was captured by pirates on her voyage to america, then retaken by a privateer and carried into boston, where she took refuge in john hancock's house. they can describe to you the malbone gardens, and, as the night wanes and the embers fade, can give the tale of the phantom of rough point. gliding farther and farther into the past, they revert to the brilliant historic period of oldport, the successive english and french occupations during our revolution, and show you gallant inscriptions in honor of their grandmothers, written on the window-panes by the diamond rings of the foreign officers. the newer strata of oldport society are formed chiefly by importation, and have the one advantage of a variety of origin which puts provincialism out of the question. the mild winter climate and the supposed cheapness of living draw scattered families from the various atlantic cities; and, coming from such different sources, these visitors leave some exclusiveness behind. the boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, are doubtless good things to have in one's house, but are cumbrous to travel with. meeting here on central ground, partial aristocracies tend to neutralize each other. a boston family comes, bristling with genealogies, and making the most of its little all of two centuries. another arrives from philadelphia, equally fortified in local heraldries unknown in boston. a third from new york brings a briefer pedigree, but more gilded. their claims are incompatible; but there is no common standard, and so neither can have precedence. since no human memory can retain the great-grandmothers of three cities, we are practically as well off as if we had no great-grandmothers at all. but in oldport, as elsewhere, the spice of conversation is apt to be in inverse ratio to family tree and income-tax, and one can hear better repartees among the boat-builders' shops on long wharf than among those who have made the grand tour. all the world over, one is occasionally reminded of the french officer's verdict on the garrison town where he was quartered, that the good society was no better than the good society anywhere else, but the bad society was capital. i like, for instance, to watch the shoals of fishermen that throng our streets in the early spring, inappropriate as porpoises on land, or as scott's pirates in peaceful kirkwall,--unwieldy, bearded creatures in oil-skin suits,--men who have never before seen a basket-wagon or a liveried groom and, whose first comments on the daintinesses of fashion are far more racy than anything which fashion can say for itself. the life of our own fishermen and pilots remains active, in its way, all winter; and coasting vessels come and go in the open harbor every day. the only schooner that is not so employed is, to my eye, more attractive than any of them; it is our sole winter guest, this year, of all the graceful flotilla of yachts that helped to make our summer moonlights so charming. while europe seems in such ecstasy over the ocean yacht-race, there lies at anchor, stripped and dismantled, a vessel which was excluded from the match, it is said, simply because neither of the three competitors would have had a chance against her. i like to look across the harbor at the graceful proportions of this uncrowned victor in the race she never ran; and to my eye her laurels are the most attractive. she seems a fit emblem of the genius that waits, while talent merely wins. "let me know," said that fine, but unappreciated thinker, brownlee brown,--"let me know what chances a man has passed in contempt; not what he has made, but what he has refused to make, reserving himself for higher ends." all out-door work in winter has a cheerful look, from the triumph of caloric it implies; but i know none in which man seems to revert more to the lower modes of being than in searching for seaclams. one may sometimes observe a dozen men employed in this way, on one of our beaches, while the cold wind blows keenly off shore, and the spray drifts back like snow over the green and sluggish surge. the men pace in and out with the wave, going steadily to and fro like a pendulum, ankle-deep in the chilly brine, their steps quickened by hope or slackening with despair. where the maidens and children sport and shout in summer, there in winter these heavy figures succeed. to them the lovely crest of the emerald billow is but a chariot for clams, and is valueless if it comes in empty. really, the position of the clam is the more dignified, since he moves only with the wave, and the immortal being in fish-boots wades for him. the harbor and the beach are thus occupied in winter; but one may walk for many a mile along the cliffs, and see nothing human but a few gardeners, spreading green and white sea-weed as manure upon the lawns. the mercury rarely drops to zero here, and there is little snow; but a new-fallen drift has just the same virgin beauty as farther inland, and when one suddenly comes in view of the sea beyond it, there is a sensation of summer softness. the water is not then deep blue, but pale, with opaline reflections. vessels in the far horizon have the same delicate tint, as if woven of the same liquid material. a single wave lifts itself languidly above a reef,--a white-breasted loon floats near the shore,--the sea breaks in long, indolent curves,--the distant islands swim in a vague mirage. along the cliffs hang great organ-pipes of ice, distilling showers of drops that glitter in the noonday sun, while the barer rocks send up a perpetual steam, giving to the eye a sense of warmth, and suggesting the comforts of fire. beneath, the low tide reveals long stretches of golden-brown sea-weed, caressed by the lapping wave. high winds bring a different scene. sometimes i fancy that in winter, with less visible life upon the surface of the water, and less of unseen animal life below it, there is yet more that seems like vital force in the individual particles of waves. each separate drop appears more charged with desperate and determined life. the lines of surf run into each other more brokenly, and with less steady roll. the low sun, too, lends a weird and jagged shadow to gallop in before the crest of each advancing wave, and sometimes there is a second crest on the shoulders of the first, as if there were more than could be contained in a single curve. greens and purples are called forth to replace the prevailing blue. far out at sea, great separate mounds of water rear themselves, as if to overlook the tossing plain. sometimes these move onward and subside with their green hue still unbroken, and again they curve into detached hillocks of foam, white, multitudinous, side by side, not ridged, but moving on like a mob of white horses, neck overarching neck, breast crowded against breast. across those tumultuous waves i like to watch, after sunset, the revolving light; there is something about it so delicate and human. it seems to bud or bubble out of the low, dark horizon; a moment, and it is not, and then another moment, and it is. with one throb the tremulous light is born; with another throb it has reached its full size, and looks at you, coy and defiant; and almost in that instant it is utterly gone. you cannot conceive yourself to be watching something which merely turns on an axis; but it seems suddenly to expand, a flower of light, or to close, as if soft petals of darkness clasped it in. during its moments of absence, the eye cannot quite keep the memory of its precise position, and it often appears a hair-breadth to the right or left of the expected spot. this enhances the elfish and fantastic look, and so the pretty game goes on, with flickering surprises, every night and all night long. but the illusion of the seasons is just as coquettish; and when next summer comes to us, with its blossoms and its joys, it will dawn as softly out of the darkness and as softly give place to winter once more. oldport wharves. everyone who comes to a wharf feels an impulse to follow it down, and look from the end. there is a fascination about it. it is the point of contact between land and sea. a bridge evades the water, and unites land with land, as if there were no obstacle. but a wharf seeks the water, and grasps it with a solid hand. it is the sign of a lasting friendship; once extended, there it remains; the water embraces it, takes it into its tumultuous bosom at high tide, leaves it in peace at ebb, rushes back to it eagerly again, plays with it in sunshine, surges round it in storm, almost crushing the massive thing. but the pledge once given is never withdrawn. buildings may rise and fall, but a solid wharf is almost indestructible. even if it seems destroyed, its materials are all there. this shore might be swept away, these piers be submerged or dashed asunder, still every brick and stone would remain. half the wharves of oldport were ruined in the great storm of 1815. yet not one of them has stirred from the place where it lay; its foundations have only spread more widely and firmly; they are a part of the very pavement of the harbor, submarine mountain ranges, on one of which yonder schooner now lies aground. thus the wild ocean only punished itself, and has been embarrassed for half a century, like many another mad profligate, by the wrecks of what it ruined. yet the surges are wont to deal very tenderly with these wharves. in summer the sea decks them with floating weeds, and studs them with an armor of shells. in the winter it surrounds them with a smoother mail of ice, and the detached piles stand white and gleaming, like the out-door palace of a russian queen. how softly and eagerly this coming tide swirls round them! all day the fishes haunt their shadows; all night the phosphorescent water glimmers by them, and washes with long, refluent waves along their sides, decking their blackness with a spray of stars. water seems the natural outlet and discharge for every landscape, and when we have followed down this artificial promontory, a wharf, and have seen the waves on three sides of us, we have taken the first step toward circumnavigating the globe. this is our last terra firma. one step farther, and there is no possible foothold but a deck, which tilts and totters beneath our feet. a wharf, therefore, is properly neutral ground for all. it is a silent hospitality, understood by all nations. it is in some sort a thing of universal ownership. having once built it, you must grant its use to everyone; it is no trespass to land upon any man's wharf. the sea, like other beautiful savage creatures, derives most of its charm from its reserves of untamed power. when a wild animal is subdued to abjectness, all its interest is gone. the ocean is never thus humiliated. so slight an advance of its waves would overwhelm us, if only the restraining power once should fail, and the water keep on rising! even here, in these safe haunts of commerce, we deal with the same salt tide which i myself have seen ascend above these piers, and which within half a century drowned a whole family in their home upon our long wharf. it is still the same ungoverned ocean which, twice in every twenty-four hours, reasserts its right of way, and stops only where it will. at monckton, on the bay of fundy, the wharves are built forty feet high, and at ebb-tide you may look down on the schooners lying aground upon the mud below. in six hours they will be floating at your side. but the motions of the tide are as resistless whether its rise be six feet or forty; as in the lazy stretching of the caged lion's paw you can see all the terrors of his spring. our principal wharf, the oldest in the town, has lately been doubled in size, and quite transformed in shape, by an importation of broad acres from the country. it is now what is called "made land,"--a manufacture which has grown so easy that i daily expect to see some enterprising contractor set up endwise a bar of railroad iron, and construct a new planet at its summit, which shall presently go spinning off into space and be called an asteroid. there are some people whom would it be pleasant to colonize in that way; but meanwhile the unchanged southern side of the pier seems pleasanter, with its boat-builders' shops, all facing sunward,--a cheerful haunt upon a winter's day. on the early maps this wharf appears as "queen-hithe," a name more graceful than its present cognomen. "hithe" or "hythe" signifies a small harbor, and is the final syllable of many english names, as of lambeth. hythe is also one of those cinque-ports of which the duke of wellington was warden. this wharf was probably still familiarly called queen-hithe in 1781, when washington and rochambeau walked its length bareheaded between the ranks of french soldiers; and it doubtless bore that name when dean berkeley arrived in 1729, and the rev. mr. honyman and all his flock closed hastily their prayer-books, and hastened to the landing to receive their guest. but it had lost this name ere the days, yet remembered by aged men, when the long wharf became a market. beeves were then driven thither and tethered, while each hungry applicant marked with a piece of chalk upon the creature's side the desired cut; when a sufficient portion had been thus secured, the sentence of death was issued. fancy the chalk a live coal, or the beast endowed with human consciousness, and no indian, or inquisitorial tortures could have been more fearful. it is like visiting the houses at pompeii, to enter the strange little black warehouses which cover some of our smaller wharves. they are so old and so small it seems as if some race of pygmies must have built them. though they are two or three stories high, with steep gambrel-roofs, and heavily timbered, their rooms are yet so low that a man six feet high can hardly stand upright beneath the great cross-beams. there is a row of these structures, for instance, described on a map of 1762 as "the old buildings on lopez' wharf," and to these another century has probably brought very little change. lopez was a portuguese jew, who came to this place, with several hundred others, after the lisbon earthquake of 1755. he is said to have owned eighty square-rigged vessels in this port, from which not one such craft now sails. his little counting-room is in the second storey of the building; its wall-timbers are of oak, and are still sound; the few remaining planks are grained to resemble rosewood and mahogany; the fragments of wall-paper are of english make. in the cross-beam, just above your head, are the pigeon-holesonce devoted to different vessels, whose names are still recorded above them on faded paper,--"ship cleopatra," "brig juno," and the like. many of these vessels measured less than two hundred tons, and it seems as if their owner had built his ships to match the size of his counting-room. a sterner tradition clings around an old building on a remoter wharf; for men have but lately died who had seen slaves pass within its doors for confinement. the wharf in those days appertained to a distillery, an establishment then constantly connected with the slave-trade, rum being sent to africa, and human beings brought back. occasionally a cargo was landed here, instead of being sent to the west indies or to south carolina, and this building was fitted up for their temporary quarters. it is but some twenty-five feet square, and must be less than thirty feet in height, yet it is divided into three stories, of which the lowest was used for other purposes, and the two upper were reserved for slaves. there are still to be seen the barred partitions and latticed door, making half the second floor into a sort of cage, while the agent's room appears to have occupied the other half. a similar latticed door--just such as i have seen in southern slave-pens--secures the foot of the upper stairway. the whole small attic constitutes a single room, with a couple of windows, and two additional breathing-holes, two feet square, opening on the yard. it makes one sick to think of the poor creatures who may once have gripped those bars with their hands, or have glared with eager eyes between them; and it makes me recall with delight the day when i once wrenched away the stocks and chains from the floor of a pen like this, on the st. mary's river in florida. it is almost forty years since this distillery became a mill, and sixty since the slave-trade was abolished. the date "1803" is scrawled upon the door of the cage,--the very year when the port of charleston was reopened for slaves, just before the traffic ceased. a few years more, and such horrors will seem as remote a memory in south carolina, thank god! as in rhode island. other wharves are occupied by mast-yards, places that seem like play-rooms for grown men, crammed fuller than any old garret with those odds and ends in which the youthful soul delights. there are planks and spars and timber, broken rudders, rusty anchors, coils of rope, bales of sail-cloth, heaps of blocks, piles of chain-cable, great iron tar-kettles like antique helmets, strange machines for steaming planks, inexplicable little chimneys, engines that seem like dwarf-locomotives, windlasses that apparently turn nothing, and incipient canals that lead nowhere. for in these yards there seems no particular difference between land and water; the tide comes and goes anywhere, and nobody minds it; boats are drawn up among burdocks and ambrosia, and the platform on which you stand suddenly proves to be something afloat. vessels are hauled upon the ways, each side of the wharf, their poor ribs pitiably unclothed, ready for a cumbrous mantua-making of oak and iron. on one side, within a floating boom, lies a fleet of masts and unhewn logs, tethered uneasily, like a herd of captive sea-monsters, rocking in the ripples. a vast shed, that has doubtless looked ready to fall for these dozen years spreads over, half the entrance to the wharf, and is filled with spars, knee-timber, and planks of fragrant wood; its uprights are festooned with all manner of great hawsers and smaller ropes, and its dim loft is piled with empty casks and idle sails. the sun always seems to shine in a ship-yard; there are apt to be more loungers than laborers, and this gives a pleasant air of repose; the neighboring water softens all harsher sounds, the foot treads upon an elastic carpet of embedded chips, and pleasant resinous odors are in the air. then there are wharves quite abandoned by commerce, and given over to small tenements, filled with families so abundant that they might dispel the fears of those alarmists who suspect that children are ceasing to be born. shrill voices resound there--american or irish, as the case may be--through the summer noontides; and the domestic clothes-line forever stretches across the paths where imported slaves once trod, or rich merchandise lay piled. some of these abodes are nestled in the corners of houses once stately, with large windows and carven doorways. others occupy separate buildings, almost always of black, unpainted wood, sometimes with the long, sloping roof of massachusetts, oftener with the quaint "gambrel" of rhode island. from the busiest point of our main street, i can show you a single cottage, with low gables, projecting eaves, and sheltering sweetbrier, that seems as if it must have strayed hither, a century or two ago, out of some english lane. some of the more secluded wharves appear wholly deserted by men and women, and are tenanted alone by rats and boys,--two amphibious races; either can swim anywhere, or scramble and penetrate everywhere. the boys launch some abandoned skiff, and, with an oar for a sail and another for a rudder, pass from wharf to wharf; nor would it be surprising if the bright-eyed rats were to take similar passage on a shingle. yet, after all, the human juveniles are the more sagacious brood. it is strange that people should go to europe, and seek the society of potentates less imposing, when home can endow them with the occasional privilege of a nod from an american boy. in these sequestered haunts, i frequently meet some urchin three feet high who carries with him an air of consummate worldly experience that completely overpowers me, and i seem to shrink to the dimensions of tom thumb. before his calm and terrible glance all disguises fail. you may put on a bold and careless air, and affect to overlook him as you pass; but it is like assuming to ignore the existence of the pope of rome, or of the london times. he knows better. grown men are never very formidable; they are shy and shamefaced themselves, usually preoccupied, and not very observing. if they see a man loitering about, without visible aim, they class him as a mild imbecile, and let him go; but boys are nature's detectives, and one does not so easily evade their scrutinizing eyes. i know full well that, while i study their ways, they are noting mine through a clearer lens, and are probably taking my measure far better than i take theirs. one instinctively shrinks from making a sketch or memorandum while they are by; and if caught in the act, one fondly hopes to pass for some harmless speculator in real estate, whose pencillings may be only a matter of habit, like those casual sums in compound interest which are usually to be found scrawled on the margins of the daily papers in boston reading-rooms. our wharves are almost all connected by intricate by-ways among the buildings; and one almost wishes to be a pirate or a smuggler, for the pleasure of eluding the officers of justice through such seductive paths. it is, perhaps, to counteract this perilous fascination that our new police-office has been established on a wharf. you will see its brick tower rising not ungracefully, as you enter the inner harbor; it looks the better for being almost windowless, though beauty was not the aim of the omission. a curious stranger is said to have asked one of our city fathers the reason of this peculiarity. "no use in windows," said the experienced official sadly; "the boys would only break 'em." it seems very unjust to assert that there is no subordination in our american society; the citizens show deference to the police, and the police to the boys. the ancient aspect of these wharves extends itself sometimes to the vessels which lie moored beside them. at yonder pier, for instance, has lain for thirteen years a decaying bark, which was suspected of being engaged in the slave-trade. she was run ashore and abandoned on block island, in the winter of 1854, and was afterwards brought in here. her purchaser was offered eight thousand dollars for his bargain, but refused it; and here the vessel has remained, paying annual wharf dues and charges, till she is worthless. she lies chained at the wharf, and the tide rises and falls within her, thus furnishing a convenient bathing-house for the children, who also find a perpetual gymnasium in the broken shrouds that dangle from her masts. turner, when he painted his "slave-ship," could have asked no better model. there is no name upon the stern, and it exhibits merely a carved eagle, with the wings clipped and the head knocked off. only the lower masts remain, which are of a dismal black, as are the tops and mizzen cross-trees. within the bulwarks, on each side, stand rows of black blocks, to which the shrouds were once attached; these blocks are called by sailors "dead-eyes," and each stands in weird mockery, with its three ominous holes, like so many human skulls before some palace in dahomey. other blocks like these swing more ominously yet at the ends of the shrouds, that still hang suspended, waving and creaking and jostling in the wind. each year the ropes decay, and soon the repulsive pendants will be gone. not so with the iron belaying-pins, a few of which still stand around the mast, so rusted into the iron fife-rail that even the persevering industry of the children cannot wrench them out. it seems as if some guilty stain must cling to their sides, and hold them in. by one of those fitnesses which fortune often adjusts, but which seem incredible in art, the wharf is now used on one side for the storage of slate, and the hulk is approached through an avenue of gravestones. i never find myself in that neighborhood but my steps instinctively seek that condemned vessel, whether by day, when she makes a dark foreground for the white yachts and the summer waves, or by night, when the storm breaks over her desolate deck. if we follow northward from "queen-hithe" along the shore, we pass into a region where the ancient wharves of commerce, ruined in 1815, have never been rebuilt; and only slender pathways for pleasure voyagers now stretch above the submerged foundations. once the court end of the town, then its commercial centre, it is now divided between the tenements of fishermen and the summer homes of city households. still the great old houses remain, with mahogany stairways, carved wainscoting, and painted tiles; the sea has encroached upon their gardens, and only boats like mine approach where english dukes and french courtiers once landed. at the head of yonder private wharf, in that spacious and still cheerful abode, dwelt the beautiful robinson sisterhood,--the three quaker belles of revolutionary days, the memory of whose loves might lend romance to this neighborhood forever. one of these maidens was asked in marriage by a captain in the english army, and was banished by her family to the narragansett shore, under a flag of truce, to avoid him; her lover was afterward killed by a cannon-ball, in his tent, and she died unwedded. another was sought by two aspirants, who came in the same ship to woo her, the one from philadelphia, the other from new york. she refused them both, and they sailed southward together; but, the wind proving adverse, they returned, and one lingered till he won her hand. still another lover was forced into a vessel by his friends, to tear him from the enchanted neighborhood; while sailing past the house, he suddenly threw himself into the water,--it must have been about where the end of the wharf now rests,--that he might be rescued, and carried, a passive leander, into yonder door. the house was first the head-quarters of the english commander, then of the french; and the sentinels of de noailles once trod where now croquet-balls form the heaviest ordnance. peaceful and untitled guests now throng in summer where st. vincents and northumberlands once rustled and glittered; and there is nothing to recall those brilliant days except the painted tiles on the chimney, where there is a choice society of coquettes and beaux, priests and conjurers, beggars and dancers, and every wig and hoop dates back to the days of queen anne. sometimes when i stand upon this pier by night, and look across the calm black water, so still, perhaps, that the starry reflections seem to drop through it in prolonged javelins of light instead of resting on the surface, and the opposite lighthouse spreads its cloth of gold across the bay,--i can imagine that i discern the french and english vessels just weighing anchor; i see de lauzun and de noailles embarking, and catch the last sheen upon their lace, the last glitter of their swords. it vanishes, and i see only the lighthouse gleam, and the dark masts of a sunken ship across the neighboring island. those motionless spars have, after all, a nearer interest, and, as i saw them sink, i will tell their tale. that vessel came in here one day last august, a stately, full-sailed bark; nor was it known, till she had anchored, that she was a mass of imprisoned fire below. she was the "trajan," from rockland, bound to new orleans with a cargo of lime, which took fire in a gale of wind, being wet with sea-water as the vessel rolled. the captain and crew retreated to the deck, and made the hatches fast, leaving even their clothing and provisions below. they remained on deck, after reaching this harbor, till the planks grew too hot beneath their feet, and the water came boiling from the pumps. then the vessel was towed into a depth of five fathoms, to be scuttled and sunk. i watched her go down. early impressions from "peter parley" had portrayed the sinking of a vessel as a frightful plunge, endangering all around, like a maelstrom. the actual process was merely a subsidence so calm and gentle that a child might have stood upon the deck till it sank beneath him, and then might have floated away. instead of a convulsion, it was something stately and very pathetic to the imagination. the bark remained almost level, the bows a little higher than the stern; and her breath appeared to be surrendered in a series of pulsations, as if every gasp of the lungs admitted more of the suffocating wave. after each long heave, she went visibly a few inches deeper, and then paused. the face of the benign emperor, her namesake, was on the stern; first sank the carven beard, then the rather mutilated nose, then the white and staring eyes, that gazed blankly over the engulfing waves. the figure-head was trajan again, at full length, with the costume of an indian hunter, and the face of a roman sage; this image lingered longer, and then vanished, like victor hugo's gilliatt, by cruel gradations. meanwhile the gilded name upon the taffrail had slowly disappeared also; but even when the ripples began to meet across her deck, still her descent was calm. as the water gained, the hidden fire was extinguished, and the smoke, at first densely rising, grew rapidly less. yet when it had stopped altogether, and all but the top of the cabin had disappeared, there came a new ebullition of steam, like a hot spring, throwing itself several feet in air, and then ceasing. as the vessel went down, several beams and planks came springing endwise up the hatchway, like liberated men. but nothing had a stranger look to me than some great black casks which had been left on deck. these, as the water floated them, seemed to stir and wake, and to become gifted with life, and then got into motion and wallowed heavily about, like hippopotami or any unwieldy and bewildered beasts. at last the most enterprising of them slid somehow to the bulwark, and, after several clumsy efforts, shouldered itself over; then others bounced out, eagerly following, as sheep leap a wall, and then they all went bobbing away, over the dancing waves. for the wind blew fresh meanwhile, and there were some twenty sail-boats lying-to with reefed sails by the wreck, like so many sea-birds; and when the loose stuff began to be washed from the deck, they all took wing at once, to save whatever could be picked up,--since at such times, as at a conflagration on land, every little thing seems to assume a value,--and at last one young fellow steered boldly up to the sinking ship itself, sprang upon the vanishing taffrail for one instant, as if resolved to be the last on board, and then pushed off again. i never saw anything seem so extinguished out of the universe as that great vessel, which had towered so colossal above my little boat; it was impossible to imagine that she was all there yet, beneath the foaming and indifferent waves. no effort has yet been made to raise her; and a dead eagle seems to have more in common with the living bird than has now this submerged and decaying hulk with the white and winged creature that came sailing into our harbor on that summer day. it shows what conversational resources are always at hand in a seaport town, that the boatman with whom i first happened to visit this burning vessel had been thrice at sea on ships similarly destroyed, and could give all the particulars of their fate. i know no class of uneducated men whose talk is so apt to be worth hearing as that of sailors. even apart from their personal adventures and their glimpses at foreign lands, they have made observations of nature which are far more careful and minute than those of farmers, because the very lives of sailors are always at risk. their voyages have also made them sociable and fond of talk, while the pursuits of most men tend to make them silent; and their constant changes of scene, though not touching them very deeply, have really given a certain enlargement to their minds. a quiet demeanor in a seaport town proves nothing; the most inconspicuous man may have the most thrilling career to look back upon. with what a superb familiarity do these men treat this habitable globe! cape horn and the cape of good hope are in their phrase but the west cape and the east cape, merely two familiar portals of their wonted home. with what undisguised contempt they speak of the enthusiasm displayed over the ocean yacht-race! that any man should boast of crossing the atlantic in a schooner of two hundred tons, in presence of those who have more than once reached the indian ocean in a fishing-smack of fifty, and have beaten in the homeward race the ships in whose company they sailed! it is not many years since there was here a fishing-skipper, whose surname was "daredevil," and who sailed from this port to all parts of the world, on sealing voyages, in a sloop so small that she was popularly said to go under water when she got outside the lights, and never to reappear until she reached her port. and not only those who sail on long voyages, but even our local pilots and fishermen, still lead an adventurous and untamed life, less softened than any other by the appliances of modern days. in their undecked boats they hover day and night along these stormy coasts, and at any hour the beating of the long-roll upon the beach may call their full manhood into action. cowardice is sifted and crushed out from among them by a pressure so constant; and they are withal truthful and steady in their ways, with few vices and many virtues. they are born poor, and remain poor, for their work is hard, with more blanks than prizes; but their life is a life for a man, and though it makes them prematurely old, yet their old age comes peacefully and well. in almost all pursuits the advance of years brings something forlorn. it is not merely that the body decays, but that men grow isolated and are pushed aside; there is no common interest between age and youth. the old farmer leads a lonely existence, and ceases to meet his compeers except on sunday; nobody consults him; his experience has been monotonous, and his age is apt to grow unsocial. the old mechanic finds his tools and his methods superseded by those of younger men. but the superannuated fisherman graduates into an oracle; the longer he lives, the greater the dignity of his experience; he remembers the great storm, the great tide, the great catch, the great shipwreck; and on all emergencies his counsel has weight. he still busies himself about the boats too, and still sails on sunny days to show the youngsters the best fishing-ground. when too infirm for even this, he can at least sun himself beside the landing, and, dreaming over inexhaustible memories, watch the bark of his own life go down. the haunted window. it was always a mystery to me where severance got precisely his combination of qualities. his father was simply what is called a handsome man, with stately figure and curly black hair, not without a certain dignity of manner, but with a face so shallow that it did not even seem to ripple, and with a voice so prosy that, when he spoke of the sky, you wished there were no such thing. his mother was a fair, little, pallid creature,--wash-blond, as they say of lace,--patient, meek, and always fatigued and fatiguing. but severance, as i first knew him, was the soul of activity. he had dark eyes, that had a great deal of light in them, without corresponding depth; his hair was dark, straight, and very soft; his mouth expressed sweetness, without much strength; he talked well; and though he was apt to have a wandering look, as if his thoughts were laying a submarine cable to another continent, yet the young girls were always glad to have the semblance of conversation with him in this. to me he was in the last degree lovable. he had just enough of that subtile quality called genius, perhaps, to spoil first his companions, and then himself. his words had weight with you, though you might know yourself wiser; and if you went to give him the most reasonable advice, you were suddenly seized with a slight paralysis of the tongue. thus it was, at any rate, with me. we were cemented therefore by the firmest ties,--a nominal seniority on my part, and a substantial supremacy on his. we lodged one summer at an old house in that odd suburb of oldport called "the point." it is a sort of artists' quarter of the town, frequented by a class of summer visitors more addicted to sailing and sketching than to driving and bowing,--persons who do not object to simple fare, and can live, as one of them said, on potatoes and point. here severance and i made our summer home, basking in the delicious sunshine of the lovely bay. the bare outlines around oldport sometimes dismay the stranger, but soon fascinate. nowhere does one feel bareness so little, because there is no sharpness of perspective; everything shimmers in the moist atmosphere; the islands are all glamour and mirage; and the undulating hills of the horizon seem each like the soft, arched back of some pet animal, and you long to caress them with your hand. at last your thoughts begin to swim also, and pass into vague fancies, which you also love to caress. severance and i were constantly afloat, body and mind. he was a perfect sailor, and had that dreaminess in his nature which matches with nothing but the ripple of the waves. still, i could not hide from myself that he was a changed man since that voyage in search of health from which he had just returned. his mother talked in her humdrum way about heart disease; and his father, taking up the strain, bored us about organic lesions, till we almost wished he had a lesion himself. severance ridiculed all this; but he grew more and more moody, and his eyes seemed to be laying more submarine cables than ever. when we were not on the water, we both liked to mouse about the queer streets and quaint old houses of that region, and to chat with the fishermen and their grandmothers. there was one house, however, which was very attractive to me,--perhaps because nobody lived in it, and which, for that or some other reason, he never would approach. it was a great square building of rough gray stone, looking like those sombre houses which everyone remembers in montreal, but which are rare in "the states." it had been built many years before by some millionnaire from new orleans, and was left unfinished, nobody knew why, till the garden was a wilderness of bloom, and the windows of ivy. oldport is the only place in new england where either ivy or traditions will grow; there were, to be sure, no legends about this house that i could hear of, for the ghosts in those parts were feeble-minded and retrospective by reason of age, and perhaps scorned a mansion where nobody had ever lived; but the ivy clustered round the projecting windows as densely as if it had the sins of a dozen generations to hide. the house stood just above what were commonly called (from their slaty color) the blue rocks; it seemed the topmost pebble left by some tide that had receded,--which perhaps it was. nurses and children thronged daily to these rocks, during the visitors' season, and the fishermen found there a favorite lounging-place; but nobody scaled the wall of the house save myself, and i went there very often. the gate was sometimes opened by paul, the silent bavarian gardener, who was master of the keys; and there were also certain great cats that were always sunning themselves on the steps, and seemed to have grown old and gray in waiting for mice that had never come. they looked as if they knew the past and the future. if the owl is the bird of minerva, the cat should be her beast; they have the same sleepy air of unfathomable wisdom. there was such a quiet and potent spell about the place that one could almost fancy these constant animals to be the transformed bodies of human visitors who had stayed too long. who knew what tales might be told by these tall, slender birches, clustering so closely by the sombre walls?--birches which were but whispering shrubs when the first gray stones were laid, and which now reared above the eaves their white stems and dark boughs, still whispering and waiting till a few more years should show them, across the roof, the topmost blossoms of other birches on the other side. before the great western doorway spread the outer harbor, whither the coasting vessels came to drop anchor at any approach of storm. these silent visitors, which arrived at dusk and went at dawn, and from which no boat landed, seemed fitting guests before the portals of the silent house. i was never tired of watching them from the piazza; but severance always stayed outside the wall. it was a whim of his, he said; and once only i got out of him something about the resemblance of the house to some portuguese mansion,--at madeira, perhaps, or at rio janeiro, but he did not say,--with which he had no pleasant associations. yet he afterwards seemed to wish to deny this remark, or to confuse my impressions of it, which naturally fixed it the better in my mind. i remember well the morning when he was at last coaxed into approaching the house. it was late in september, and a day of perfect calm. as we looked from the broad piazza, there was a glassy smoothness over all the bay, and the hills were coated with a film, or rather a mere varnish, inconceivably thin, of haze more delicate than any other climate in america can show. over the water there were white gulls flying, lazy and low; schools of young mackerel displayed their white sides above the surface; and it seemed as if even a butterfly might be seen for miles over that calm expanse. the bay was covered with mackerel-boats, and one man sculled indolently across the foreground a scarlet skiff. it was so still that every white sail-boat rested where its sail was first spread; and though the tide was at half-ebb, the anchored boats swung idly different ways from their moorings. yet there was a continuous ripple in the broad sail of some almost motionless schooner, and there was a constant melodious plash along the shore. from the mouth of the bay came up slowly the premonitory line of bluer water, and we knew that a breeze was near. severance seemed to rise in spirits as we approached the house, and i noticed no sign of shrinking, except an occasional lowering of the voice. seeing this, i ventured to joke him a little on his previous reluctance, and he replied in the same strain. i seated myself at the corner, and began sketching old fort louis, while he strolled along the piazza, looking in at the large, vacant windows. as he approached the farther end, i suddenly heard him give a little cry of amazement or dismay, and, looking up, saw him leaning against the wall, with pale face and hands clenched. a minute sometimes appears a long while; and though i sprang to him instantly, yet i remember that it seemed as if, during that instant, the whole face of things had changed. the breeze had come, the bay was rippled, the sail-boats careened to the wind, fishes and birds were gone, and a dark gray cloud had come between us and the sun. such sudden changes are not, however, uncommon after an interval of calm; and my only conscious thought at the time was of wonder at the strange aspect of my companion. "what was that?" asked severance in a bewildered tone. i looked about me, equally puzzled. "not there," he said. "in the window." i looked in at the window, saw nothing, and said so. there was the great empty drawing-room, across which one could see the opposite window, and through this the eastern piazza and the garden beyond. nothing more was there. with some persuasion, severance was induced to look in. he admitted that he saw nothing peculiar; but he refused all explanation, and we went home. "never let me go to that house again," he said abruptly, as we entered our own door. i pointed out to him the absurdity of thus yielding to a nervous delusion, which was already in part conquered, and he finally promised to revisit the scene with me the next day. to clear all possible misgivings from my own mind, i got the key of the house from paul, explored it thoroughly, and was satisfied that no improper visitor had recently entered the drawing-room at least, as the windows were strongly bolted on the inside, and a large cobweb, heavy with dust, hung across the doorway. this did no great credit to paul's stewardship, but was, perhaps, a slight relief to me. nor could i see a trace of anything uncanny outside the house. when severance went with me, next day, the coast was equally clear, and i was glad to have cured him so easily. unfortunately, it did not last. a few days after, there was a brilliant sunset, after a storm, with gorgeous yellow light slanting everywhere, and the sun looking at us between bars of dark purple cloud, edged with gold where they touched the pale blue sky; all this fading at last into a great whirl of gray to the northward, with a cold purple ground. at the height of the show, i climbed the wall to my favorite piazza, and was surprised to find severance already there. he sat facing the sunset, but with his head sunk between his hands. at my approach, he looked up, and rose to his feet. "do not deceive me any more," he said, almost savagely, and pointed to the window. i looked in, and must confess that, for a moment, i too was startled. there was a perceptible moment of time during which it seemed as if no possible philosophy could explain what appeared in sight. not that any object showed itself within the great drawing-room, but i distinctly saw--across the apartment, and through the opposite window--the dark figure of a man about my own size, who leaned against the long window, and gazed intently on me. above him spread the yellow sunset light, around him the birch-boughs hung and the ivy-tendrils swayed, while behind him there appeared a glimmering water-surface, across which slowly drifted the tall masts of a schooner. it looked strangely like a view i had seen of some foreign harbor,--amalfi, perhaps,--with a vine-clad balcony and a single human figure in the foreground. so real and startling was the sight that at first it was not easy to resolve the whole scene into its component parts. yet it was simply such a confused mixture of real and reflected images as one often sees from the window of a railway carriage, where the mirrored interior seems to glide beside the train, with the natural landscape for a background. in this case, also, the frame and foliage of the picture were real, and all else was reflected; the sunlit bay behind us was reproduced as in a camera, and the dark figure was but the full-length image of myself. it was easy to explain all this to severance, but he shook his head. "so cool a philosopher as yourself," he said, "should remember that this image is not always visible. at our last visit, we looked for it in vain. when we first saw it, it appeared and disappeared within ten minutes. on your mechanical theory it should be other-wise." this staggered me for a moment. then the ready solution occurred, that the reflection depended on the strength and direction of the light; and i proved to him that, in our case, it had appeared and disappeared with the sunshine. he was silenced, but evidently not convinced; yet time and common-sense, it seemed, would take care of that. soon after all this, i was called out of town for a week or two. if severance would go with me, it would doubtless complete the cure, i thought; but this he obstinately declined. after my departure, my sister wrote, he seemed absolutely to haunt the empty house by the blue rocks. he undoubtedly went here to sketch, she thought. the house was in charge of a real-estate agent,--a retired landscape-painter, whose pictures did not sell so profitably as their originals; and her theory was, that this agent hoped to make our friend buy the place, and so allured him there under pretence of sketching. moreover, she surmised, he was studying some effect of shadow, because, unlike most men, he appeared in decent spirits only on cloudy days. it is always so easy to fit a man out with a set of ready-made motives! but i drew my own conclusions, and was not surprised to hear, soon after, that severance was seriously ill. this brought me back at once,--sailing down from providence in an open boat, i remember, one lovely moonlight night. next day i saw severance, who declared that he had suffered from nothing worse than a prolonged sick-headache. i soon got out of him all that had happened. he had seen the figure in the window every sunny day, he said. of course he had, if he chose to look for it, and i could only smile, though it perhaps seemed unkind. but i stopped smiling when he went on to tell that, not satisfied with these observations, he had visited the house by moonlight also, and had then seen, as he averred, a second figure standing beside the first. of course, there was no defence against such a theory as this, except simply to laugh it down; but it made me very anxious, for it showed that he was growing thoroughly morbid. "either it was pure fancy," i said, "or it was paul the gardener." but here he was prepared for me. it seemed that, on seeing the two figures, severance had at once left the piazza, and, with an instinct of common-sense that was surprising, had crossed the garden, scaled the wall, and looked in at the window of paul's little cottage, where the man and his wife were quietly seated at supper, probably after a late fishing-trip. "there was another reason," he said; but here he stopped, and would give no description of the second figure, which he had, however, seen twice again, always by moon-light. he consented to let me accompany him the following night. we accordingly went. it was a calm, clear night, and the moon lay brightly on the bay. the distant shores looked low and filmy; a naval vessel was in the harbor, and there was a ball on board, with music and fire-works; some fishermen were singing in their boats, late as was the hour. severance was absorbed in his own gloomy reveries; and when we had crossed the wall, the world seemed left outside, and the glamour of the place began to creep over me also. i seemed to see my companion relapsing into some phantom realm, beyond power of withdrawal. i talked, sang, whistled; but it was all a rather hollow effort, and soon ceased. the great house looked gloomy and impenetrable, the moonlight appeared sick and sad, the birch-boughs rustled in a dreary way. we went up the steps in no jubilant mood. i crossed the piazza at once, looked in at the farthest window, and saw there my own image, though far more faintly than in the sunlight. severance then joined me, and his reflected shape stood by mine. something of the first ghostly impression was renewed, i must confess, by this meeting of the two shadows; there was something rather awful in the way the bodiless things nodded and gesticulated at each other in silence. still, there was nothing more than this, as severance was compelled to own; and i was trying to turn the whole affair into ridicule, when suddenly, without sound or warning, i saw--as distinctly as i perceive the words i now write--yet another figure stand at the window, gaze steadfastly at us for a moment, and then disappear. it was, as i fancied, that of a woman, but was totally enveloped in a very full cloak, reaching to the ground, with a peculiarly cut hood, that stood erect and seemed half as long as the body of the garment. i had a vague recollection of having seen some such costume in a picture. of course, i dashed round the corner of the house, threaded the birch-trees, and stood on the eastern piazza. no one was there. without losing an instant, i ran to the garden wall and climbed it, as severance had done, to look into paul's cottage. that worthy was just getting into bed, in a state of complicated deshabille, his blackbearded head wrapped in an old scarlet handkerchief that made him look like a retired pirate in reduced circumstances. he being accounted for, i vainly traversed the shrubberies, returned to the western piazza, watched awhile uselessly, and went home with severance, a good deal puzzled. by daylight the whole thing seemed different. that i had seen the figure there was no doubt. it was not a reflected image, for we had no companion. it was, then, human. after all, thought i, it is a commonplace thing enough, this masquerading in a cloak and hood. someone has observed severance's nocturnal visits, and is amusing himself at his expense. the peculiarity was, that the thing was so well done, and the figure had such an air of dignity, that somehow it was not so easy to make light of it in talking with him. i went into his room, next day. his sick-headache, or whatever it was, had come on again, and he was lying on his bed. rutherford's strange old book on the second sight lay open before him. "look there," he said; and i read the motto of a chapter:- "in sunlight one, in shadow none, in moonlight two, in thunder two, then comes death." i threw the book indignantly from me, and began to invent doggerel, parodying this precious incantation. but severance did not seem to enjoy the joke, and it grows tiresome to enact one's own farce and do one's own applauding. for several days after he was laid up in earnest; but instead of getting any mental rest from this, he lay poring over that preposterous book, and it really seemed as if his brain were a little disturbed. meanwhile i watched the great house, day and night, sought for footsteps, and, by some odd fancy, took frequent observations on the gardener and his wife. failing to get any clew, i waited one day for paul's absence, and made a call upon the wife, under pretence of hunting up a missing handkerchief,--for she had been my laundress. i found the handsome, swarthy creature, with her six bronzed children around her, training up the madeira vine that made a bower of the whole side of her little, black, gambrel-roofed cottage. on learning my errand, she became full of sympathy, and was soon emptying her bureau-drawers in pursuit of the lost handkerchief. as she opened the lowest drawer, i saw within it something which sent all the blood to my face for a moment. it was a black cloth cloak, with a stiff hood two feet long, of precisely the pattern worn by the unaccountable visitant at the window. i turned almost fiercely upon her; but she looked so innocent as she stood there, caressing and dusting with her fingers what was evidently a pet garment, that it was really impossible to denounce her. "is that a bavarian cloak?" said i, trying to be cool and judicial. here broke in the eldest boy, named john, aged ten, a native american, and a sailor already, whom i had twice fished up from a capsized punt. "mother ain't a bavarian," quoth the young salt. "father's a bavarian; mother's a portegee. portegees wear them hoods." "i am a portuguese, sir, from fayal," said the woman, prolonging with sweet intonation the soft name of her birthplace. "this is my capote, she added, taking up with pride the uncouth costume, while the children gathered round, as if its vast folds came rarely into sight. "it has not been unfolded for a year," she said. as she spoke, she dropped it with a cry, and a little mouse sprang from the skirts, and whisked away into some corner. we found that the little animal had made its abode in the heavy woollen, of which three or four thicknesses had been eaten through, and then matted together into the softest of nests. this contained, moreover, a small family of mouselets, who certainly had not taken part in any midnight masquerade. the secret seemed more remote than ever, for i knew that there was no other portuguese family in the town, and there was no confounding this peculiar local costume with any other. returning to severance's chamber, i said nothing of all this. he was, by an odd coincidence, looking over a portfolio of fayal sketches made by himself during his late voyage. among them were a dozen studies of just such capotes as i had seen,--some in profile, completely screening the wearer, others disclosing women's faces, old or young. he seemed to wish to put them away, however, when i came in. really, the plot seemed to thicken; and it was a little provoking to understand it no better, when all the materials seemed close to one's hands. a day or two later, i was summoned to boston. returning thence by the stage-coach, we drove from tiverton, the whole length of the island, under one of those wild and wonderful skies which give, better than anything in nature, the effect of a field of battle. the heavens were filled with ten thousand separate masses of cloud, varying in shade from palest gray to iron-black, borne rapidly to and fro by upper and lower currents of opposing wind. they seemed to be charging, retreating, breaking, recombining, with puffs of what seemed smoke, and a few wan sunbeams sometimes striking through for fire. wherever the eye turned, there appeared some flying fragment not seen before; and yet in an hour this noiseless antietam grew still, and a settled leaden film overspread the sky, yielding only to some level lines of light where the sun went down. perhaps our driver was looking toward the sky more than to his own affairs, for, just as all this ended a wheel gave out, and we had to stop in portsmouth for repairs. by the time we were again in motion, the changing wind had brought up a final thunder-storm, which broke upon us ere we reached our homes. it was rather an uncommon thing, so late in the season; for the lightning, like other brilliant visitors, usually appears in oldport during only a month or two of every year. the coach set me down at my own door, so soaked that i might have floated in. i peeped into severance's room, however, on the way to my own. strange to say, no one was there; yet some one had evidently been lying on the bed, and on the pillow lay the old book on the second sight, open at the very page which had so bewitched him and vexed me. i glanced at it mechanically, and when i came to the meaningless jumble, "in thunder two," a flash flooded the chamber, and a sudden fear struck into my mind. who knew what insane experiment might have come into that boy's head? with sudden impulse, i went downstairs, and found the whole house empty, until a stupid old woman, coming in from the wood-house with her apron full of turnips, told me that severance had been missing since nightfall, after being for a week in bed, dangerously ill, and sometimes slightly delirious. the family had become alarmed, and were out with lanterns, in search of him. it was safe to say that none of them had more reason to be alarmed than i. it was something, however, to know where to seek him. meeting two neighboring fishermen, i took them with me. as we approached the well-known wall, the blast blew out our lights, and we could scarcely speak. the lightning had grown less frequent, yet sheets of flame seemed occasionally to break over the dark, square sides of the house, and to send a flickering flame along the ridge-pole and eaves, like a surf of light. a surf of water broke also behind us on the blue rocks, sounding as if it pursued our very footsteps; and one of the men whispered hoarsely to me, that a nantucket brig had parted her cable, and was drifting in shore. as we entered the garden, lights gleamed in the shrubbery. to my surprise, it was paul and his wife, with their two oldest children,--these last being quite delighted with the stir, and showing so much illumination, in the lee of the house, that it was quite a feast of lanterns. they seemed a little surprised at meeting us, too; but we might as well have talked from point judith to beaver tail as to have attempted conversation there. i walked round the building; but a flash of lightning showed nothing on the western piazza save a birch-tree, which lay across, blown down by the storm. i therefore went inside, with paul's household, leaving the fishermen without. never shall i forget that search. as we went from empty room to room, the thunder seemed rolling on the very roof, and the sharp flashes of lightning appeared to put out our lamps and then kindle them again. we traversed the upper regions, mounting by a ladder to the attic; then descended into the cellar and the wine-vault. the thorough bareness of the house, the fact that no bright-eyed mice peeped at us from their holes, no uncouth insects glided on the walls, no flies buzzed in the unwonted lamplight, scarcely a spider slid down his damp and trailing web,--all this seemed to enhance the mystery. the vacancy was more dreary than desertion: it was something old which had never been young. we found ourselves speaking in whispers; the children kept close to their parents; we seemed to be chasing some awful silence from room to room; and the last apartment, the great drawing-room, we really seemed loath to enter. the less the rest of the house had to show, the more, it seemed, must be concentrated there. even as we entered, a blast of air from a broken pane extinguished our last light, and it seemed to take many minutes to rekindle it. as it shone once more, a brilliant lightning-flash also swept through the window, and flickered and flickered, as if it would never have done. the eldest child suddenly screamed, and pointed with her finger, first to one great window and then to its opposite. my eyes instinctively followed the successive directions; and the double glance gave me all i came to seek, and more than all. outside the western window lay severance, his white face against the pane, his eyes gazing across and past us,--struck down doubtless by the fallen tree, which lay across the piazza, and hid him from external view. opposite him, and seen through the eastern window, stood, statue-like, the hooded figure, but with the great capote thrown back, showing a sad, eager, girlish face, with dark eyes, and a good deal of black hair,--one of those faces of peasant beauty such as america never shows,--faces where ignorance is almost raised into refinement by its childlike look. contrasted with severance's wild gaze, the countenance wore an expression of pitying forgiveness, almost of calm; yet it told of wasting sorrow and the wreck of a life. gleaming lustrous beneath the lightning, it had a more mystic look when the long flash had ceased, and the single lantern burned beneath it, like an altar-lamp before a shrine. "it is aunt emilia," exclaimed the little girl; and as she spoke, the father, turning angrily upon her, dashed the light to the ground, and groped his way out without a word of answer. i was too much alarmed about severance to care for aught else, and quickly made my way to the western piazza, where i found him stunned by the fallen tree,--injured, i feared, internally,--still conscious, but unable to speak. with the aid of my two companions i got him home, and he was ill for several weeks before he died. during his illness he told me all he had to tell; and though paul and his family disappeared next day,--perhaps going on board the nantucket brig, which had narrowly escaped shipwreck,--i afterwards learned all the remaining facts from the only neighbor in whom they had placed confidence. severance, while convalescing at a country-house in fayal, had fallen passionately in love with a young peasant-girl, who had broken off her intended marriage for love of him, and had sunk into a half-imbecile melancholy when deserted. she had afterwards come to this country, and joined her sister, paul's wife. paul had received her reluctantly, and only on condition that her existence should be concealed. this was the easier, as it was one of her whims to go out only by night, when she had haunted the great house, which, she said, reminded her of her own island, so that she liked to wear thither the capote which had been the pride of her heart at home. on the few occasions when she had caught a glimpse of severance, he had seemed to her, no doubt, as much a phantom as she seemed to him. on the night of the storm, they had both sought their favorite haunt, unconscious of each other, and the friends of each had followed in alarm. i got traces of the family afterwards at nantucket and later at narragansett, and had reason to think that paul was employed, one summer, by a farmer on conanicut; but i was always just too late for them; and the money which severance left, as his only reparation for poor emilia, never was paid. the affair was hushed up, and very few, even among the neighbors, knew the tragedy that had passed by them with the storm. after severance died, i had that temporary feeling of weakened life which remains after the first friend or the first love passes, and the heart seems to lose its sense of infinity. his father came, and prosed, and measured the windows of the empty house, and calculated angles of reflection, and poured even death and despair into his crucible of commonplace; the mother whined in her feebler way at home; while the only brother, a talkative medical student, tried to pooh-pooh it all, and sent me a letter demonstrating that emilia was never in america, and that the whole was an hallucination. i cared nothing for his theory; it all seemed like a dream to me, and, as all the actors but myself are gone, it seems so still. the great house is yet unoccupied, and likely to remain so; and he who looks through its western window may still be startled by the weird image of himself. as i lingered round it, to-day, beneath the winter sunlight, the snow drifted pitilessly past its ivied windows, and so hushed my footsteps that i scarce knew which was the phantom, myself or my reflection, and wondered if the medical student would not argue me out of existence next. this is the end of my story. if i sought for a moral, it would be hard to attach one to a thing so slight. it could only be this, that shadow and substance are always ready to link themselves, in unexpected ways, against the diseased imagination; and that remorse can make the most transparent crystal into a mirror for its sin. a drift-wood fire "this ae nighte, this ae nighte, every nighte and alle, fire and salt and candle-lighte, and christe receive thy saule." _a lyke-wake dirge_. the october days grow rapidly shorter, and brighten with more concentrated light. it is but half past five, yet the sun dips redly behind conanicut, the sunset-gun booms from our neighbor's yacht, the flag glides down from his mainmast, and the slender pennant, running swiftly up the opposite halyards, dances and flickers like a flame, and at last perches, with dainty hesitation, at the mast-head. a tint of salmon-color, burnished into long undulations of lustre, overspreads the shallower waves; but a sober gray begins to steal in beneath the sunset rays, and will soon claim even the brilliant foreground for its own. pile a few more fragments of drift-wood upon the fire in the great chimney, little maiden, and then couch yourself before it, that i may have your glowing childhood as a foreground for those heaped relics of shipwreck and despair. you seem, in your scarlet boating-dress, annie, like some bright tropic bird, alit for a moment beside that other bird of the tropics, flame. thoreau thought that his temperament dated from an earlier period than the agricultural, because he preferred woodcraft to gardening; and it is also pleasant to revert to the period when men had invented neither saws nor axes, but simply picked up their fuel in forests or on ocean-shores. fire is a thing which comes so near us, and combines itself so closely with our life, that we enjoy it best when we work for it in some way, so that our fuel shall warm us twice, as the country people say,--once in the getting, and again in the burning. yet no work seems to have more of the flavor of play in it than that of collecting drift-wood on some convenient beach, or than this boat-service of ours, annie, when we go wandering from island to island in the harbor, and glide over sea-weedgroves and the habitations of crabs,--or to the flowery and ruined bastions of rose island,--or to those caves at coaster's harbor where we played victor hugo, and were eaten up in fancy by a cuttle-fish. then we voyaged, you remember, to that further cave in, the solid rock, just above low-water-mark, a cell unapproachable by land, and high enough for you to stand erect. there you wished to play constance in marmion, and to be walled up alive, if convenient; but as it proved impracticable on that day, you helped me to secure some bits of drift-wood instead. longer voyages brought waifs from remoter islands,--whose very names tell, perchance, the changing story of mariners long since wrecked,--isles baptized patience and prudence, hope and despair. and other relics bear witness of more distant beaches, and of those wrecks which still lie, sentinels of ruin, along brenton's point and castle hill. to collect drift-wood is like botanizing, and one soon learns to recognize the prevailing species, and to look with pleased eagerness for new. it is a tragic botany indeed, where, as in enchanted gardens, every specimen has a voice, and, as you take each from the ground, you expect from it a cry like the mandrake's. and from what a garden it comes! as one walks round brenton's point after an autumnal storm, it seems as if the passionate heaving of the waves had brought wholly new tints to the surface, hues unseen even in dreams before, greens and purples impossible in serener days. these match the prevailing green and purple of the slate-cliffs; and nature in truth carries such fine fitnesses yet further. for, as we tread the delicate seaside turf, which makes the farthest point seem merely the land's last bequest of emerald to the ocean, we suddenly come upon curved lines of lustrous purple amid the grass, rows on rows of bright muscle-shells, regularly traced as if a child had played there,--the graceful high-water-mark of the terrible storm. it is the crowning fascination of the sea, the consummation of such might in such infantine delicacy. you may notice it again in the summer, when our bay is thronged for miles on miles with inch-long jelly-fishes,--lovely creatures, in shape like disembodied gooseberries, and shot through and through in the sunlight with all manner of blue and golden glistenings, and bearing tiny rows of fringing oars that tremble like a baby's eyelids. there is less of gross substance in them than in any other created thing,--mere water and outline, destined to perish at a touch, but seemingly never touching, for they float secure, finding no conceivable cradle so soft as this awful sea. they are like melodies amid beethoven's symphonies, or like the songs that wander through shakespeare, and that seem things too fragile to risk near cleopatra's passion and hamlet's woe. thus tender is the touch of ocean; and look, how around this piece of oaken timber, twisted and torn and furrowed,--its iron bolts snapped across as if bitten,--there is yet twined a gay garland of ribbon-weed, bearing on its trailing stem a cluster of bright shells, like a mermaid's chatelaine. thus adorned, we place it on the blaze. as night gathers without, the gale rises. it is a season of uneasy winds, and of strange, rainless storms, which perplex the fishermen, and indicate rough weather out at sea. as the house trembles and the windows rattle, we turn towards the fire with a feeling of safety. representing the fiercest of all dangers, it yet expresses security and comfort. should a gale tear the roof from over our heads and show the black sky alone above us, we should not feel utterly homeless while this fire burned,--at least i can recall such a feeling of protection when once left suddenly roofless by night in one of the wild gorges of mount katahdin. there is a positive demonstrative force in an open fire, which makes it your fit ally in a storm. settled and obdurate cold may well be encountered by the quiet heat of an invisible furnace. but this howling wind might depress one's spirits, were it not met by a force as palpable,--the warm blast within answering to the cold blast without. the wide chimney then becomes the scene of contest: wind meets wind, sparks encounter rain-drops, they fight in the air like the visioned soldiers of attila; sometimes a daring drop penetrates, and dies, hissing, on the hearth; and sometimes a troop of sparks may make a sortie from the chimney-top. i know not how else we can meet the elements by a defiance so magnificent as that from this open hearth; and in burning drift-wood, especially, we turn against the enemy his own ammunition. for on these fragments three elements have already done their work. water racked and strained the hapless ships, air hunted them, and they were thrown at last upon earth, the sternest of all. now fire takes the shattered remnants, and makes them a means of comfort and defence. it has been pointed out by botanists, as one of nature's most graceful retributions, that, in the building of the ship, the apparent balance of vegetable forces is reversed, and the herb becomes master of the tree, when the delicate, blue-eyed flax, taking the stately pine under its protection, stretches over it in cordage, or spreads in sails. but more graceful still is this further contest between the great natural elements, when this most fantastic and vanishing thing, this delicate and dancing flame, subdues all these huge vassals to its will, and, after earth and air and water have done their utmost, comes in to complete the task, and to be crowned as monarch. "the sea drinks the air," said anacreon, "and the sun the sea." my fire is the child of the sun. i come back from every evening stroll to this gleaming blaze; it is a domestic lamp, and shines for me everywhere. to my imagination it burns as a central flame among these dark houses, and lights up the whole of this little fishing hamlet, humble suburb of the fashionable watering-place. i fancy that others too perceive the light, and that certain huge visitors are attracted, even when the storm keeps neighbors and friends at home. for the slightest presage of foul weather is sure to bring to yonder anchorage a dozen silent vessels, that glide up the harbor for refuge, and are heard but once, when the chain-cable rattles as it runs out, and the iron hand of the anchor grasps the rock. it always seems to me that these unwieldy creatures are gathered, not about the neighboring lighthouse only, but around our ingle-side. welcome, ye great winged strangers, whose very names are unknown! this hearth is comprehensive in its hospitalities; it will accept from you either its fuel or its guests; your mariners may warm themselves beside it, or your scattered timbers may warm me. strange instincts might be supposed to thrill and shudder in the ribs of ships that sail toward the beacon of a drift-wood fire. morituri salutant. a single shock, and all that magnificent fabric may become mere fuel to prolong the flame. here, beside the roaring ocean, this blaze represents the only receptacle more vast than ocean. we say, "unstable as water." but there is nothing unstable about the flickering flame; it is persistent and desperate, relentless in following its ends. it is the most tremendous physical force that man can use. "if drugs fail," said hippocrates, "use the knife; should the knife fail, use fire." conquered countries were anciently given over to fire and sword: the latter could only kill, but the other could annihilate. see how thoroughly it does its work, even when domesticated: it takes up everything upon the hearth and leaves all clean. the greek proverb says, that "the sea drinks up all the sins of the world." save fire only, the sea is the most capacious of all things. but its task is left incomplete: it only hides its records, while fire destroys them. in the norse edda, when the gods try their games, they find themselves able to out-drink the ocean, but not to eat like the flame. logi, or fire, licks up food and trencher and all. this chimney is more voracious than the sea. give time enough, and all which yonder depths contain might pass through this insatiable throat, leaving only a few ashes and the memory of a flickering shade,--pulvis et umbra. we recognize this when we have anything to conceal. deep crimes are buried in earth, deeper are sunk in water, but the deepest of all are confided by trembling men to the profounder secrecy of flame. if every old chimney could narrate the fearful deeds whose last records it has cancelled, what sighs of undying passion would breathe from its dark summit,--what groans of guilt! those lurid sparks that whirl over yonder house-top, tossed aloft as if fire itself could not contain them, may be the last embers of some written scroll, one rescued word of which might suffice for the ruin of a household, and the crushing of many hearts. but this domestic hearth of ours holds only, besides its drift-wood, the peaceful records of the day,--its shreds and fragments and fallen leaves. as the ancients poured wine upon their flames, so i pour rose-leaves in libation; and each morning contributes the faded petals of yesterday's wreaths. all our roses of this season have passed up this chimney in the blaze. their delicate veins were filled with all the summer's fire, and they returned to fire once more,--ashes to ashes, flame to flame. for holding, with bettina, that every flower which is broken becomes immortal in the sacrifice, i deem it more fitting that their earthly part should die by a concentration of that burning element which would at any rate be in some form their ending; so they have their altar on this bright hearth. let us pile up the fire anew with drift-wood, annie. we can choose at random; for our logs came from no single forest. it is considered an important branch of skill in the country to know the varieties of firewood, and to choose among them well. but to-night we have the whole atlantic shore for our wood-pile, and the gulf stream for a teamster. every foreign tree of rarest name may, for aught we know, send its treasures to our hearth. logwood and satinwood may mingle with cedar and maple; the old cellar floors of this once princely town are of mahogany, and why not our fire? i have a very indistinct impression what teak is; but if it means something black and impenetrable and nearly indestructible, then there is a piece of it, annie, on the hearth at this moment. it must be owned, indeed, that timbers soaked long enough in salt-water seem almost to lose their capacity of being burnt. perhaps it was for this reason that, in the ancient "lyke-wakes" of the north of england, a pinch of salt was placed upon the dead body, as a safeguard against purgatorial flames. yet salt melts ice, and so represents heat, one would think; and one can fancy that these fragments should be doubly inflammable, by their saline quality, and by the unmerciful rubbing which the waves have given them. i have noticed what warmth this churning process communicates to the clotted foam that lies in tremulous masses among the rocks, holding all the blue of ocean in its bubbles. after one's hands are chilled with the water, one can warm them in the foam. these drift-wood fragments are but the larger foam of shipwrecks. what strange comrades this flame brings together! as foreign sailors from remotest seas may sit and chat side by side, before some boarding-house fire in this seaport town, so these shapeless sticks, perhaps gathered from far wider wanderings, now nestle together against the backlog, and converse in strange dialects as they burn. it is written in the heetopades of veeshnoo sarma, that, "as two planks, floating on the surface of the mighty receptacle of the waters, meet, and having met are separated forever, so do beings in this life come together and presently are parted." perchance this chimney reunites the planks, at the last moment, as death must reunite friends. and with what wondrous voices these strayed wanderers talk to one another on the hearth! they bewitch us by the mere fascination of their language. such a delicacy of intonation, yet such a volume of sound. the murmur of the surf is not so soft or so solemn. there are the merest hints and traceries of tones,--phantom voices, more remote from noise than anything which is noise; and yet there is an undertone of roar, as from a thousand cities, the cities whence these wild voyagers came. watch the decreasing sounds of a fire as it dies,--for it seems cruel to leave it, as we do, to die alone. i watched beside this hearth last night. as the fire sank down, the little voices grew stiller and more still, and at last there came only irregular beats, at varying intervals, as if from a heart that acted spasmodically, or as if it were measuring off by ticks the little remnant of time. then it said, "hush!" two or three times, and there came something so like a sob that it seemed human; and then all was still. if these dying voices are so sweet and subtile, what legends must be held untold by yonder fragments that lie unconsumed! photography has familiarized us with the thought that every visible act, since the beginning of the world, has stamped itself upon surrounding surfaces, even if we have not yet skill to discern and hold the image. and especially, in looking on a liquid expanse, such as the ocean in calm, one is haunted with these fancies. i gaze into its depths, and wonder if no stray reflection has been imprisoned there, still accessible to human eyes, of some scene of passion or despair it has witnessed; as some maiden visitor at holyrood palace, looking in the ancient metallic mirror, might start at the thought that perchance some lineament of mary stuart may suddenly look out, in desolate and forgotten beauty, mingled with her own. and if the mere waters of the ocean, satiate and wearied with tragedy as they must be, still keep for our fancy such records, how much more might we attribute a human consciousness to these shattered fragments, each seared by its own special grief. yet while they are silent, i like to trace back for these component parts of my fire such brief histories as i share. this block, for instance, came from the large schooner which now lies at the end of castle hill beach, bearing still aloft its broken masts and shattered rigging, and with its keel yet stanch, except that the stern-post is gone,--so that each tide sweeps in its green harvest of glossy kelp, and then tosses it in the hold like hay, desolately tenanting the place which once sheltered men. the floating weed, so graceful in its own place, looks but dreary when thus confined. on that fearfully cold monday of last winter (january 8, 1866) when the mercury stood at -10 deg.; even in this mildest corner of new england,--this vessel was caught helplessly amid the ice that drifted out of the west passage of narragansett bay, before the fierce north-wind. they tried to beat into the eastern entrance, but the schooner seemed in sinking condition, the sails and helm were clogged with ice, and every rope, as an eye-witness told me, was as large as a man's body with frozen sleet. twice they tacked across, making no progress; and then, to save their lives, ran the vessel on the rocks and got ashore. after they had left her, a higher wave swept her off, and drifted her into a little cove, where she has ever since remained. there were twelve wrecks along this shore last winter,--more than during any season for a quarter of a century. i remember when the first of these lay in great fragments on graves point, a schooner having been stranded on cormorant rocks outside, and there broken in pieces by the surf. she had been split lengthwise, and one great side was leaning up against the sloping rock, bows on, like some wild sea-creature never before beheld of men, and come there but to die. so strong was this impression that when i afterwards saw men at work upon the wreck, tearing out the iron bolts and chains, it seemed like torturing the last moments of a living thing. at my next visit there was no person in sight; another companion fragment had floated ashore, and the two lay peacefully beside the sailors' graves (which give the name to the point), as if they found comfort there. a little farther on there was a brig ashore and deserted. a fog came in from the sea; and, as i sat by the graves, some unseen passing vessel struck eight bells for noon. for a moment i fancied that it came from the empty brig,--a ghostly call, to summon phantom sailors. that smouldering brand, which has alternately gleamed and darkened for so many minutes, i brought from price's neck last winter, when the brenton's reef light-ship went ashore. yonder the oddly shaped vessel rides at anchor now, two miles from land, bearing her lanterns aloft at fore and main top. she parted her moorings by night, in the fearful storm of october 19, 1865; and i well remember, that, as i walked through the streets that wild evening, it seemed dangerous to be out of doors, and i tried to imagine what was going on at sea, while at that very moment the light-ship was driving on toward me in the darkness. it was thus that it happened:-there had been a heavy gale from the southeast, which, after a few hours of lull, suddenly changed in the afternoon to the southwest, which is, on this coast, the prevailing direction. beginning about three o'clock, this new wind had risen almost to a hurricane by six, and held with equal fury till midnight, after which it greatly diminished, though, when i visited the wreck next morning, it was hard to walk against the blast. the light-ship went adrift at eight in the evening; the men let go another anchor, with forty fathoms of cable; this parted also, but the cable dragged, as she drifted in, keeping the vessel's head to the wind, which was greatly to her advantage. the great waves took her over five lines of reef, on each of which her keel grazed or held for a time. she came ashore on price's neck at last, about eleven. it was utterly dark; the sea broke high over the ship, even over her lanterns, and the crew could only guess that they were near the land by the sound of the surf. the captain was not on board, and the mate was in command, though his leg had been broken while holding the tiller. they could not hear each other's voices, and could scarcely cling to the deck. there seemed every chance that the ship would go to pieces before daylight. at last one of the crew, named william martin, a scotchman, thinking, as he afterwards told me, of his wife and three children, and of the others on board who had families,--and that something must be done, and he might as well do it as anybody,--got a rope bound around his waist, and sprang overboard. i asked the mate next day whether he ordered martin to do this, and he said, "no, he volunteered it. i would not have ordered him, for i would not have done it myself." what made the thing most remarkable was, that the man actually could not swim, and did not know how far off the shore was, but trusted to the waves to take him thither,--perhaps two hundred yards. his trust was repaid. struggling in the mighty surf, he sometimes felt the rocks beneath his feet, sometimes bruised his hands against them. at any rate he got on shore alive, and, securing his rope, made his way over the moors to the town, and summoned his captain, who was asleep in his own house. they returned at once to the spot, found the line still fast, and the rest of the crew, four in number, lowered the whaleboat, and were pulled to shore by the rope, landing safely before daybreak. when i saw the vessel next morning, she lay in a little cove, stern on, not wholly out of water,--steady and upright as in a dry-dock, with no sign of serious injury, except that the rudder was gone. she did not seem like a wreck; the men were the wrecks. as they lay among the rocks, bare or tattered, scarcely able to move, waiting for low tide to go on board the vessel, it was like a scene after a battle. they appeared too inert, poor fellows, to do anything but yearn toward the sun. when they changed position for shelter, from time to time, they crept along the rocks, instead of walking. they were like the little floating sprays of sea-weed, when you take them from the water and they become a mere mass of pulp in your hand. martin shared in the general exhaustion, and no wonder; but he told his story very simply, and showed me where he had landed. the feat seemed to me then, and has always seemed, almost incredible, even for an expert swimmer. he thus summed up the motives for his action: "i thought that god was first, and i was next, and if i did the best i could, no man could do more than that; so i jumped overboard." it is pleasant to add, that, though a poor man, he utterly declined one of those small donations of money by which we anglo-saxons are wont clumsily to express our personal enthusiasms; and i think i appreciated his whole action the more for its coming just at the close of a war during which so many had readily accepted their award of praise or pay for acts of less intrinsic daring than his. stir the fire, annie, with yonder broken fragment of a flag-staff; its truck is still remaining, though the flag is gone, and every nation might claim it. as you stir, the burning brands evince a remembrance of their sea-lost life, the sparks drift away like foam-flakes, the flames wave and flap like sails, and the wail of the chimney sings a second shipwreck. as the tiny scintillations gleam and scatter and vanish in the soot of the chimney-wall, instead of "there goes the parson, and there goes the clerk," it must be the captain and the crew we watch. a drift-wood fire should always have children to tend it; for there is something childlike about it, unlike the steadier glow of walnut logs. it has a coaxing, infantine way of playing with the oddly shaped bits of wood we give it, and of deserting one to caress with flickering impulse another; and at night, when it needs to be extinguished, it is as hard to put to rest as a nursery of children, for some bright little head is constantly springing up anew, from its pillow of ashes. and, in turn, what endless delight children find in the manipulation of a fire! what a variety of playthings, too, in this fuel of ours; such inexplicable pieces, treenails and tholepins, trucks and sheaves, the lid of a locker, and a broken handspike. these larger fragments are from spars and planks and knees. some were dropped overboard in this quiet harbor; others may have floated from fayal or hispaniola, mozambique or zanzibar. this eagle figure-head, chipped and battered, but still possessing highly aquiline features and a single eye, may have tangled its curved beak in the vast weed-beds of the sargasso sea, or dipped it in the sea of milk. tell us your story, o heroic but dilapidated bird! and perhaps song or legend may find in it themes that shall be immortal. the eagle is silent, and i suspect, annie, that he is but a plain, home-bred fowl after all. but what shall we say to this piece of plank, hung with barnacles that look large enough for the fabled barnacle-goose to emerge from? observe this fragment a little. another piece is secured to it, not neatly, as with proper tools, but clumsily, with many nails of different sizes, driven unevenly and with their heads battered awry. wedged clumsily in between these pieces, and secured by a supplementary nail, is a bit of broken rope. let us touch that rope tenderly; for who knows what despairing hands may last have clutched it when this rude raft was made? it may, indeed, have been the handiwork of children, on the penobscot or the st. mary's river. but its condition betokens voyages yet longer; and it may just as well have come from the stranded "golden rule" on roncador reef,--that picturesque shipwreck where (as a rescued woman told me) the eyes of the people in their despair seemed full of sublime resignation, so that there was no confusion or outcry, and even gamblers and harlots looked death in the face as nobly, for all that could be seen, as the saintly and the pure. or who knows but it floated round cape horn, from that other wreck, on the pacific shore, of the "central america," where the rough miners found that there was room in the boats only for their wives and their gold; and where, pushing the women off, with a few men to row them, the doomed husbands gave a cheer of courage as the ship went down. here again is a piece of pine wood, cut in notches as for a tally, and with every seventh notch the longest; these notches having been cut deeply at the beginning, and feebly afterwards, stopping abruptly before the end was reached. who could have carved it? not a school-boy awaiting vacation, or a soldier expecting his discharge; for then each tally would have been cut off, instead of added. nor could it be the squad of two soldiers who garrison rose island; for their tour of duty lasts but a week. there are small barnacles and sea-weed too, which give the mysterious stick a sort of brevet antiquity. it has been long adrift, and these little barnacles, opening and closing daily their minute valves, have kept meanwhile their own register, and with their busy fringed fingers have gathered from the whole atlantic that small share of its edible treasures which sufficed for them. plainly this waif has had its experiences. it was robinson crusoe's, annie, depend upon it. we will save it from the flames, and when we establish our marine museum, nothing save a veritable piece of the north pole shall be held so valuable as this undoubted relic from juan fernandez. but the night deepens, and its reveries must end. with the winter will pass away the winter-storms, and summer will bring its own more insidious perils. then the drowsy old seaport will blaze into splendor, through saloon and avenue, amidst which many a bright career will end suddenly and leave no sign. the ocean tries feebly to emulate the profounder tragedies of the shore. in the crowded halls of gay hotels, i see wrecks drifting hopelessly, dismasted and rudderless, to be stranded on hearts harder and more cruel than brenton's reef, yet hid in smiles falser than its fleecy foam. what is a mere forsaken ship, compared with stately houses from which those whom i first knew in their youth and beauty have since fled into midnight and despair? but one last gleam upon our hearth lights up your innocent eyes, little annie, and dispels the gathering shade. the flame dies down again, and you draw closer to my side. the pure moon looks in at the southern window, replacing the ruddier glow; while the fading embers lisp and prattle to one another, like drowsy children, more and more faintly, till they fall asleep. an artist's creation. when i reached kenmure's house, one august evening, it was rather a disappointment to find that he and his charming laura had absented themselves for twenty-four hours. i had not seen them together since their marriage; my admiration for his varied genius and her unvarying grace was at its height, and i was really annoyed at the delay. my fair cousin, with her usual exact housekeeping, had prepared everything for her guest, and then bequeathed me, as she wrote, to janet and baby marian. it was a pleasant arrangement, for between baby marian and me there existed a species of passion, i might almost say of betrothal, ever since that little three-year-old sunbeam had blessed my mother's house by lingering awhile in it, six months before. still i went to bed disappointed, though the delightful windows of the chamber looked out upon the glimmering bay, and the swinging lanterns at the yard-arms of the frigates shone like some softer constellation beneath the brilliant sky. the house was so close upon the water that the cool waves seemed to plash deliciously against its very basement; and it was a comfort to think that, if there were no adequate human greetings that night, there would be plenty in the morning, since marian would inevitably be pulling my eyelids apart before sunrise. it was scarcely dawn when i was roused by a little arm round my neck, and waked to think i had one of raphael's cherubs by my side. fingers of waxen softness were ruthlessly at work upon my eyes, and the little form that met my touch felt lithe and elastic, like a kitten's limbs. there was just light enough to see the child, perched on the edge of the bed, her soft blue dressing-gown trailing over the white night-dress, while her black and long-fringed eyes shone through the dimness of morning. she yielded gladly to my grasp, and i could fondle again the silken hair, the velvety brunette cheek, the plump, childish shoulders. yet sleep still half held me, and when my cherub appeared to hold it a cherubic practice to begin the day with a demand for lively anecdote, i was fain drowsily to suggest that she might first tell some stories to her doll. with the sunny readiness that was a part of her nature, she straightway turned to that young lady,--plain susan halliday, with both cheeks patched, and eyes of different colors,--and soon discoursed both her and me into repose. when i waked again, it was to find the child conversing with the morning star, which still shone through the window, scarcely so lucent as her eyes, and bidding it go home to its mother, the sun. another lapse into dreams, and then a more vivid awakening, and she had my ear at last, and won story after story, requiting them with legends of her own youth, "almost a year ago,"--how she was perilously lost, for instance, in the small front yard, with a little playmate, early in the afternoon, and how they came and peeped into the window, and thought all the world had forgotten them. then the sweet voice, distinct in its articulation as laura's, went straying off into wilder fancies,--a chaos of autobiography and conjecture, like the letters of a war correspondent. you would have thought her little life had yielded more pangs and fears than might have sufficed for the discovery of the north pole; but breakfast-time drew near at last, and janet's honest voice was heard outside the door. i rather envied the good scotchwoman the pleasant task of polishing the smooth cheeks and combing the dishevelled silk; but when, a little later, the small maiden was riding down stairs in my arms, i envied no one. at sight of the bread and milk, my cherub was transformed into a hungry human child, chiefly anxious to reach the bottom of her porringer. i was with her a great deal that day. she gave no manner of trouble: it was like having the charge of a floating butterfly, endowed with warm arms to clasp, and a silvery voice to prattle. i sent janet out to sail, with the other servants, by way of frolic, and marian's perfect temperament was shown in the way she watched the departing. "there they go," she said, as she stood and danced at the window. "now they are out of sight." "what!" i said, "are you pleased to have your friends go?" "yes," she answered; "but i shall be pleased-er to see them come back." life to her was no alternation between joy and grief, but only between joy and delight. twilight brought us to an improvised concert. climbing the piano-stool, she went over the notes with her little taper fingers, touching the keys in a light, knowing way, that proved her a musician's child. then i must play for her, and let the dance begin. this was a wondrous performance on her part, and consisted at first in hopping up and down on one spot, with no change of motion, but in her hands. she resembled a minute and irrepressible shaker, or a live and beautiful marionnette. then she placed janet in the middle of the floor, and performed the dance round her, after the manner of vivien and merlin. then came her supper, which, like its predecessors, was a solid and absorbing meal; then one more fairy story, to magnetize her off, and she danced and sang herself up stairs. and if she first came to me in the morning with a halo round her head, she seemed still to retain it when i at last watched her kneeling in the little bed--perfectly motionless, with her hands placed together, and her long lashes sweeping her cheeks--to repeat two verses of a hymn which janet had taught her. my nerves quivered a little when i saw that susan halliday had also been duly prepared for the night, and had been put in the same attitude, so far as her jointless anatomy permitted. this being ended, the doll and her mistress reposed together, and only an occasional toss of the vigorous limbs, or a stifled baby murmur, would thenceforth prove, through the darkened hours, that the one figure had in it more of life than the other. on the next morning kenmure and laura came back to us, and i walked down to receive them at the boat. i had forgotten how striking was their appearance, as they stood together. his broad, strong, saxon look, his manly bearing and clear blue eyes, enhanced the fascination of her darker beauty. america is full of the short-lived bloom and freshness of girlhood; but it is a rare thing in one's life to see a beauty that really controls with a permanent charm. one must remember such personal loveliness, as one recalls some particular moonlight or sunset, with a special and concentrated joy, which the multiplicity of fainter impressions cannot disturb. when in those days we used to read, in petrarch's one hundred and twenty-third sonnet, that he had once beheld on earth angelic manners and celestial charms, whose very remembrance was a delight and an affliction, since it made all else appear but dream and shadow, we could easily fancy that nature had certain permanent attributes which accompanied the name of laura. our laura had that rich brunette beauty before which the mere snow and roses of the blonde must always seem wan and unimpassioned. in the superb suffusions of her cheek there seemed to flow a tide of passions and powers that might have been tumultuous in a meaner woman, but over which, in her, the clear and brilliant eyes and the sweet, proud mouth presided in unbroken calm. these superb tints implied resources only, not a struggle. with this torrent from the tropics in her veins, she was the most equable person i ever saw, and had a supreme and delicate good-sense, which, if not supplying the place of genius, at least comprehended its work. not intellectually gifted herself, perhaps, she seemed the cause of gifts in others, and furnished the atmosphere in which all showed their best. with the steady and thoughtful enthusiasm of her puritan ancestors, she combined that charm which is so rare among their descendants,--a grace which fascinated the humblest, while it would have been just the same in the society of kings. her person had the equipoise and symmetry of her mind. while it had its separate points of beauty, each a source of distinct and peculiar pleasure,--as, the outline of her temples, the white line that parted her nightblack hair, the bend of her wrists, the moulding of her finger-tips,--yet these details were lost in the overwhelming sweetness of her presence, and the serene atmosphere that she diffused over all human life. a few days passed rapidly by us. we walked and rode and boated and read. little marian came and went, a living sunbeam, a self-sufficing thing. it was soon obvious that she was far less demonstrative toward her parents than toward me; while her mother, gracious to her as to all, yet rarely caressed her, and kenmure, though habitually kind, was inclined to ignore her existence, and could scarcely tolerate that she should for one instant preoccupy his wife. for laura he lived, and she must live for him. he had a studio, which i rarely entered and marian never, though laura was almost constantly there; and after the first cordiality was past, i observed that their daily expeditions were always arranged for only two. the weather was beautiful, and they led the wildest outdoor life, cruising all day or all night among the islands, regardless of hours, and almost of health. no matter: kenmure liked it, and what he liked she loved. when at home, they were chiefly in the studio, he painting, modelling, poetizing perhaps, and she inseparably united with him in all. it was very beautiful, this unworldly and passionate love, and i could have borne to be omitted in their daily plans,--since little marian was left to me,--save that it seemed so strange to omit her also. besides, there grew to be something a little oppressive in this peculiar atmosphere; it was like living in a greenhouse. yet they always spoke in the simplest way of this absorbing passion, as of something about which no reticence was needed; it was too sacred not to be mentioned; it would be wrong not to utter freely to all the world what was doubtless the best thing the world possessed. thus kenmure made laura his model in all his art; not to coin her into wealth or fame,--he would have scorned it; he would have valued fame and wealth only as instruments for proclaiming her. looking simply at these two lovers, then, it was plain that no human union could be more noble or stainless. yet so far as others were concerned, it sometimes seemed to me a kind of duplex selfishness, so profound and so undisguised as to make one shudder. "is it," i asked myself at such moments, "a great consecration, or a great crime?" but something must be allowed, perhaps, for my own private dis-satisfactions in marian's behalf. i had easily persuaded janet to let me have a peep every night at my darling, as she slept; and once i was surprised to find laura sitting by the small white bed. graceful and beautiful as she always was, she never before had seemed to me so lovely, for she never had seemed quite like a mother. but i could not demand a sweeter look of tenderness than that with which she now gazed upon her child. little marian lay with one brown, plump hand visible from its full white sleeve, while the other nestled half hid beneath the sheet, grasping a pair of blue morocco shoes, the last acquisition of her favorite doll. drooping from beneath the pillow hung a handful of scarlet poppies, which the child had wished to place under her head, in the very superfluous project of putting herself to sleep thereby. her soft brown hair was scattered on the sheet, her black lashes lay motionless upon the olive cheeks. laura wished to move her, that i might see her the better. "you will wake her," exclaimed i, in alarm. "wake this little dormouse?" laura lightly answered. "impossible." and, twining her arms about her, the young mother lifted the child from the bed, three or four times in succession, while the healthy little creature remained utterly undisturbed, breathing the same quiet breath. i watched laura with amazement; she seemed transformed. she gayly returned my eager look, and then, seeming suddenly to penetrate its meaning, cast down her eyes, while the color mounted into her cheeks. "you thought," she said, almost sternly, "that i did not love my child." "no," i said half untruthfully. "i can hardly wonder," she continued, more sadly, "for it is only what i have said to myself a thousand times. sometimes i think that i have lived in a dream, and one that few share with me. i have questioned others, and never yet found a woman who did not admit that her child was more to her, in her secret soul, than her husband. what can they mean? such a thought is foreign to my very nature." "why separate the two?" i asked. "i must separate them in thought," she answered, with the air of one driven to bay by her own self-reproaching. "i had, like other young girls, my dream of love and marriage. unlike all the rest, i believe, i found my visions fulfilled. the reality was more than the imagination; and i thought it would be so with my love for my child. the first cry of that baby told the difference to my ear. i knew it all from that moment; the bliss which had been mine as a wife would never be mine as a mother. if i had not known what it was to adore my husband, i might have been content with my love for marian. but look at that exquisite creature as she lies there asleep, and then think that i, her mother, should desert her if she were dying, for aught i know, at one word from him!" "your feeling does not seem natural," i said, hardly knowing what to answer. "what good does it serve to know that?" she said, defiantly. "i say it to myself every day. once when she was ill, and was given back to me in all the precious helplessness of babyhood, there was such a strange sweetness in it, i thought the charm might remain; but it vanished when she could run about once more. and she is such a healthy, self-reliant little thing," added laura, glancing toward the bed with a momentary look of motherly pride that seemed strangely out of place amid these self-denunciations. "i wish her to be so," she added. "the best service i can do for her is to teach her to stand alone. and at some day," continued the beautiful woman, her whole face lighting up with happiness, "she may love as i have loved." "and your husband," i said, after a pause,--"does your feeling represent his?" "my husband," she said, "lives for his genius, as he should. you that know him, why do you ask?" "and his heart?" i said, half frightened at my own temerity. "heart?" she answered. "he loves me." her color mounted higher yet; she had a look of pride, almost of haughtiness. all else seemed forgotten; she had turned away from the child's little bed, as if it had no existence. it flashed upon me that something of the poison of her artificial atmosphere was reaching her already. kenmure's step was heard in the hall, and, with fire in her eyes, she hastened to meet him. i found myself actually breathing more freely after the departure of that enchanting woman, in danger of perishing inwardly, i said to myself, in an air too lavishly perfumed. bending over marian, i wondered if it were indeed possible that a perfectly healthy life had sprung from that union too intense and too absorbed. yet i had often noticed that the child seemed to wear the temperaments of both her parents as a kind of playful disguise, and to peep at you, now out of the one, now from the other, showing that she had her own individual life behind. as if by some infantine instinct, the darling turned in her sleep, and came unconsciously nearer me. with a half-feeling of self-reproach, i drew around my neck, inch by inch, the little arms that tightened with a delicious thrill; and so i half reclined there till i myself dozed, and the watchful janet, looking in, warned me away. crossing the entry to my own chamber, i heard kenmure and laura down stairs, but i knew that i should be superfluous, and felt that i was sleepy. i had now, indeed, become always superfluous when they were together, though never when they were apart. even they must be separated sometimes, and then each sought me, in order to discourse about the other. kenmure showed me every sketch he had ever made of laura. there she was, through all the range of her beauty,--there she was in clay, in cameo, in pencil, in water-color, in oils. he showed me also his poems, and, at last, a longer one, for which pencil and graver had alike been laid aside. all these he kept in a great cabinet she had brought with her to their housekeeping; and it seemed to me that he also treasured every flower she had dropped, every slender glove she had worn, every ribbon from her hair. i could not wonder, seeing his passion as it was. who would not thrill at the touch of some such slight memorial of mary of scotland, or of heloise? and what was all the regal beauty of the past to him? he found every room adorned when she was in it, empty when she had gone,--save that the trace of her was still left on everything, and all appeared but as a garment she had worn. it seemed that even her great mirror must retain, film over film, each reflection of her least movement, the turning of her head, the ungloving of her hand. strange! that, with all this intoxicating presence, she yet led a life so free from self, so simple, so absorbed, that all trace of consciousness was excluded, and she was as free from vanity as her own child. as we were once thus employed in the studio, i asked kenmure, abruptly, if he never shrank from the publicity he was thus giving laura. "madame recamier was not quite pleased," i said, "that canova had modelled her bust, even from imagination. do you never shrink from permitting irreverent eyes to look on laura's beauty? think of men as you know them. would you give each of them her miniature, perhaps to go with them into scenes of riot and shame?" "would to heaven i could!" said he, passionately. "what else could save them, if that did not? god lets his sun shine on the evil and on the good, but the evil need it most." there was a pause; and then i ventured to ask him a question that had been many times upon my lips unspoken. "does it never occur to you," i said, "that laura cannot live on earth forever?" "you cannot disturb me about that," he answered, not sadly, but with a set, stern look, as if fencing for the hundredth time against an antagonist who was foredoomed to be his master in the end. "laura will outlive me; she must outlive me. i am so sure of it that, every time i come near her, i pray that i may not be paralyzed, and die outside her arms. yet, in any event, what can i do but what i am doing,--devote my whole soul to the perpetuation of her beauty? it is my only dream,--to re-create her through art. what else is worth doing? it is for this i have tried-through sculpture, through painting, through verse--to depict her as she is. thus far i have failed. why have i failed? is it because i have not lived a life sufficiently absorbed in her? or is it that there is no permitted way by which, after god has reclaimed her, the tradition of her perfect loveliness may be retained on earth?" the blinds of the piazza doorway opened, the sweet sea-air came in, the low and level rays of yellow sunset entered as softly as if the breeze were their chariot; and softer and stiller and sweeter than light or air, little marian stood on the threshold. she had been in the fields with janet, who had woven for her breeze-blown hair a wreath of the wild gerardia blossoms, whose purple beauty had reminded the good scotchwoman of her own native heather. in her arms the child bore, like a little gleaner, a great sheaf of graceful golden-rod, as large as her grasp could bear. in all the artist's visions he had seen nothing so aerial, so lovely; in all his passionate portraitures of his idol, he had delineated nothing so like to her. marian's cheeks mantled with rich and wine-like tints, her hair took a halo from the sunbeams, her lips parted over the little, milk-white teeth; she looked at us with her mother's eyes. i turned to kenmure to see if he could resist the influence. he scarcely gave her a glance. "go, marian," he said, not impatiently,--for he was too thoroughly courteous ever to be ungracious, even to a child,--but with a steady indifference that cut me with more pain than if he had struck her. the sun dropped behind the horizon, the halo faded from the shining hair and every ray of light from the childish face. there came in its place that deep, wondering sadness which is more touching than any maturer sorrow,--just as a child's illness melts our hearts more than that of man or woman, it seems so premature and so plaintive. she turned away; it was the very first time i had ever seen the little face drawn down, or the tears gathering in the eyes. by some kind providence, the mother, coming in flushed and beautiful with walking, met marian on the piazza, and caught the little thing in her arms with unwonted tenderness. it was enough for the elastic child. after one moment of such bliss she could go to janet, go anywhere; and when the same graceful presence came in to us in the studio, we also could ask no more. we had music and moonlight, and were happy. the atmosphere seemed more human, less unreal. going up stairs at last, i looked in at the nursery, and found my pet rather flushed, and i fancied that she stirred uneasily. it passed, whatever it was; for next morning she came in to wake me, looking, as usual, as if a new heaven and earth had been coined purposely for her since she went to sleep. we had our usual long and important discourse,--this time tending to protracted narrative, of the mother-goose description,--until, if it had been possible for any human being to be late for breakfast in that house, we should have been the offenders. but she ultimately went downstairs on my shoulder, and, as kenmure and laura were already out rowing, the baby put me in her own place, sat in her mother's chair, and ruled me with a rod of iron. how wonderful was the instinct by which this little creature, who so seldom heard one word of parental severity or parental fondness, knew so thoroughly the language of both! had i been the most depraved of children, or the most angelic, i could not have been more sternly excluded from the sugar-bowl, or more overwhelmed with compensating kisses. later on that day, while little marian was taking the very profoundest nap that ever a baby was blessed with, (she had a pretty way of dropping asleep in unexpected corners of the house, like a kitten,) i somehow strayed into a confidential talk with janet about her mistress. i was rather troubled to find that all her loyalty was for laura, with nothing left for kenmure, whom, indeed, she seemed to regard as a sort of objectionable altar, on which her darlings were being sacrificed. when she came to particulars, certain stray fears of my own were confirmed. it seemed that laura's constitution was not fit, janet averred, to bear these irregular hours, early and late; and she plaintively dwelt on the untasted oatmeal in the morning, the insufficient luncheon, the precarious dinner, the excessive walking and boating, the evening damps. there was coming to be a look about laura such as her mother had, who died at thirty. as for marian,--but here the complaint suddenly stopped; it would have required far stronger provocation to extract from the faithful soul one word that might seem to reflect on marian's mother. another year, and her forebodings had come true. it is needless to dwell on the interval. since then i have sometimes felt a regret almost insatiable in the thought that i should have been absent while all that gracious loveliness was fading and dissolving like a cloud; and yet at other times it has appeared a relief to think that laura would ever remain to me in the fulness of her beauty, not a tint faded, not a lineament changed. with all my efforts, i arrived only in time to accompany kenmure home at night, after the funeral service. we paused at the door of the empty house,--how empty! i hesitated, but kenmure motioned to me to follow him in. we passed through the hall and went up stairs. janet met us at the head of the stairway, and asked me if i would go in to look at little marian, who was sleeping. i begged kenmure to go also but he refused, almost savagely, and went on with heavy step into laura's deserted room. almost the moment i entered the child's chamber, she waked up suddenly, looked at me, and said, "i know you, you are my friend." she never would call me her cousin, i was always her friend. then she sat up in bed, with her eyes wide open, and said, as if stating a problem which had been put by for my solution, "i should like to see my mother." how our hearts are rent by the unquestioning faith of children, when they come to test the love that has so often worked what seemed to them miracles,--and ask of it miracles indeed! i tried to explain to her the continued existence of her mother, and she listened to it as if her eyes drank in all that i could say, and more. but the apparent distance between earth and heaven baffled her baby mind, as it so often and so sadly baffles the thoughts of us elders. i wondered what precise change seemed to her to have taken place. this all-fascinating laura, whom she adored, and who had yet never been to her what other women are to their darlings,--did heaven seem to put her farther off, or bring her more near? i could never know. the healthy child had no morbid questionings; and as she had come into the world to be a sunbeam, she must not fail of that mission. she was kicking about the bed, by this time, in her nightgown, and holding her pink little toes in all sorts of difficult attitudes, when she suddenly said, looking me full in the face: "if my mother was so high up that she had her feet upon a star, do you think that i could see her?" this astronomical apotheosis startled me for a moment, but i said unhesitatingly, "yes," feeling sure that the lustrous eyes that looked in mine could certainly see as far as dante's, when beatrice was transferred from his side to the highest realm of paradise. i put my head beside hers upon the pillow, and stayed till i thought she was asleep. i then followed kenmure into laura's chamber. it was dusk, but the after-sunset glow still bathed the room with imperfect light, and he lay upon the bed, his hands clenched over his eyes. there was a deep bow-window where laura used to sit and watch us, sometimes, when we put off in the boat. her aeolian harp was in the casement, breaking its heart in music. a delicate handkerchief was lodged between the cushions of the window-seat,--the very handkerchief she used to wave, in summer days long gone. the white boats went sailing beneath the evening light, children shouted and splashed in the water, a song came from a yacht, a steam-whistle shrilled from the receding steamer; but she for whom alone those little signs of life had been dear and precious would henceforth be as invisible to our eyes as if time and space had never held her; and the young moon and the evening star seemed but empty things unless they could pilot us to some world where the splendor of her loveliness could match their own. twilight faded, evening darkened, and still kenmure lay motionless, until his strong form grew in my moody fancy to be like some carving of michel angelo's, more than like a living man. and when he at last startled me by speaking, it was with a voice so far off and so strange, it might almost have come wandering down from the century when michel angelo lived. "you are right," he said. "i have been living in a fruitless dream. it has all vanished. the absurdity of speaking of creative art! with all my life-long devotion, i have created nothing. i have kept no memorial of her presence, nothing to perpetuate the most beautiful of lives." before i could answer, the door came softly open, and there stood in the doorway a small white figure, holding aloft a lighted taper of pure alabaster. it was marian in her little night-dress, with the loose blue wrapper trailing behind her, let go in the effort to hold carefully the doll, susan halliday, robed also for the night. "may i come in?" said the child. kenmure was motionless at first: then, looking over his shoulder, said merely, "what?" "janet said," continued marian, in her clear and methodical way, "that my mother was up in heaven, and would help god hear my prayers at any rate; but if i pleased, i could come and say them by you." a shudder passed over kenmure; then he turned away, and put his hands over his eyes. she waited for no answer, but, putting down the candlestick, in her wonted careful manner, upon a chair, she began to climb upon the bed, lifting laboriously one little rosy foot, then another, still dragging after her, with great effort, the doll. nestling at her father's breast, i saw her kneel. "once my mother put her arm round me, when i said my prayers." she made this remark, under her breath, less as a suggestion, it seemed, than as the simple statement of a fact. instantly i saw kenmure's arm move, and grasp her with that strong and gentle touch of his which i had so often noticed in the studio,--a touch that seemed quiet as the approach of fate, and equally resistless. i knew him well enough to understand that iron adoption. he drew her toward him, her soft hair was on his breast, she looked fearlessly into his eyes, and i could hear the little prayer proceeding, yet in so low a whisper that i could not catch one word. she was infinitely solemn at such times, the darling; and there was always something in her low, clear tone, through all her prayings and philosophizings, which was strangely like her mother's voice. sometimes she paused, as if to ask a question, and at every answer i could see her father's arm tighten. the moments passed, the voices grew lower yet, the candle flickered and went out, the doll slid to the ground. marian had drifted away upon a vaster ocean than that whose music lulled her from without,--upon that sea whose waves are dreams. the night was wearing on, the lights gleamed from the anchored vessels, the water rippled serenely against the low sea-wall, the breeze blew gently in. marian's baby breathing grew deeper and more tranquil; and as all the sorrows of the weary earth might be imagined to exhale themselves in spring through the breath of violets, so i prayed that it might be with kenmure's burdened heart, through hers. by degrees the strong man's deeper respirations mingled with those of the child, and their two separate beings seemed merged and solved into identity, as they slumbered, breast to breast, beneath the golden and quiet stars. i passed by without awaking them, and i knew that the artist had attained his dream. in a wherry. we have a phrase in oldport, "what new-yorkers call poverty: to be reduced to a pony phaeton." in consequence of a november gale, i am reduced to a similar state of destitution, from a sail-boat to a wherry; and, like others of the deserving poor, i have found many compensations in my humbler condition. which is the more enjoyable, rowing or sailing? if you sail before the wind, there is the glorious vigor of the breeze that fills your sails; you get all of it you have room for, and a ship of the line could do no more; indeed, your very nearness to the water increases the excitement, since the water swirls and boils up, as it unites in your wake, and seems to clutch at the low stern of your sail-boat, and to menace the hand that guides the helm. or if you beat to windward, it is as if your boat climbed a liquid hill, but did it with bounding and dancing, like a child; there is the plash of the lighter ripples against the bow, and the thud of the heavier waves, while the same blue water is now transformed to a cool jet of white foam over your face, and now to a dark whirlpool in your lee. sailing gives a sense of prompt command, since by a single movement of the tiller you effect so great a change of direction or transform motion into rest; there is, therefore, a certain magic in it: but, on the other hand, there is in rowing a more direct appeal to your physical powers; you do not evade or cajole the elements by a cunning device of keel and canvas, you meet them man-fashion and subdue them. the motion of the oars is like the strong motion of a bird's wings; to sail a boat is to ride upon an eagle, but to row is to be an eagle. i prefer rowing,--at least till i can afford another sail-boat. what is a good day for rowing? almost any day that is good for living. living is not quite agreeable in the midst of a tornado or an equinoctial storm, neither is rowing. there are days when rowing is as toilsome and exhausting a process as is bunyan's idea of virtue; while there are other days, like the present, when it seems a mere oriental passiveness and the forsaking of works,--just an excuse to nature for being out among her busy things. for even at this stillest of hours there is far less repose in nature than we imagine. what created thing can seem more patient than yonder kingfisher on the sea-wall? yet, as we glide near him, we shall see that no creature can be more full of concentrated life; all his nervous system seems on edge, every instant he is rising or lowering on his feet, the tail vibrates, the neck protrudes or shrinks again, the feathers ruffle, the crest dilates; he talks to himself with an impatient chirr, then presently hovers and dives for a fish, then flies back disappointed. we say "free as birds," but their lives are given over to arduous labors. and so, when our condition seems most dreamy, our observing faculties are sometimes desperately on the alert, and we find afterwards, to our surprise, that we have missed nothing. the best observer in the end is not he who works at the microscope or telescope most unceasingly, but he whose whole nature becomes sensitive and receptive, drinking in everything, like a sponge that saturates itself with all floating vapors and odors, though it seems inert and unsuspicious until you press it and it tells the tale. most men do their work out of doors and their dreaming at home; and those whose work is done at home need something like a wherry in which to dream out of doors. on a squally day, with the wind northwest, it is a dream of action, and to round yonder point against an ebbing tide makes you feel as if you were grant before richmond; when you put about, you gallop like sheridan, and the winds and waves become a cavalry escort. on other days all elements are hushed into a dream of peace, and you look out upon those once stormy distances as landseer's sheep look into the mouth of the empty cannon on a dismantled fort. these are the days for revery, and your thoughts fly forth, gliding without friction over this smooth expanse; or, rather, they are like yonder pair of white butterflies that will flutter for an hour just above the glassy surface, traversing miles of distance before they alight again. by a happy trait of our midsummer, these various phases of wind and water may often be included in a single day. on three mornings out of four the wind blows northwest down our bay, then dies to a calm before noon. after an hour or two of perfect stillness, you see the line of blue ripple coming up from the ocean till it conquers all the paler water, and the southwest breeze sets in. this middle zone of calm is like the noonday of the romans, when they feared to speak, lest the great god pan should be awakened. while it lasts, a thin, aerial veil drops over the distant hills of conanicut, then draws nearer and nearer till it seems to touch your boat, the very nearest section of space being filled with a faint disembodied blueness, like that which fills on winter days, in colder regions, the hollows of the snow. sky and sea show but gradations of the same color, and afford but modifications of the same element. in this quietness, yonder schooner seems not so much to lie at anchor in the water as to anchor the water, so that both cease to move; and though faint ripples may come and go elsewhere on the surface, the vessel rests in this liquid island of absolute calm. for there certainly is elsewhere a sort of motionless movement, as keats speaks of "a little noiseless noise among the leaves," or as the summer clouds form and disappear without apparent wind and without prejudice to the stillness. a man may lie in the profoundest trance and still be breathing, and the very pulsations of the life of nature, in these calm hours, are to be read in these changing tints and shadows and ripples, and in the mirage-bewildered outlines of the islands in the bay. it is this incessant shifting of relations, this perpetual substitution of fantastic for real values, this inability to trust your own eye or ear unless the mind makes its own corrections,--that gives such an inexhaustible attraction to life beside the ocean. the sea-change comes to you without your waiting to be drowned. you must recognize the working of your own imagination and allow for it. when, for instance, the sea-fog settles down around us at nightfall, it sometimes grows denser and denser till it apparently becomes more solid than the pavements of the town, or than the great globe itself; and when the fog-whistles go wailing on through all the darkened hours, they seem to be signalling not so much for a lost ship as for a lost island. how unlike are those weird and gloomy nights to this sunny noon, when i rest my oars in this sheltered bay, where a small lagoon makes in behind coaster's harbor island, and the very last breath and murmur of the ocean are left outside! the coming tide steals to the shore in waves so light they are a mere shade upon the surface till they break, and then die speechless for one that has a voice. and even those rare voices are the very most confidential and silvery whispers in which nature ever spoke to man; the faintest summer insect seems resolute and assured beside them; and yet it needs but an indefinite multiplication of these sounds to make up the thunder of the surf. it is so still that i can let the wherry drift idly along the shore, and can watch the life beneath the water. the small fry cluster and evade between me and the brink; the half-translucent shrimp glides gracefully undisturbed, or glances away like a flash if you but touch the surface; the crabs waddle or burrow, the smaller species mimicking unconsciously the hue of the soft green sea-weed, and the larger looking like motionless stones, covered with barnacles and decked with fringing weeds. i am acquainted with no better darwinian than the crab; and however clumsy he may be when taken from his own element, he has a free and floating motion which is almost graceful in his own yielding and buoyant home. it is so with all wild creatures, but especially with those of water and air. a gull is not reckoned an especially graceful bird, but yonder i see one, snowy white, that has come to fish in this safe lagoon, and it dips and rises on its errands as lightly as a butterfly or a swallow. beneath that neighboring causeway the water-rats run over the stones, lithe and eager and alert, the body carried low, the head raised now and then like a hound's, the tail curving gracefully and aiding the poise; now they are running to the water as if to drink, now racing for dear life along the edge, now fairly swimming, then devoting an interval to reflection, like squirrels, then again searching over a pile of sea-weed and selecting some especial tuft, which is carried, with long, sinuous leaps, to the unseen nest. indeed, man himself is graceful in his unconscious and direct employments: the poise of a fisherman, for instance, the play of his arm, the cast of his line or net,--these take the eye as do the stealthy movements of the hunter, the fine attitudes of the wood-chopper, the grasp of the sailor on the helm. a haystack and a boat are always picturesque objects, and so are the men who are at work to build or use them. so is yonder stake-net, glistening in the noonday light,--the innumerable meshes drooping in soft arches from the high stakes, and the line of floats stretching shoreward, like tiny stepping-stones; two or three row-boats are gathered round it, with fishermen in red or blue shirts, while one white sail-boat hovers near. and i have looked down on our beach in spring, at sunset, and watched them drawing nets for the young herring, when the rough men looked as graceful as the nets they drew, and the horseman who directed might have been redgauntlet on the solway sands. i suppose it is from this look of natural fitness that a windmill is always such an appropriate object by the sea-shore. it is simply a four-masted schooner, stranded on a hill-top, and adapting itself to a new sphere of duty. it can have needed but a slight stretch of invention in some seaman to combine these lofty vans, and throw over them a few remodelled sails. the principle of their motion is that by which a vessel beats to windward; the miller spreads or reefs his sails, like a sailor,--reducing them in a high wind to a mere "pigeon-wing" as it is called, two or three feet in length, or in some cases even scudding under bare poles. the whole structure vibrates and creaks under rapid motion, like a mast; and the angry vans, disappointed of progress, are ready to grind to powder all that comes within their grasp, as they revolve hopelessly in this sea of air. when the sun grows hot, i like to take refuge in a sheltered nook beside goat island lighthouse, where the wharf shades me, and the resonant plash of waters multiplies itself among the dark piles, increasing the delicious sense of coolness. while the noonday bells ring twelve, i take my rest. round the corner of the pier the fishing-boats come gliding in, generally with a boy asleep forward, and a weary man at the helm; one can almost fancy that the boat itself looks weary, having been out since the early summer sunrise. in contrast to this expression of labor ended, the white pleasure-boats seem but to be taking a careless stroll by water; while a skiff full of girls drifts idly along the shore, amid laughter and screaming and much aimless splash. more resolute and business-like, the boys row their boat far up the bay; then i see a sudden gleam of white bodies, and then the boat is empty, and the surrounding water is sprinkled with black and bobbing heads. the steamboats look busier yet, as they go puffing by at short intervals, and send long waves up to my retreat; and then some schooner sails in, full of life, with a white ripple round her bows, till she suddenly rounds to drops anchor, and is still. opposite me, on the landward side of the bay, the green banks slope to the water; on yonder cool piazza there is a young mother who swings her baby in the hammock, or a white-robed figure pacing beneath the trailing vines. peace and lotus-eating on shore; on the water, even in the stillest noon, there are life and sparkle and continual change. one of those fishermen whose boats have just glided to their moorings is to me a far more interesting person than any of his mates, though he is perhaps the only one among them with whom i have never yet exchanged a word. there is good reason for it; he has been deaf and dumb since boyhood. he is reported to be the boldest sailor among all these daring men; he is the last to retreat before the coming storm; the first after the storm to venture through the white and whirling channels, between dangerous ledges, to which others give a wider berth. i do not wonder at this, for think how much of the awe and terror of the tempest must vanish if the ears be closed! the ominous undertone of the waves on the beach and the muttering thunder pass harmless by him. how infinitely strange it must be to have the sight of danger, but not the sound! fancy such a deprivation in war, for instance, where it is the sounds, after all, that haunt the memory the longest; the rifle's crack, the irregular shots of skirmishers, the long roll of alarm, the roar of great guns. this man would have missed them all. were a broadside from an enemy's gunboat to be discharged above his head, he would not hear it; he would only recognize, by some jarring of his other senses, the fierce concussion of the air. how much deeper seems his solitude than that of any other "lone fisher on the lonely sea"! yet all such things are comparative; and while the others contrast that wave-tossed isolation with the cheeriness of home, his home is silent too. he has a wife and children; they all speak, but he hears not their prattle or their complaints. he summons them with his fingers, as he summons the fishes, and they are equally dumb to him. has he a special sympathy with those submerged and voiceless things? dunfish, in the old newspapers, were often called "dumb'd fish"; and they perchance come to him as to one of their kindred. they may have learned, like other innocent things, to accept this defect of utterance, and even imitate it. i knew a deaf-and-dumb woman whose children spoke and heard; but while yet too young for words, they had learned that their mother was not to be reached in that way; they never cried or complained before her, and when most excited would only whisper. her baby ten months old, if disturbed in the night, would creep to her and touch her lips, to awaken her, but would make no noise. one might fancy that all men who have an agonizing sorrow or a fearful secret would be drawn by irresistible attraction into the society of the deaf and dumb. what awful passions might not be whispered, what terror safely spoken, in the charmed circle round yonder silent boat,--a circle whose centre is a human life which has not all the susceptibilities of life, a confessional where even the priest cannot hear! would it not relieve sorrow to express itself, even if unheeded? what more could one ask than a dumb confidant? and if deaf also, so much the safer. to be sure, he would give you neither absolution nor guidance; he could render nothing in return, save a look or a clasp of the hand; nor can the most gifted or eloquent friendship do much more. ah! but suddenly the thought occurs, suppose that the defect of hearing, as of tongue, were liable to be loosed by an overmastering emotion, and that by startling him with your hoarded confidence you were to break the spell! the hint is too perilous; let us row away. a few strokes take us to the half-submerged wreck of a lime-schooner that was cut to the water's edge, by a collision in a gale, twelve months ago. the water kindled the lime, the cable was cut, the vessel drifted ashore and sunk, still blazing, at this little beach. when i saw her, at sunset, the masts had been cut away, and the flames held possession on board. fire was working away in the cabin, like a live thing, and sometimes glared out of the hatchway; anon it clambered along the gunwale, like a school-boy playing, and the waves chased it as in play; just a flicker of flame, then a wave would reach up to overtake it; then the flames would be, or seem to be, where the water had been; and finally, as the vessel lay careened, the waves took undisturbed possession of the lower gunwale, and the flames of the upper. so it burned that day and night; part red with fire, part black with soaking; and now twelve months have made all its visible parts look dry and white, till it is hard to believe that either fire or water has ever touched it. it lies over on its bare knees, and a single knee, torn from the others, rests imploringly on the shore, as if that had worked its way to land, and perished in act of thanksgiving. at low tide, one half the frame is lifted high in air, like a dead tree in the forest. perhaps all other elements are tenderer in their dealings with what is intrusted to them than is the air. fire, at least, destroys what it has ruined; earth is warm and loving, and it moreover conceals; water is at least caressing,--it laps the greater part of this wreck with protecting waves, covers with sea-weeds all that it can reach, and protects with incrusting shells. even beyond its grasp it tosses soft pendants of moss that twine like vine-tendrils, or sway in the wind. it mellows harsh colors into beauty, and ruskin grows eloquent over the wave-washed tint of some tarry, weather-beaten boat. but air is pitiless: it dries and stiffens all outline, and bleaches all color away, so that you can hardly tell whether these ribs belonged to a ship or an elephant; and yet there is a certain cold purity in the shapes it leaves, and the birds it sends to perch upon these timbers are a more graceful company than lobsters or fishes. after all, there is something sublime in that sepulture of the parsees, who erect near every village a dokhma, or tower of silence, upon whose summit they may bury their dead in air. thus widely may one's thoughts wander from a summer boat. but the season for rowing is a long one, and far outlasts in oldport the stay of our annual guests. sometimes in autumnal mornings i glide forth over water so still, it seems as if saturated by the indian-summer with its own indefinable calm. the distant islands lift themselves on white pedestals of mirage; the cloud-shadows rest softly on conanicut; and what seems a similar shadow on the nearer slopes of fort adams is in truth but a mounted battery, drilling, which soon moves and slides across the hazy hill like a cloud. i hear across nearly a mile of water the faint, sharp orders and the sonorous blare of the trumpet that follows each command; the horsemen gallop and wheel; suddenly the band within the fort strikes up for guard-mounting, and i have but to shut my eyes to be carried back to warlike days that passed by,--was it centuries ago? meantime, i float gradually towards brenton's cove; the lawns that reach to the water's edge were never so gorgeously green in any summer, and the departure of the transient guests gives to these lovely places an air of cool seclusion; when fashion quits them, the imagination is ready to move in. an agreeable sense of universal ownership comes over the winter-staying mind in oldport. i like to keep up this little semblance of habitation on the part of our human birds of passage; it is very pleasant to me, and perhaps even pleasanter to them, that they should call these emerald slopes their own for a month or two; but when they lock the doors in autumn, the ideal key reverts into my hands, and it is evident that they have only been "tenants by the courtesy," in the fine legal phrase. provided they stay here long enough to attend to their lawns and pay their taxes, i am better satisfied than if these estates were left to me the whole year round. the tide takes the boat nearer to the fort; the horsemen ride more conspicuously, with swords and trappings that glisten in the sunlight, while the white fetlocks of the horses twinkle in unison as they move. one troop-horse without a rider wheels and gallops with the rest, and seems to revel in the free motion. here also the tide reaches or seems to reach the very edge of the turf; and when the light battery gallops this way, it is as if it were charging on my floating fortress. upon the other side is a scene of peace; and a fisherman sings in his boat as he examines the floats of his stake-net, hand over hand. a white gull hovers close above him, and a dark one above the horsemen, fit emblems of peace and war. the slightest sounds, the rattle of an oar, the striking of a hoof against a stone, are borne over the water to an amazing distance, as if the calm bay amid its seeming quiet, were watchful of the slightest noise. but look! in a moment the surface is rippled, the sky is clouded, a swift change comes over the fitful mood of the season; the water looks colder and deeper, the greensward assumes a chilly darkness, the troopers gallop away to their stables, and the fisherman rows home. that indefinable expression which separates autumn from summer creeps almost in an instant over all. soon, even upon this isle of peace, it will be winter. each season, as winter returns, i try in vain to comprehend this wonderful shifting of expression that touches even a thing so essentially unchanging as the sea. how delicious to all the senses is the summer foam above yonder rock; in winter the foam is the same, the sparkle as radiant, the hue of the water scarcely altered; and yet the effect is, by comparison, cold, heavy, and leaden. it is like that mysterious variation which chiefly makes the difference between one human face and another; we call it by vague names, and cannot tell in what it lies; we only know that when expression changes, all is gone. no warmth of color, no perfection of outline can supersede those subtile influences which make one face so winning that all human affection gravitates to its spell, and another so cold or repellent that it dwells forever in loneliness, and no passionate heart draws near. i can fancy the ocean beating in vague despair against its shores in winter, and moaning, "i am as beautiful, as restless, as untamable as ever: why are my cliffs left desolate? why am i not loved as i was loved in summer?" madam delia's expectations. madam delia sat at the door of her show-tent, which, as she discovered too late, had been pitched on the wrong side of the parade. it was "election day" in oldport, and there must have been a thousand people in the public square; there were really more than the four policemen on duty could properly attend to, so that half of them had leisure to step into madam delia's tent, and see little gerty and the rattlesnakes. it was past the appointed hour; but the exhibition had never yet been known to open for less than ten spectators, and even the addition of the policemen only made eight. so the mistress of the show sat in resolute expectation, a little defiant of the human race. it was her thirteenth annual tour, and she knew mankind. surely there were people enough; surely they had money enough; surely they were easily pleased. they gathered in crowds to hear crazy mrs. green denouncing the city government for sending her to the poorhouse in a wagon instead of a carriage. they thronged to inspect the load of hay that was drawn by the two horses whose harness had been cut to pieces, and then repaired by denison's eureka cement. they all bought whips with that unfailing readiness which marks a rural crowd; they bought packages of lead-pencils with a dollar so skilfully distributed through every six parcels that the oldest purchaser had never found more than ten cents in his. they let the man who cured neuralgia rub his magic curative on their foreheads, and allowed the man who cleaned watch-chains to dip theirs in the purifying powder. they twirled the magic arrow, which never by any chance rested at the corner compartments where the gold watches and the heavy bracelets were piled, but perpetually recurred to the side stations, and indicated only a beggarly prize of india-rubber sleeve-buttons. they bought ten cents' worth of jewelry, obtaining a mingled treasure of two breast-pins, a plain gold ring, an enamelled ring, and "a piece of california gold." but still no added prizes in the human lottery fell to the show-tent of madam delia. as time went on and the day grew warmer, the crowd grew visibly less enterprising, and business flagged. the man with the lifting-machine pulled at the handles himself, a gratuitous exhibition before a circle of boys now penniless. the man with the metallic polish dipped and redipped his own watch-chain. the men at the booths sat down to lunch upon the least presentable of their own pies. the proprietor of the magic arrow, who had already two large breastpins on his dirty shirt, selected from his own board another to grace his coat-collar, as if thereby to summon back the waning fortunes of the day. but madam delia still sat at her post, undaunted. she kept her eye on two sauntering militia-men in uniform, but they only read her sign and seated themselves on the curbstone, to smoke. then a stout black soldier came in sight; but he turned and sat down at a table to eat oysters, served by a vast and smiling matron of his own race. but even this, though perhaps the most wholly cheerful exhibition that the day yielded, had no charms for madam delia. her own dinner was ordered at the tavern after the morning show; and where is the human being who does not resent the spectacle of another human being who dines earlier than himself? it grew warmer, so warm that the canvas walls of the tent seemed to grasp a certain armful of heat and keep it inexorably in; so warm that the out-of-door man was dozing as he leaned against the tent-stake, and only recovered himself at the sound of madam delia's penetrating voice, and again began to summon people in, though there was nobody within hearing. it was so warm that mr. de marsan, born bangs, the wedded husband of madam delia, dozed as he walked up and down the sidewalk, and had hardly voice enough to testify, as an unconcerned spectator, to the value of the show. only the unwearied zeal of the showwoman defied alike thermometer and neglect, she kept her eye on everything,--on old bill as he fed the monkeys within, on monsieur comstock as he hung the trapeze for the performance, on the little girls as they tried to peddle their songs, on the sleepy out-of-door man, and on the people who did not draw near. if she could, she would have played all the parts in her own small company, and would have put the inexhaustible nervous energies of her own new england nature (she was born at meddibemps, state of maine) into all. apart from this potent stimulus, not a soul in the establishment, save little gerty, possessed any energy whatever. old bill had unfortunately never learned total abstinence from the wild animals among which he had passed his life; monsieur comstock's brains had chiefly run into his arms and legs; and mr. de marsan, the nominal head of the establishment, was a peaceful pennsylvanian, who was wont to move as slowly as if he were one of those processions that take a certain number of hours to pass a given point. this madam delia understood and expected; he was an innocent who was to be fed, clothed, and directed; but his languor was no excuse for the manifest feebleness of the out-of-door man. "that man don't know how to talk no more 'n nothin' at all," said madam delia reproachfully, to the large policeman who stood by her. "he never speaks up bold to nobody. why don't he tell 'em what's inside the tent? i don't want him to say no more 'n the truth, but he might tell that. tell 'em about gerty, you nincum! tell 'em about the snakes. tell 'em what comstock is. 't ain't the real original comstock" (this to the policeman), "it's only another that used to perform with him in comstock brothers. this one can't swaller, so we leave out the knives." "where's t' other?" said the sententious policeman, whose ears were always open for suspicious disappearances. "didn't you hear?" cried the incredulous lady. "scattered! gone! went off one day with a box of snakes and two monkeys. come, now, you must have heard. we had a sight of trouble pay-in' detectives." "what for a looking fellow was he?" said the policeman. "dark complected," was the reply. "black mustache. he understood his business, i tell you now. swallered five or six knives to onst, and give good satisfaction to any audience. it was him that brought us gerty and anne,--that's the other little girl. i didn't know as they was his children, and didn't know as they was, but one day he said he got 'em from an old woman in new york, and that was all he knew." "they're smart," said the man, whom gerty had just coaxed into paying three cents instead of two for number six of the "singer's journal,"--a dingy little sheet, containing a song about a fat policeman, which she had brought to his notice. "you'd better believe it," said madam delia, proudly. "at least gerty is; anne ain't. i tell 'em, gerty knows enough for both. anne don't know nothin', and what she does know she don't know sartin. all she can do is just to hang on: she's the strongest and she does the heavy business on the trapeze and parallel bars." "is gerty good on that?" said the public guardian. "i tell you," said the head of the establishment.--"go and dress, children! five minutes!" all this time madam delia had been taking occasional fees from the tardy audience, had been making change, detecting counterfeit currency, and discerning at a glance the impostures of one deceitful boy who claimed to have gone out on a check and lost it. at last stephen blake and his little sister entered, and the house was regarded as full. these two revellers had drained deep the cup of "election-day" excitement. they had twirled all the arrows, bought all the jewelry, inspected all the colored eggs, blown at all the spirometers, and tasted all the egg-pop which the festal day required. these delights exhausted, they looked round for other worlds to conquer, saw madam delia at her tent-door, and were conquered by her. she did, indeed, look energetic and comely as she sat at the receipt of custom, her smooth black hair relieved by gold ear-rings, her cotton velvet sack by a white collar, and her dark gingham dress by a cheap breastpin and by linen cuffs not very much soiled. the black leather bag at her side had a well-to-do look; but all else in the establishment looked a little poverty-stricken. the tent was made of very worn and soiled canvas, and was but some twenty-five feet square. there were no seats, and the spectators sat on the grass. there was a very small stage raised some six feet; this was covered with some strips of old carpet, and surrounded by a few old and tattered curtains. through their holes you could easily see the lithe brown shoulders of the little girls as they put on their professional suits; and, on the other side, monsieur comstock, scarcely hidden by the drapery, leaned against a cross-bar, and rested his chin upon his tattooed arms as he counted the spectators. among these, mr. de marsan, pacing slowly, distributed copies of this programme:- thirteenth annual tour. --- madam delia's museum and variety combination-will exhibit. --- proclamation to the public.--the proprietors would say that they have abandoned the old and played-out practice of decorating the outer walls of all principal streets with flaming posters and handbills, and have adopted the congenial, and they trust successful, plan of advertising with programmes, giving a full and accurate description as now organized, which will be distributed in hotels, saloons, factories, workshops, and all private dwellings, by their special agents, three days before the exhibition takes place. --- madam delia with her pet snakes. miss gerty, the child wonder, danseuse and contortionist, will appear in her wonderful feats at each performance. mons. comstock, the champion sword-swallower, will also exhibit his wonderful power of swallowing five swords, measuring from 14 to 22 inches in length. it is not so much the beauty of this feat that makes it so remarkable, as its seeming impossibility. --- master bobby, the banjo soloist and burlesque. --- comic acrobat, by miss gerty and mons. comstock. --- madam delia, the wonderful and original snake-tamer, with her pets, measuring 12 feet in length and weighing 50 lbs. a pet rattlesnake, 15 years of age, captured on the prairies of illinois,- oldest on exhibition. --- in connection with this exhibition there are ant-eaters, african monkeys, &c. cosmoramic stereoscopic scenes in the united states and other countries, including a view of the funeral procession of president taylor, which is alone worth the price of admission. --- exhibition every half-hour, during day and evening. secure your seats early! --- admission 20 cents. particular care will be taken and nothing shall occur to offend the most fastidious. stephen and his little sister strolled about the tent meanwhile. the final preparations went slowly on. the few spectators teased the ant-eater in one corner, or the first violin in another. one or two young farmers' boys were a little uproarious with egg-pop, and danced awkward breakdowns at the end of the tent. then a cracked bell sounded and the curtain rose, showing hardly more of the stage than was plainly visible before. little gerty, aged ten, came in first, all rumpled gauze and tarnished spangles, to sing. in a poor little voice, feebler and shriller than the chattering of the monkeys, she sang a song about the "grecian bend," and enacted the same, walking round and round the stage whirling her tawdry finery. then anne, aged twelve, came in as a boy and joined her. both the girls had rather pretty features, blue eyes, and tightly curling hair; both had pleasing faces; but anne was solid and phlegmatic, while gerty was keen and flexible as a weasel, and almost as thin. presently anne went out and reappeared as "master bobby" of the hills, making love to gerty in that capacity, through song and dance. then gerty was transformed by the addition of a single scarf into a "highland maid," and danced a fling; this quite gracefully, to the music of two violins. exeunt the children and enter "madam delia and her pets." the show-woman had laid aside her velvet sack and appeared with bare neck and arms. over her shoulders hung a rattlesnake fifteen feet long, while a smaller specimen curled from each hand. the reptiles put their cold, triangular faces against hers, they touched her lips, they squirmed around her; she tied their tails together in elastic knots that soon undid; they reared their heads above her black locks till she looked like a stage medusa, then laid themselves lovingly on her shoulder, and hissed at the audience. then she lay down on the stage and pillowed her head on the writhing mass. she opened her black bag and took out a tiny brown snake which she placidly transferred to her bosom; then turned to a barrel into which she plunged her arm and drew out a black, hissing coil of mingled heads and tails. her keen, goodnatured face looked cheerfully at the audience through it all, and took away the feeling of disgust, and something of the excitement of fear. the lady and the pets retiring, gerty's hour of glory came. she hated singing and only half enjoyed character dancing, but in posturing she was in her glory. dressed in soiled tights that showed every movement of her little body, she threw herself upon the stage with a hand-spring, then kissed her hand to the audience, and followed this by a back-somerset. then she touched her head by anslow effort to her heels; then turned away, put her palms to the ground, raised her heels gradually in the air, and in this inverted position kissed first one hand, then the other, to the spectators. then she crossed the stage in a series of somersets, then rolled back like a wheel; then held a hoop in her two hands and put her whole slender body through it, limb after limb. then appeared monsieur comstock. he threw a hand-spring and gave her his feet to stand upon; she grasped them with her hands and inverted herself, her feet pointing skyward. then he resumed the ordinary attitude of rational beings and she lay on her back across his uplifted palms, which supported her neck and feet; then she curled herself backward around his waist, almost touching head and heels. indeed, whatever the snakes had done to madam delia, gerty seemed possessed with a wish to do to monsieur comstock, all but the kissing. then that eminent foreigner vanished, and the odors of his pipe came faintly through the tattered curtain, while anne entered to help gerty in the higher branches. a double trapeze--just two horizontal bars suspended at different heights by ropes and straps--had been swung from the tent-roof. gerty ascended to the upper bar, hung from it by her hand, then by her knees, then by her feet, then sat upon it, leaned slowly backward, suddenly dropped, and as some children in the audience shrieked in terror, she caught by her feet in the side-ropes and came up smiling. it was a part of the play. then another trapeze was hung, and was set swinging toward the first, and gerty flung herself in triumph, with varied somersets, from one to the other, while anne rattled the banjo below and sang, "i fly through the air with the greatest of ease, a daring young man on the flying trapeeze." then the child stopped to rest, while all hands were clapped and only the unreverberating turf kept the feet from echoing also. people flocked in from outside, and madam delia was kept busy at the door. then gerty came down to the lower bar, while anne ascended the upper, and hung to it solidly by her knees. thus suspended, she put out her hands to gerty, who put her feet into them, and hung head-downward. there was a shuddering pause, while the two children clung thus dizzily, but the audience had seen enough of peril to lose all fear. "those straps are safe?" asked stephen of mr. de marsan. "law bless you, yes," replied that pleasant functionary. "comstock's been on 'em." precisely as he spoke one of the straps gave downward a little, and then rested firm; it was not a half-inch, but it jarred the performers. "gerty, i'm slipping," cried anne. "we shall fall!" "no, we sha'n't, silly," said the other, quickly. "hold on. comstock, swing me the rope." stephen blake sprang to the stage and swung her the rope by which they had climbed to the upper bar. it fell short and gerty missed it. anne screamed, and slipped visibly. "you can't hold," said gerty. "let go my feet. let me drop." "you'll be killed," called anne, slipping still more. "drop me, i say!" shouted the resolute gerty, while the whole audience rose in excitement. instantly the hands of the elder girl opened and down fell gerty, headforemost, full twelve feet, striking heavily on her shoulder, while anne, relieved of the weight, recovered easily her position and slipped down into stephen's arms. she threw herself down beside the little comrade whose presence of mind had saved at least one of them. "o gerty, are you killed?" she said. "i want delia," gasped the child. madam delia was at her side already, having rushed from the door, where a surging host of boys had already swept in gratis. gerty writhed in pain. stephen felt her collar-bone and found it bent like a horseshoe; and she fainted before she could be taken from the stage. when restored, she was quite exhausted, and lay for days perfectly subdued and gentle, sleeping most of the time. during these days she had many visitors, and mr. de marsan had ample opportunity for the simple enjoyments of his life, tobacco and conversation. stephen blake and his sister came often, and while she brought her small treasures to amuse gerty, he freely pumped the proprietor. madam delia had been in the snake business, it appeared, since early youth, thirteen years ago. she had been in de marsan's employ for eight years before her marriage, and his equal and lawful partner for five years since. at first they had travelled as side-show to a circus, but that was not so good. "the way is, you see," said mr. de marsan, "to take a place like providence, that's a good showtown, right along, and pitch your tent and live there. keep-still pays, they say. you'd have to hire a piece of ground anywhere, for five or six dollars a day, and it don't cost much more by the week. you can board for four or five dollars a week, but if you board by the day it's a dollar and a half." to which words of practical wisdom stephen listened with pleased interest. it was not so very many years since he had been young enough to wish to run away with a circus; and by encouraging these simple confidences, he brought round the conversation to the children. but here he was met by a sheer absence of all information as to their antecedents. the original and deceitful comstock had brought them and left them two years before. madam delia had received flattering offers to take her snakes and gerty into circuses and large museums, but she had refused for the child's own sake. did gerty like it? yes, she would like to be posturing all day; she could do anything she saw done; she "never needed to be taught nothin'," as mr. de marsan asserted with vigorous accumulation of negatives. he thought her father or mother must have been in the business, she took to it so easily; but she was just as smart at school in the winter, and at everything else. was the life good for her? yes, why not? rough company and bad language? they could hear worse talk every day in the street. "sometimes a feller would come in with too much liquor aboard," the showman admitted, "and would begin to talk his nonsense; but comstock wouldn't ask nothin' better than to pitch such a feller out, especially if he should sarce the little gals. they were good little gals, and delia set store by 'em." when stephen and his sister went back that night to their kind hostesses, miss martha and miss amy, the soft hearts of those dear old ladies were melted in an instant by the story of gerty's courage and self-sacrifice. they had lived peacefully all their lives in that motherly old house by the bay-side, where successive generations had lived before them. the painted tiles around the open fire looked as if their fops and fine ladies had stepped out of the spectator and the tatler; the great mahogany chairs looked as hospitable as when the french officers were quartered in the house during the revolution, and its quaker owner, miss martha's grand-uncle, had carried out a seat that the weary sentinel might sit down. descended from one of those families of quaker beauties whom de lauzun celebrated, they bore the memory of those romantic lives, as something very sacred, in hearts which perhaps held as genuine romances of their own. miss martha's sweet face was softened by advancing deafness and by that gentle, appealing look which comes when mind and memory grow a little dimmer, though the loving nature knows no change. "sister amy says," she meekly confessed, "that i am losing my memory. but i do not care very much. there are so few things worth remembering!" they kept house together in sweet accord, and were indeed trained in the neat quaker ways so thoroughly, that they always worked by the same methods. in opinion and emotion they were almost duplicates. yet the world holds no absolute and perfect correspondence, and it is useless to affect to conceal--what was apparent to any intimate guest--that there was one domestic question on which perfect sympathy was wanting. during their whole lives they had never been able to take precisely the same view of the best method of grinding indian meal. miss martha preferred to have it from a wind-mill; while miss amy was too conscientious to deny that she thought it better when prepared by a water-mill. she said firmly, though gently, that it seemed to her "less gritty." living their whole lives in this scarcely broken harmony by the margin of the bay, they had long built together one castle in the air. they had talked of it for many an hour by their evening fire, and they had looked from their chamber windows toward the red light upon rose island to see if it were coming true. this vision was, that they were to awake some morning after an autumnal storm, and to find an unknown vessel ashore behind the house, without name or crew or passengers; only there was to be one sleeping child, with aristocratic features and a few yards of exquisite embroidery. years had passed, and their lives were waning, without a glimpse of that precious waif of gentle blood. once in an october night miss martha had been awakened by a crash, and looking out had seen that their pier had been carried away, and that a dark vessel lay stranded with her bowsprit in the kitchen window. but daylight revealed the schooner polly lawton, with a cargo of coal, and the dream remained unfulfilled. they had never revealed it, except to each other. moved by a natural sympathy, miss martha went with stephen to see the injured child. gerty lay asleep on a rather dingy little mattress, with mr. comstock's overcoat rolled beneath her head. a day's illness will commonly make even the coarsest child look refined and interesting; and gerty's physical organization was anything but coarse. her pretty hair curled softly round her head; her delicate profile was relieved against the rough, dark pillow; and the tips of her little pink ears could not have been improved by art, though they might have been by soap and water. warm tears came into miss martha's eyes, which were quickly followed from corresponding fountains in madam delia's. "thy own child?" said or rather signalled miss martha, forming the letters softly with her lips. stephen had his own reasons for leaving her to ask this question in all ignorance. "no, ma'am," said the show-woman. "not much. adopted." "does thee know her parents?" this was similarly signalled. "no," said madam delia, rather coldly. "does thee suppose that they were--" and here miss martha stopped, and the color came as suddenly and warmly to her cheeks as if monsieur comstock had offered to marry her, and to settle upon her the snakes as exclusive property. madam delia divined the question; she had so often found herself trying to guess the social position of gerty's parents. "i don't know as i know," said she, slowly, "whether you ought to know anythin' about it. but i'll tell you what i know. that child's folks," she added, mysteriously, "lived on quality hill." "lived where?" said miss martha, breathless. "upper crust," said the other, defining her symbol still further. "no middlins to 'em. genteel as anybody. just look here!" madam delia unclasped her leather bag, brought forth from it a mass of checks and tickets, some bird-seed, a small whip, a dog-collar, and a dingy morocco box. this held a piece of an old-fashioned enamelled ring, and a fragment of embroidered muslin marked "a." "she'd lived with me six months before she brought 'em," said the show-woman, whispering. the bit of handkerchief was enough. was it a dream? thought the dear old lady. what the ocean had refused, was this sprite who had lived between earth and air to fulfil? miss martha bent softly over the bedside, resting her clean glove on the only dirty mattress it had ever touched, and quietly kissed the child. then she looked up with a radiant face of perfect resolution. "mrs. de marsan," said she, with dignity that was almost solemnity, "i wish to adopt this child. no one can doubt thy kindness of heart, but thee must see that thee is in no condition to give her suitable care and christian nurture." "that's a fact," interposed madam delia with a pang "then thee will give her to me?" asked miss martha, firmly. madam delia threw her apron over her face, and choked and sobbed beneath it for several minutes. then reappearing, "it's what i've always expected," said she. then, with a tinge of suspicion, "would you have taken her without the ring and handkerchief?" "perhaps i should," said the other, gently. "but that seems to make it a clearer call." "fair enough," said madam delia, submitting. "i ain't denyin' of it." then she reflected and recommenced. "there never was such a smart performin' child as that since the world began. she can do just anythin', and just as easy! time and again i might have hired her out to a circus, and she glad of the chance, mind you; but no, i would keep her safe to home. then when she showed me the ring and the other things, all my expectations altered very sudden; i knowed we couldn't keep her, and i began to mistrust that she would somehow find her folks. i guess my rathers was that she should, considerin'; but i did wish it had been anne, for she ain't got nothin' better in her than just to live genteel." "but anne seems a nice child, too," said miss martha, consolingly. "well, that's just what she is," replied madam delia, with some contempt. "but what is she for a contortionist? ask comstock what she's got in her! and how to run the show without gerty, that's what beats me. why, folks begin to complain already that we advertise swallerin', and yet don't swaller. but never you mind, ma'am, you shall have gerty. you shall have her," she added, with a gulp, "if i have to sell out! go ahead!" and again the apron went over her face. at this point, gerty waked up with a little murmur, looked up at miss martha's kind face, and smiled a sweet, childish smile. half asleep still, she put out one thin, muscular little hand, and went to sleep as the old lady took it in hers. a kiss awaked her. "what has thee been dreaming about, my little girl?" said miss martha. "angels and things, i guess," said the child, somewhat roused. "will thee go home with me and live?" said the lady. "yes'm," replied gerty, and went to sleep again. two days later she was well enough to ride to miss martha's in a carriage, escorted by madam delia and by anne, "that dull, uninteresting child," as miss amy had reluctantly described her, "so different from this graceful adelaide." this romantic name was a rapid assumption of the soft-hearted miss amy's, but, once suggested, it was as thoroughly-fixed as if a dozen baptismal fonts had written it in water. madam delia was sustained, up to the time of gerty's going, by a sense of self-sacrifice. but this emotion, like other strong stimulants, has its reactions. that remorse for a crime committed in vain, which dr. johnson thought the acutest of human emotions, is hardly more depressing than to discover that we have got beyond our depth in virtue, and are in water where we really cannot quite swim,--and this was the good woman's position. during her whole wandering though blameless life,--in her girlish days, when she charmed snakes at meddibemps, or through her brief time of service as plain car'line prouty at the biddeford mills, or when she ran away from her step-mother and took refuge among the indians at orono, or later, since she had joined her fate with that of de marsan,--she had never been so severely tried. "that child was so smart," she said, beneath the evening canvas, to her sympathetic spouse. "i always expected when we got old we'd kinder retire on a farm or suthin', and let her and her husband--say comstock, if he was young enough--run the business. and even after she showed us the ring and things, i thought likely she'd just come into her property somewheres and take care of us. i don't know as i ever thought she'd leave us, either way, and there she's gone." "she won't forget us," said the peaceful proprietor. "no," said the wife, "but it's lonesome. if it had only been anne! i shall miss gerty the worst kind. and it'll kill the show!" and to tell the truth, the show languished. nothing but the happy acquisition of a chinese giant nearly eight feet high, with slanting eyes and a long pigtail,--a man who did penance in his height for the undue brevity of his undersized nation,--would have saved the "museum." meantime the neat proprieties of orderly life found but a poor disciple in gerty. her warm heart opened to the dear old ladies; but she found nothing familiar in this phantom of herself, this well-dressed little girl who, after a rapid convalescence, was introduced at school and "meeting" under the name of adelaide. the school studies did not dismay her, but she played the jew's-harp at recess, and danced the clog-dance in india-rubbers, to the dismay of the little misses grundy, her companions. in the calisthenic exercises she threw beanbags with an untamed vigor that soon ripped the stitches of the bags, and sowed those vegetables in every crack of the school-room floor. there was a ladder in the garden, and it was some comfort to ascend it hand over hand upon the under side, or to hang by her toes from the upper rung, to the terror of her schoolmates. but she became ashamed of the hardness of her palms, and she grew in general weary of her life. her clothes pinched her, so did her new boots; madam delia had gone to providence with the show, and gerty had not so much as seen the new chinese giant. of all days sunday was the most objectionable, when she had to sit still in friends' meeting and think how pleasant it would be to hang by the knees, head downward, from the parapet of the gallery. she liked better the seamen's bethel, near by, where there was an aroma of tar and tarpaulin that suggested the odors of the show-tent, and where, when the methodist exhorter gave out the hymn, "howl, howl, ye winds of night," the choir rendered it with such vigor that it was like being at sea in a northeaster. but each week made her new life harder, until, having cried herself asleep one saturday evening, she rose early the next morning for her orisons, which, i regret to say, were as follows:-"i must get out of this," quoth gerty, "i must cut and run. i'll make it all right for the old ladies, for i'll send 'em anne. she'll like it here first rate." she hunted up such remnants of her original wardrobe as had been thought worth washing and preserving, and having put them on, together with a hat whose trimmings had been vehemently burned by miss martha, she set out to seek her fortune. of all her new possessions, she took only a pair of boots, and those she carried in her hand as she crept softly down stairs. "save us!" exclaimed biddy, who had been to a mission mass of incredible length, and was already sweeping the doorsteps. "christmas!" she added, as a still more pious ejaculation, when the child said, "good by, biddy, i'm off now." "where to, thin?" exclaimed biddy. "to providence," said gerty. "but don't you tell." "but ye can't go the morn's mornin'," said biddy. "it's sunday and there's no cars." "there's legs," replied the child, briefly, as she closed the door. "it's much as iver," said the stumpy hibernian, to herself, as she watched the twinkling retreat of those slim, but vigorous little members. they had been gerty's support too long, in body and estate, for her to shrink from trusting them in a walk of a dozen or a score of miles. but the locomotion of stephen's horse was quicker, and she did not get seriously tired before being overtaken, and--not without difficulty and some hot tears--coaxed back. fortunately, madam delia came down from providence that evening, on a very unexpected visit, and at the confidential hour of bedtime the child's heart was opened and made a revelation. "won't you be mad, if i tell you something?" she said to madam delia, abruptly. "no," said the show-woman, with surprise. "won't you let comstock box my ears?" "i'll box his if he does," was the indignant answer. the gravest contest that had ever arisen in the museum was when monsieur comstock, teased beyond endurance, had thus taken the law into his own hands. "well," said gerty, after a pause, "i ain't a great lady, no more 'n nothin'. them things i brought to you was anne's." "anne's things?" gasped madam delia,--"the ring and the piece of a handkerchief." "yes, 'm," said gerty, "and i've got the rest." and exploring her little trunk, she produced from a slit in the lining the other half of the ring, with the name "anne deering." "you naughty, naughty girl!" said madam delia. "how did you get 'em away from anne?" "coaxed her," said the child. "well, how did you make her hush up about it?" "told her i'd kill her if she said a single word," said gerty, undauntedly. "i showed her pa de marsan's old dirk-knife and told her i'd stick it into her if she didn't hush. she was just such a 'fraid-cat she believed me. she might have known i didn't mean nothin'. now she can have 'em and be a lady. she was always tallkin' about bein' a lady, and that put it into my head." "what did she want to be a lady for?" asked madam delia, indignantly. "said she wanted to have a parlor and dress tight. i don't want to be one of her old ladies. i want to stay with you, delia, and learn the clog-dance." and she threw her arms round the show-woman's neck and cried herself to sleep. never did the energetic proprietress of a museum and variety combination feel a greater exultation than did madam delia that night. the child's offence was all forgotten in the delight of the discovery to which it led. if there had been expectations of social glories to accrue to the house of de marsan through gerty's social promotion, they melted away; and the more substantial delight of still having someone to love and to be proud of,--some object of tenderness warmer than snakes and within nearer reach than a chinese giant,--this came in its stead. the show, too, was in a manner on its feet again. de marsan said that he would rather have gerty than a hundred-dollar bill. madam delia looked forward and saw herself sinking into the vale of years without a sigh,--reaching a period when a serpent fifteen feet long would cease to charm, or she to charm it,--and still having a source of pride and prosperity in this triumphant girl. the tent was in its glory on the day of gerty's return; to be sure, nothing in particular had been washed except the face of old bill, but that alone was a marvel compared with which all "election day" was feeble, and when you add a paper collar, words can say no more. monsieur comstock also had that "ten times barbered" look which shakespeare ascribes to mark antony, and which has belonged to that hero's successors in the histrionic profession ever since. his chin was unnaturally smooth, his mustache obtrusively perfumed, and nothing but the unchanged dirtiness of his hands still linked him, like antaeus, with the earth. de marsan had intended some personal preparation, but had been, as usual, in no hurry, and the appointed moment found him, as usual, in his shirt-sleeves. madam delia, however, wore a new breastpin and gave gerty another. and the great new attraction, the chinese giant, had put on a black broadcloth coat across his bony shoulders, in her honor, and made a vigorous effort to sit up straight, and appear at his ease when off duty. he habitually stooped a good deal in private life, as if there were no object in being eight feet high, except before spectators. anne, the placid and imperturbable, was promoted to take the place that gerty had rejected, in the gentle home of the good sisters. the secret of her birth, whatever it was, never came to light but, she took kindly, as madam delia had predicted, to "living genteel," and grew up into a well-behaved mediocrity, unregretful of the show-tent. yet probably no one reared within the smell of sawdust ever quite outgrew all taste for "the profession," and anne, even when promoted to good society, never missed seeing a performance when her wandering friends came by. if i told you under what name gerty became a star in the low-comedy line, after her marriage, you would all recognize it; and if you had seen her in "queen pippin" or the "shooting-star" pantomime, you would wish to see her again. her first child was named after madam delia, and proved to be a placid little thing, demure enough to have been born in a quaker family, and exhibiting no contortions or gymnastics but those common to its years. and you may be sure that the retired show-woman found in the duties of brevet-grand-mother a glory that quite surpassed her expectations. sunshine and petrarch. near my summer home there is a little cove or landing by the bay, where nothing larger than a boat can ever anchor. i sit above it now, upon the steep bank, knee-deep in buttercups, and amid grass so lush and green that it seems to ripple and flow instead of waving. below lies a tiny beach, strewn with a few bits of drift-wood and some purple shells, and so sheltered by projecting walls that its wavelets plash but lightly. a little farther out the sea breaks more roughly over submerged rocks, and the waves lift themselves, before breaking, in an indescribable way, as if each gave a glimpse through a translucent window, beyond which all ocean's depths might be clearly seen, could one but hit the proper angle of vision. on the right side of my retreat a high wall limits the view, while close upon the left the crumbling parapet of fort greene stands out into the foreground, its verdant scarp so relieved against the blue water that each inward-bound schooner seems to sail into a cave of grass. in the middle distance is a white lighthouse, and beyond lie the round tower of old fort louis and the soft low hills of conanicut. behind me an oriole chirrups in triumph amid the birch-trees which wave around the house of the haunted window; before me a kingfisher pauses and waits, and a darting blackbird shows the scarlet on his wings. sloops and schooners constantly come and go, careening in the wind, their white sails taking, if remote enough, a vague blue mantle from the delicate air. sail-boats glide in the distance,--each a mere white wing of canvas,--or coming nearer, and glancing suddenly into the cove, are put as suddenly on the other tack, and almost in an instant seem far away. there is to-day such a live sparkle on the water, such a luminous freshness on the grass, that it seems, as is so often the case in early june, as if all history were a dream, and the whole earth were but the creation of a summer's day. if petrarch still knows and feels the consummate beauty of these earthly things, it may seem to him some repayment for the sorrows of a life-time that one reader, after all this lapse of years, should choose his sonnets to match this grass, these blossoms, and the soft lapse of these blue waves. yet any longer or more continuous poem would be out of place to-day. i fancy that this narrow cove prescribes the proper limits of a sonnet; and when i count the lines of ripple within yonder projecting wall, there proves to be room for just fourteen. nature meets our whims with such little fitnesses. the words which build these delicate structures of petrarch's are as soft and fine and close-textured as the sands upon this tiny beach, and their monotone, if such it be, is the monotone of the neighboring ocean. is it not possible, by bringing such a book into the open air, to separate it from the grimness of commentators, and bring it back to life and light and italy? the beautiful earth is the same as when this poetry and passion were new; there is the same sunlight, the same blue water and green grass; yonder pleasure-boat might bear, for aught we know, the friends and lovers of five centuries ago; petrarch and laura might be there, with boccaccio and fiammetta as comrades, and with chaucer as their stranger guest. it bears, at any rate, if i know its voyagers, eyes as lustrous, voices as sweet. with the world thus young, beauty eternal, fancy free, why should these delicious italian pages exist but to be tortured into grammatical examples? is there no reward to be imagined for a delightful book that can match browning's fantastic burial of a tedious one? when it has sufficiently basked in sunshine, and been cooled in pure salt air, when it has bathed in heaped clover, and been scented, page by page, with melilot, cannot its beauty once more blossom, and its buried loves revive? emboldened by such influences, at least let me translate a sonnet, and see if anything is left after the sweet italian syllables are gone. before this continent was discovered, before english literature existed, when chaucer was a child, these words were written. yet they are to-day as fresh and perfect as these laburnum-blossoms that droop above my head. and as the variable and uncertain air comes freighted with clover-scent from yonder field, so floats through these long centuries a breath of fragrance, the memory of laura. sonnet 129. "lieti fiori e felici." o joyous, blossoming, ever-blessed flowers! 'mid which my queen her gracious footstep sets; o plain, that keep'st her words for amulets and hold'st her memory in thy leafy bowers! o trees, with earliest green of spring-time hours, and spring-time's pale and tender violets! o grove, so dark the proud sun only lets his blithe rays gild the outskirts of your towers! o pleasant country-side! o purest stream, that mirrorest her sweet face, her eyes so clear, and of their living light can catch the beam! i envy you her haunts so close and dear. there is no rock so senseless but i deem it burns with passion that to mine is near. goethe compared translators to carriers, who convey good wine to market, though it gets unaccountably watered by the way. the more one praises a poem, the more absurd becomes one's position, perhaps, in trying to translate it. if it is so admirable--is the natural inquiry,--why not let it alone? it is a doubtful blessing to the human race, that the instinct of translation still prevails, stronger than reason; and after one has once yielded to it, then each untranslated favorite is like the trees round a backwoodsman's clearing, each of which stands, a silent defiance, until he has cut it down. let us try the axe again. this is to laura singing. sonnet 134. "quando amor i begli occhi a terra inchina." when love doth those sweet eyes to earth incline, and weaves those wandering notes into a sigh soft as his touch, and leads a minstrelsy clear-voiced and pure, angelic and divine, he makes sweet havoc in this heart of mine, and to my thoughts brings transformation high, so that i say, "my time has come to die, if fate so blest a death for me design." but to my soul thus steeped in joy the sound brings such a wish to keep that present heaven, it holds my spirit back to earth as well. and thus i live: and thus is loosed and wound the thread of life which unto me was given by this sole siren who with us doth dwell. as i look across the bay, there is seen resting over all the hills, and even upon every distant sail, an enchanted veil of palest blue, that seems woven out of the very souls of happy days,--a bridal veil, with which the sunshine weds this soft landscape in summer. such and so indescribable is the atmospheric film that hangs over these poems of petrarch's; there is a delicate haze about the words, that vanishes when you touch them, and reappears as you recede. how it clings, for instance, around this sonnet! sonnet 191. "aura che quelle chiome." sweet air, that circlest round those radiant tresses, and floatest, mingled with them, fold on fold, deliciously, and scatterest that fine gold, then twinest it again, my heart's dear jesses, thou lingerest on those eyes, whose beauty presses stings in my heart that all its life exhaust, till i go wandering round my treasure lost, like some scared creature whom the night distresses. i seem to find her now, and now perceive how far away she is; now rise, now fall; now what i wish, now what is true, believe. o happy air! since joys enrich thee all, rest thee; and thou, o stream too bright to grieve! why can i not float with thee at thy call? the airiest and most fugitive among petrarch's love-poems, so far as i know,--showing least of that air of earnestness which he has contrived to impart to almost all,--is this little ode or madrigal. it is interesting to see, from this, that he could be almost conventional and courtly in moments when he held laura farthest aloof; and when it is compared with the depths of solemn emotion in his later sonnets, it seems like the soft glistening of young birch-leaves against a background of pines. canzone xxiii. "nova angeletta sovra l' ale accorta." a new-born angel, with her wings extended, came floating from the skies to this fair shore, where, fate-controlled, i wandered with my sorrows. she saw me there, alone and unbefriended, she wove a silken net, and threw it o'er the turf, whose greenness all the pathway borrows, then was i captured; nor could fears arise, such sweet seduction glimmered from her eyes. turn from these light compliments to the pure and reverential tenderness of a sonnet like this:- sonnet 223. "qual donna attende a gloriosa fama." doth any maiden seek the glorious fame of chastity, of strength, of courtesy? gaze in the eyes of that sweet enemy whom all the world doth as my lady name! how honor grows, and pure devotion's flame, how truth is joined with graceful dignity, there thou mayst learn, and what the path may be to that high heaven which doth her spirit claim; there learn soft speech, beyond all poet's skill, and softer silence, and those holy ways unutterable, untold by human heart. but the infinite beauty that all eyes doth fill, this none can copy! since its lovely rays are given by god's pure grace, and not by art. the following, on the other hand, seems to me one of the shakespearian sonnets; the successive phrases set sail, one by one, like a yacht squadron; each spreads its graceful wings and glides away. it is hard to handle this white canvas without soiling. macgregor, in the only version of this sonnet which i have seen, abandons all attempt at rhyme; but to follow the strict order of the original in this respect is a part of the pleasant problem which one cannot bear to forego. and there seems a kind of deity who presides over this union of languages, and who sometimes silently lays the words in order, after all one's own poor attempts have failed. sonnet 128. "o passi sparsi; o pensier vaghi e pronti" o wandering steps! o vague and busy dreams! o changeless memory! o fierce desire! o passion strong! heart weak with its own fire; o eyes of mine! not eyes, but living streams; o laurel boughs! whose lovely garland seems the sole reward that glory's deeds require; o haunted life! delusion sweet and dire, that all my days from slothful rest redeems; o beauteous face! where love has treasured well his whip and spur, the sluggish heart to move at his least will; nor can it find relief. o souls of love and passion! if ye dwell yet on this earth, and ye, great shades of love! linger, and see my passion and my grief. yonder flies a kingfisher, and pauses, fluttering like a butterfly in the air, then dives toward a fish, and, failing, perches on the projecting wall. doves from neighboring dove-cotes alight on the parapet of the fort, fearless of the quiet cattle who find there a breezy pasture. these doves, in taking flight, do not rise from the ground at once, but, edging themselves closer to the brink, with a caution almost ludicrous in such airy things, trust themselves upon the breeze with a shy little hop, and at the next moment are securely on the wing. how the abundant sunlight inundates everything! the great clumps of grass and clover are imbedded in it to the roots; it flows in among their stalks, like water; the lilac-bushes bask in it eagerly; the topmost leaves of the birches are burnished. a vessel sails by with plash and roar, and all the white spray along her side is sparkling with sunlight. yet there is sorrow in the world, and it reached petrarch even before laura died,--when it reached her. this exquisite sonnet shows it:- sonnet 123. "i' vidi in terra angelici costumi." i once beheld on earth celestial graces, and heavenly beauties scarce to mortals known, whose memory lends nor joy nor grief alone, but all things else bewilders and effaces. i saw how tears had left their weary traces within those eyes that once like sunbeams shone, i heard those lips breathe low and plaintive moan, whose spell might once have taught the hills their places. love, wisdom, courage, tenderness, and truth, made ill their mourning strains more high and dear than ever wove sweet sounds for mortal ear; and heaven seemed listening in such saddest ruth the very leaves upon the boughs to soothe, such passionate sweetness filled the atmosphere. these sonnets are in petrarch's earlier manner; but the death of laura brought a change. look at yonder schooner coming down the bay, straight toward us; she is hauled close to the wind, her jib is white in the sunlight, her larger sails are touched with the same snowy lustre, and all the swelling canvas is rounded into such lines of beauty as scarcely anything else in the world--hardly even the perfect outlines of the human form--can give. now she comes up into the wind, and goes about with a strong flapping of the sails, smiting on the ear at a half-mile's distance; then she glides off on the other tack, showing the shadowed side of her sails, until she reaches the distant zone of haze. so change the sonnets after laura's death, growing shadowy as they recede, until the very last seems to merge itself in the blue distance. sonnet 251. "gli occhi di ch' io parlai." those eyes, 'neath which my passionate rapture rose, the arms, hands, feet, the beauty that erewhile could my own soul from its own self beguile, and in a separate world of dreams enclose, the hair's bright tresses, full of golden glows, and the soft lightning of the angelic smile that changed this earth to some celestial isle, are now but dust, poor dust, that nothing knows. and yet i live! myself i grieve and scorn, left dark without the light i loved in vain, adrift in tempest on a bark forlorn; dead is the source of all my amorous strain, dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn, and my sad harp can sound but notes of pain. "and yet i live!" what a pause is implied before these words! the drawing of a long breath, immeasurably long; like that vast interval of heart-beats that precedes shakespeare's "since cleopatra died." i can think of no other passage in literature that has in it the same wide spaces of emotion. the following sonnet seems to me the most stately and concentrated in the whole volume. it is the sublimity of a despair not to be relieved by utterance. sonnet 253. "soleasi nel mio cor." she ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine, a noble lady in a humble home, and now her time for heavenly bliss has come, 't is i am mortal proved, and she divine. the soul that all its blessings must resign, and love whose light no more on earth finds room might rend the rocks with pity for their doom, yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine; they weep within my heart; and ears are deaf save mine alone, and i am crushed with care, and naught remains to me save mournful breath. assuredly but dust and shade we are, assuredly desire is blind and brief, assuredly its hope but ends in death. in a later strain he rises to that dream which is more than earth's realities. sonnet 261. "levommi il mio pensiero." dreams bore my fancy to that region where she dwells whom here i seek, but cannot see. 'mid those who in the loftiest heaven be i looked on her, less haughty and more fair. she touched my hand, she said, "within this sphere, if hope deceive not, thou shalt dwell with me: i filled thy life with war's wild agony; mine own day closed ere evening could appear. my bliss no human brain can understand; i wait for thee alone, and that fair veil of beauty thou dost love shall wear again." why was she silent then, why dropped my hand ere those delicious tones could quite avail to bid my mortal soul in heaven remain? it vindicates the emphatic reality and pesonality of petrarch's love, after all, that when from these heights of vision he surveys and resurveys his life's long dream, it becomes to him more and more definite, as well as more poetic, and is farther and farther from a merely vague sentimentalism. in his later sonnets, laura grows more distinctly individual to us; her traits show themselves as more characteristic, her temperament more intelligible, her precise influence upon petrarch clearer. what delicate accuracy of delineation is seen, for instance, in this sonnet! sonnet 314. "dolci durezze e placide repulse." gentle severity, repulses mild, full of chaste love and pity sorrowing; graceful rebukes, that had the power to bring back to itself a heart by dreams beguiled; a soft-toned voice, whose accents undefiled held sweet restraints, all duty honoring; the bloom of virtue; purity's clear spring to cleanse away base thoughts and passions wild; divinest eyes to make a lover's bliss, whether to bridle in the wayward mind lest its wild wanderings should the pathway miss, or else its griefs to soothe, its wounds to bind; this sweet completeness of thy life it is that saved my soul; no other peace i find. in the following sonnet visions multiply upon visions. would that one could transfer into english the delicious way in which the sweet italian rhymes recur and surround and seem to embrace each other, and are woven and unwoven and interwoven, like the heavenly hosts that gathered around laura. sonnet 302. "gli angeli eletti." the holy angels and the spirits blest, celestial bands, upon that day serene when first my love went by in heavenly mien, came thronging, wondering at the gracious guest. "what light is here, in what new beauty drest?" they said among themselves; "for none has seen within this age come wandering such a queen from darkened earth into immortal rest." and she, contented with her new-found bliss, ranks with the purest in that upper sphere, yet ever and anon looks back on this, to watch for me, as if for me she stayed. so strive, my thoughts, lest that high path i miss. i hear her call, and must not be delayed. these odes and sonnets are all but parts of one symphony, leading us through a passion strengthened by years and only purified by death, until at last the graceful lay becomes an anthem and a nunc dimittis. in the closing sonnets petrarch withdraws from the world, and they seem like voices from a cloister, growing more and more solemn till the door is closed. this is one of the last:- sonnet 309. "dicemi spesso il mio fidato speglio." oft by my faithful mirror i am told, and by my mind outworn and altered brow, my earthly powers impaired and weakened now, "deceive thyself no more, for thou art old!" who strives with nature's laws is over-bold, and time to his commandments bids us bow. like fire that waves have quenched, i calmly vow in life's long dream no more my sense to fold. and while i think, our swift existence flies, and none can live again earth's brief career, then in my deepest heart the voice replies of one who now has left this mortal sphere, but walked alone through earthly destinies, and of all women is to fame most dear. how true is this concluding line! who can wonder that women prize beauty, and are intoxicated by their own fascinations, when these fragile gifts are yet strong enough to outlast all the memories of statesmanship and war? next to the immortality of genius is that which genius may confer upon the object of its love. laura, while she lived, was simply one of a hundred or a thousand beautiful and gracious italian women; she had her loves and aversions, joys and griefs; she cared dutifully for her household, and embroidered the veil which petrarch loved; her memory appeared as fleeting and unsubstantial as that woven tissue. after five centuries we find that no armor of that iron age was so enduring. the kings whom she honored, the popes whom she revered are dust, and their memory is dust, but literature is still fragrant with her name. an impression which has endured so long is ineffaceable; it is an earthly immortality. "time is the chariot of all ages to carry men away, and beauty cannot bribe this charioteer." thus wrote petrarch in his latin essays; but his love had wealth that proved resistless and for laura the chariot stayed. a shadow. i shall always remember one winter evening, a little before christmas-time, when i took a long, solitary walk in the outskirts of the town. the cold sunset had left a trail of orange light along the horizon, the dry snow tinkled beneath my feet, and the early stars had a keen, clear lustre that matched well with the sharp sound and the frosty sensation. for some time i had walked toward the gleam of a distant window, and as i approached, the light showed more and more clearly through the white curtains of a little cottage by the road. i stopped, on reaching it, to enjoy the suggestion of domestic cheerfulness in contrast with the dark outside. i could not see the inmates, nor they me; but something of human sympathy came from that steadfast ray. as i looked, a film of shade kept appearing and disappearing with rhythmic regularity in a corner of the window, as if some one might be sitting in a low rocking-chair close by. presently the motion ceased, and suddenly across the curtain came the shadow of a woman. she raised in her arms the shadow of a baby, and kissed it; then both disappeared, and i walked on. what are raphael's madonnas but the shadow of a mother's love, so traced as to endure forever? in this picture of mine, the group actually moved upon the canvas. the curtains that hid it revealed it. the ecstasy of human love passed in brief, intangible panorama before me. it was something seen, yet unseen; airy, yet solid; a type, yet a reality; fugitive, yet destined to last in my memory while i live. it said more to me than would any madonna of raphael's, for his mother never kisses her child. i believe i have never passed over that road since then, never seen the house, never heard the names of its occupants. their character, their history, their fate, are all unknown. but these two will always stand for me as disembodied types of humanity,--the mother and the child; they seem nearer to me than my immediate neighbors, yet they are as ideal and impersonal as the goddesses of greece or as plato's archetypal man. i know not the parentage of that child, whether black or white, native or foreign, rich or poor. it makes no difference. the presence of a baby equalizes all social conditions. on the floor of some southern hut, scarcely so comfortable as a dog-kennel, i have seen a dusky woman look down upon her infant with such an expression of delight as painter never drew. no social culture can make a mother's face more than a mother's, as no wealth can make a nursery more than a place where children dwell. lavish thousands of dollars on your baby-clothes, and after all the child is prettiest when every garment is laid aside. that becoming nakedness, at least, may adorn the chubby darling of the poorest home. i know not what triumph or despair may have come and gone through that wayside house since then, what jubilant guests may have entered, what lifeless form passed out. what anguish or what sin may have come between that woman and that child; through what worlds they now wander, and whether separate or in each other's arms,--this is all unknown. fancy can picture other joys to which the first happiness was but the prelude, and, on the other hand, how easy to imagine some special heritage of human woe and call it theirs! "i thought of times when pain might be thy guest, lord of thy house and hospitality; and grief, uneasy lover, might not rest save when he sat within the touch of thee." nay, the foretaste of that changed fortune may have been present, even in the kiss. who knows what absorbing emotion, besides love's immediate impulse, may have been uttered in that shadowy embrace? there may have been some contrition for ill-temper or neglect, or some triumph over ruinous temptation, or some pledge of immortal patience, or some heart-breaking prophecy of bereavement. it may have been simply an act of habitual tenderness, or it may have been the wild reaction toward a neglected duty; the renewed self-consecration of the saint, or the joy of the sinner that repenteth. no matter. she kissed the baby. the feeling of its soft flesh, the busy struggle of its little arms between her hands, the impatient pressure of its little feet against her knees,--these were the same, whatever the mood or circumstance beside. they did something to equalize joy and sorrow, honor and shame. maternal love is love, whether a woman be a wife or only a mother. only a mother! the happiness beneath that roof may, perhaps, have never reached so high a point as at that precise moment of my passing. in the coarsest household, the mother of a young child is placed on a sort of pedestal of care and tenderness, at least for a time. she resumes something of the sacredness and dignity of the maiden. coleridge ranks as the purest of human emotions that of a husband towards a wife who has a baby at her breast,--"a feeling how free from sensual desire, yet how different from friendship!" and to the true mother however cultivated, or however ignorant, this period of early parentage is happier than all else, in spite of its exhausting cares. in that delightful book, the "letters" of mrs. richard trench (mother of the well-known english writer), the most agreeable passage is perhaps that in which, after looking back upon a life spent in the most brilliant society of europe, she gives the palm of happiness to the time when she was a young mother. she writes to her god-daughter: "i believe it is the happiest time of any woman's life, who has affectionate feelings, and is blessed with healthy and well-disposed children. i know at least that neither the gayeties and boundless hopes of early life, nor the more grave pursuits and deeper affections of later years, are by any means comparable in my recollection with the serene, yet lively pleasure of seeing my children playing on the grass, enjoying their little temperate supper, or repeating 'with holy look' their simple prayers, and undressing for bed, growing prettier for every part of their dress they took off, and at last lying down, all freshness and love, in complete happiness, and an amiable contest for mamma's last kiss." that kiss welcomed the child into a world where joy predominates. the vast multitude of human beings enjoy existence and wish to live. they all have their earthly life under their own control. some religions sanction suicide; the christian scriptures nowhere explicitly forbid it; and yet it is a rare thing. many persons sigh for death when it seems far off, but the desire vanishes when the boat upsets, or the locomotive runs off the track, or the measles set in. a wise physician once said to me: "i observe that every one wishes to go to heaven, but i observe that most people are willing to take a great deal of very disagreeable medicine first." the lives that one least envies--as of the digger indian or the outcast boy in the city--are yet sweet to the living. "they have only a pleasure like that of the brutes," we say with scorn. but what a racy and substantial pleasure is that! the flashing speed of the swallow in the air, the cool play of the minnow in the water, the dance of twin butterflies round a thistle-blossom, the thundering gallop of the buffalo across the prairie, nay, the clumsy walk of the grizzly bear; it were doubtless enough to reward existence, could we have joy like such as these, and ask no more. this is the hearty physical basis of animated life, and as step by step the savage creeps up to the possession of intellectual manhood, each advance brings with it new sorrow and new joy, with the joy always in excess. there are many who will utterly disavow this creed that life is desirable in itself. a fair woman in a ball-room, exquisitely dressed, and possessed of all that wealth could give, once declared to me her belief--and i think honestly--that no person over thirty was consciously happy, or would wish to live, but for the fear of death. there could not even be pleasure in contemplating one's children, she asserted, since they were living in such a world of sorrow. asking the opinion, within half an hour, of another woman as fair and as favored by fortune, i found directly the opposite verdict. "for my part i can truly say," she answered, "that i enjoy every moment i live." the varieties of temperament and of physical condition will always afford us these extremes; but the truth lies between them, and most persons will endure many sorrows and still find life sweet. and the mother's kiss welcomes the child into a world where good predominates as well as joy. what recreants must we be, in an age that has abolished slavery in america and popularized the governments of all europe, if we doubt that the tendency of man is upward! how much that the world calls selfishness is only generosity with narrow walls,--a too exclusive solicitude to maintain a wife in luxury or make one's children rich! in an audience of rough people a generous sentiment always brings down the house. in the tumult of war both sides applaud an heroic deed. a courageous woman, who had traversed alone, on benevolent errands, the worst parts of new york told me that she never felt afraid except in the solitudes of the country; wherever there was a crowd, she found a protector. a policeman of great experience once spoke to me with admiration of the fidelity of professional thieves to each other, and the risks they would run for the women whom they loved; when "bristol bill" was arrested, he said, there was found upon the burglar a set of false keys, not quite finished, by which he would certainly, within twenty-four hours, have had his mistress out of jail. parent-duchatelet found always the remains of modesty among the fallen women of paris hospitals; and mayhew, amid the london outcasts, says that he thinks better of human nature every day. even among politicians, whom it is our american fashion to revile as the chief of sinners, there is less of evil than of good. in wilberforce's "memoirs" there is an account of his having once asked mr. pitt whether his long experience as prime minister had made him think well or ill of his fellow-men. mr. pitt answered, "well"; and his successor, lord melbourne, being asked the same question, answered, after a little reflection, "my opinion is the same as that of mr. pitt." let us have faith. it was a part of the vigor of the old hebrew tradition to rejoice when a man-child was born into the world; and the maturer strength of nobler ages should rejoice over a woman-child as well. nothing human is wholly sad, until it is effete and dying out. where there is life there is promise. "vitality is always hopeful," was the verdict of the most refined and clear-sighted woman who has yet explored the rough mining villages of the rocky mountains. there is apt to be a certain coarse virtue in rude health; as the germanic races were purest when least civilized, and our american indians did not unlearn chastity till they began to decay. but even where vigor and vice are found together, they still may hold a promise for the next generation. out of the strong cometh forth sweetness. parisian wickedness is not so discouraging merely because it is wicked, as from a suspicion that it is draining the life-blood of the nation. a mob of miners or of new york bullies may be uncomfortable neighbors, and may make a man of refinement hesitate whether to stop his ears or to feel for his revolver; but they hold more promise for the coming generations than the line which ends in madame bovary or the vicomte de camors. but behind that cottage curtain, at any rate, a new and prophetic life had begun. i cannot foretell that child's future, but i know something of its past. the boy may grow up into a criminal, the woman into an outcast, yet the baby was beloved. it came "not in utter nakedness." it found itself heir of the two prime essentials of existence,--life and love. its first possession was a woman's kiss; and in that heritage the most important need of its career was guaranteed. "an ounce of mother," says the spanish proverb, "is worth a pound of clergy." jean paul says that in life every successive influence affects us less and less, so that the circumnavigator of the globe is less influenced by all the nations he has seen than by his nurse. well may the child imbibe that reverence for motherhood which is the first need of man. where woman is most a slave, she is at least sacred to her son. the turkish sultan must prostrate himself at the door of his mother's apartments, and were he known to have insulted her, it would make his throne tremble. among the savage african touaricks, if two parents disagree, it is to the mother that the child's obedience belongs. over the greater part of the earth's surface, the foremost figures in all temples are the mother and child. christian and buddhist nations, numbering together two thirds of the world's population, unite in this worship. into the secrets of the ritual that baby in the window had already received initiation. and how much spiritual influence may in turn have gone forth from that little one! the coarsest father gains a new impulse to labor from the moment of his baby's birth; he scarcely sees it when awake, and yet it is with him all the time. every stroke he strikes is for his child. new social aims, new moral motives, come vaguely up to him. the london costermonger told mayhew that he thought every man would like his son or daughter to have a better start in the world than his own. after all, there is no tonic like the affections. philosophers express wonder that the divine laws should give to some young girl, almost a child, the custody of an immortal soul. but what instruction the baby brings to the mother! she learns patience, self-control, endurance; her very arm grows strong, so that she can hold the dear burden longer than the father can. she learns to understand character, too, by dealing with it. "in training my first children," said a wise mother to me, "i thought that all were born just the same, and that i was wholly responsible for what they should become. i learned by degrees that each had a temperament of its own, which i must study before i could teach it." and thus, as the little ones grow older, their dawning instincts guide those of the parents; their questions suggest new answers, and to have loved them is a liberal education. for the height of heights is love. the philosopher dries into a skeleton like that he investigates, unless love teaches him. he is blind among his microscopes, unless he sees in the humblest human soul a revelation that dwarfs all the world beside. while he grows gray in ignorance among his crucibles, every girlish mother is being illuminated by every kiss of her child. that house is so far sacred, which holds within its walls this new-born heir of eternity. but to dwell on these high mysteries would take us into depths beyond the present needs of mother or of infant, and it is better that the greater part of the baby-life should be that of an animated toy. perhaps it is well for all of us that we should live mostly on the surfaces of things and should play with life, to avoid taking it too hard. in a nursery the youngest child is a little more than a doll, and the doll is a little less than a child. what spell does fancy weave on earth like that which the one of these small beings performs for the other? this battered and tattered doll, this shapeless, featureless, possibly legless creature, whose mission it is to be dragged by one arm, or stood upon its head in the bathing-tub, until it finally reverts to the rag-bag whence it came,--what an affluence of breathing life is thrown around it by one touch of dawning imagination! its little mistress will find all joy unavailing without its sympathetic presence, will confide every emotion to its pen-and-ink ears, and will weep passionate tears if its extremely soiled person is pricked when its clothes are mended. what psychologist, what student of the human heart, has ever applied his subtile analysis to the emotions of a child toward her doll? i read lately the charming autobiography of a little girl of eight years, written literally from her own dictation. since "pet marjorie" i have seen no such actual self-revelation on the part of a child. in the course of her narration she describes, with great precision and correctness, the travels of the family through europe in the preceding year, assigning usually the place of importance to her doll, who appears simply as "my baby." nothing can be more grave, more accurate, more serious than the whole history, but nothing in it seems quite so real and alive as the doll. "when we got to nice, i was sick. the next morning the doctor came, and he said i had something that was very much like scarlet fever. then i had annie take care of baby, and keep her away, for i was afraid she would get the fever. she used to cry to come to me, but i knew it wouldn't be good for her." what firm judgment is here, what tenderness without weakness, what discreet motherhood! when christmas came, it appears that baby hung up her stocking with the rest. her devoted parent had bought for her a slate with a real pencil. others provided thimble and scissors and bodkin and a spool of thread, and a travelling-shawl with a strap, and a cap with tarletan ruffles. "i found baby with the cap on, early in the morning, and she was so pleased she almost jumped out of my arms." thus in the midst of visits to the coliseum and st. peter's, the drama of early affection goes always on. "i used to take her to hear the band, in the carriage, and she went everywhere i did." but the love of all dolls, as of other pets, must end with a tragedy, and here it comes. "the next place we went to was lucerne. there was a lovely lake there, but i had a very sad time. one day i thought i'd take baby down to breakfast, and, as i was going up stairs, my foot slipped and baby broke her head. and o, i felt so bad! and i cried out, and i ran up stairs to annie, and mamma came, and o, we were all so sorry! and mamma said she thought i could get another head, but i said, 'it won't be the same baby.' and mamma said, maybe we could make it seem so." at this crisis the elder brother and sister departed for mount righi. "they were going to stay all night, and mamma and i stayed at home to take care of each other. i felt very bad about baby and about their going, too. after they went, mamma and i thought we would go to the little town and see what we could find." after many difficulties, a waxen head was discovered. "mamma bought it, and we took it home and put it on baby; but i said it wasn't like my real baby, only it was better than having no child at all!" this crushing bereavement, this reluctant acceptance of a child by adoption, to fill the vacant heart,--how real and formidable is all this rehearsal of the tragedies of maturer years! i knew an instance in which the last impulse of ebbing life was such a gush of imaginary motherhood. a dear friend of mine, whose sweet charities prolong into a third generation the unbounded benevolence of old isaac hopper, used to go at christmas-time with dolls and other gifts to the poor children on randall's island. passing the bed of a little girl whom the physician pronounced to be unconscious and dying, the kind visitor insisted on putting a doll into her arms. instantly the eyes of the little invalid opened, and she pressed the gift eagerly to her heart, murmuring over it and caressing it. the matron afterwards wrote that the child died within two hours, wearing a happy face, and still clinging to her new-found treasure. and beginning with this transfer of all human associations to a doll, the child's life interfuses itself readily among all the affairs of the elders. in its presence, formality vanishes, the most oppressive ceremonial is a little relieved when children enter. their influence is pervasive and irresistible, like that of water, which adapts itself to any landscape,--always takes its place, welcome or unwelcome,--keeps its own level and seems always to have its natural and proper margin. out of doors how children mingle with nature, and seem to begin just where birds and butterflies leave off! leigh hunt, with his delicate perceptions, paints this well: "the voices of children seem as natural to the early morning as the voice of the birds. the suddenness, the lightness, the loudness, the sweet confusion, the sparkling gayety, seem alike in both. the sudden little jangle is now here and now there; and now a single voice calls to another, and the boy is off like the bird." so heine, with deeper thoughtfulness, noticed the "intimacy with the trees" of the little wood-gatherer in the hartz mountains; soon the child whistled like a linnet, and the other birds all answered him; then he disappeared in the thicket with his bare feet and his bundle of brushwood. "children," thought heine, "are younger than we, and can still remember the time when they were trees or birds, and can therefore understand and speak their language; but we are grown old, and have too many cares, and too much jurisprudence and bad poetry in our heads." but why go to literature for a recognition of what one may see by opening one's eyes? before my window there is a pool, two rods square, that is haunted all winter by children,--clearing away the snow of many a storm, if need be, and mining downward till they strike the ice. i look this morning from the window, and the pond is bare. in a moment i happen to look again, and it is covered with a swarm of boys; a great migrating flock has settled upon it, as if swooping down from parts unknown to scream and sport themselves here. the air is full of their voices; they have all tugged on their skates instantaneously, as it were by magic. now they are in a confused cluster, now they sweep round and round in a circle, now it is broken into fragments and as quickly formed again; games are improvised and abandoned; there seems to be no plan or leader, but all do as they please, and yet somehow act in concert, and all chatter all the time. now they have alighted, every one, upon the bank of snow that edges the pond, each scraping a little hollow in which to perch. now every perch is vacant again, for they are all in motion; each moment increases the jangle of shrill voices,--since a boy's outdoor whisper to his nearest crony is as if he was hailing a ship in the offing,--and what they are all saying can no more be made out than if they were a flock of gulls or blackbirds. i look away from the window once more, and when i glance out again there is not a boy in sight. they have whirled away like snowbirds, and the little pool sleeps motionless beneath the cheerful wintry sun. who but must see how gradually the joyous life of the animal rises through childhood into man,--since the soaring gnats, the glancing fishes, the sliding seals are all represented in this mob of half-grown boyhood just released from school. if i were to choose among all gifts and qualities that which, on the whole, makes life pleasantest, i should select the love of children. no circumstance can render this world wholly a solitude to one who has that possession. it is a freemasonry. wherever one goes, there are the little brethren and sisters of the mystic tie. no diversity of race or tongue makes much difference. a smile speaks the universal language. "if i value myself on anything," said the lonely hawthorne, "it is on having a smile that children love." they are such prompt little beings; they require so little prelude; hearts are won in two minutes, at that frank period, and so long as you are true to them they will be true to you. they need no argument, no bribery. they have a hearty appetite for gifts, no doubt, but it is not for these that they love the giver. take the wealth of the world and lavish it with counterfeited affection: i will win all the children's hearts away from you by empty-handed love. the gorgeous toys will dazzle them for an hour; then their instincts will revert to their natural friends. in visiting a house where there are children i do not like to take them presents: it is better to forego the pleasure of the giving than to divide the welcome between yourself and the gift. let that follow after you are gone. it is an exaggerated compliment to women when we ascribe to them alone this natural sympathy with childhood. it is an individual, not a sexual trait, and is stronger in many men than in many women. it is nowhere better exhibited in literature than where the happy wilhelm meister takes his boy by the hand, to lead him "into the free and lordly world." such love is not universal among the other sex, though men, in that humility which so adorns their natures, keep up the pleasing fiction that it is. as a general rule any little girl feels some glimmerings of emotion towards anything that can pass for a doll, but it does not follow that, when grown older, she will feel as ready an instinct toward every child. try it. point out to a woman some bundle of blue-and-white or white-and-scarlet in some one's arms at the next street corner. ask her, "do you love that baby?" not one woman in three will say promptly, "yes." the others will hesitate, will bid you wait till they are nearer, till they can personally inspect the little thing and take an inventory of its traits; it may be dirty, too; it may be diseased. ah! but this is not to love children, and you might as well be a man. to love children is to love childhood, instinctively, at whatever distance, the first impulse being one of attraction, though it may be checked by later discoveries. unless your heart commands at least as long a range as your eye, it is not worth much. the dearest saint in my calendar never entered a railway car that she did not look round for a baby, which, when discovered, must always be won at once into her arms. if it was dirty, she would have been glad to bathe it; if ill, to heal it. it would not have seemed to her anything worthy the name of love, to seek only those who were wholesome and clean. like the young girl in holmes's most touching poem, she would have claimed as her own the outcast child whom nurses and physicians had abandoned. "'take her, dread angel! break in love this bruised reed and make it thine!' no voice descended from above, but avis answered, 'she is mine!'" when i think of the self-devotion which the human heart can contain--of those saintly souls that are in love with sorrow, and that yearn to shelter all weakness and all grief--it inspires an unspeakable confidence that there must also be an instinct of parentage beyond this human race, a heart of hearts, cor cordium. as we all crave something to protect, so we long to feel ourselves protected. we are all infants before the infinite; and as i turned from that cottage window to the resplendent sky, it was easy to fancy that mute embrace, that shadowy symbol of affection, expanding from the narrow lattice till it touched the stars, gathering every created soul into the armsof immortal love. footpaths. all round the shores of the island where i dwell there runs a winding path. it is probably as old as the settlement of the country, and has been kept open with pertinacious fidelity by the fishermen whose right of way it represents. in some places, as between fort adams and castle hill, it exists in its primitive form, an irregular track above rough cliffs, whence you look down upon the entrance to the harbor and watch the white-sailed schooners that glide beneath. elsewhere the high-road has usurped its place, and you have the privilege of the path without its charm. along our eastern cliffs it runs for some miles in the rear of beautiful estates, whose owners have seized on it, and graded it, and gravelled it, and made stiles for it, and done for it everything that landscape-gardening could do, while leaving it a footpath still. you walk there with croquet and roses on the one side, and with floating loons and wild ducks on the other. in remoter places the path grows wilder, and has ramifications striking boldly across the peninsula through rough moorland and among great ledges of rock, where you may ramble for hours, out of sight of all but some sportsman with his gun, or some truant-boy with dripping water-lilies. there is always a charm to me in the inexplicable windings of these wayward tracks; yet i like the path best where it is nearest the ocean. there, while looking upon blue sea and snowy sails and floating gulls, you may yet hear on the landward side the melodious and plaintive drawl of the meadow-lark, most patient of summer visitors, and, indeed, lingering on this island almost the whole year round. but who cares whither a footpath leads? the charm is in the path itself, its promise of something that the high-road cannot yield. away from habitations, you know that the fisherman, the geologist, the botanist may have been there, or that the cows have been driven home and that somewhere there are bars and a milk-pail. even in the midst of houses, the path suggests school-children with their luncheon-baskets, or workmen seeking eagerly the noonday interval or the twilight rest. a footpath cannot be quite spoiled, so long as it remains such; you can make a road a mere avenue for fast horses or showy women, but this humbler track keeps its simplicity, and if a queen comes walking through it, she comes but as a village maid. on sunday, when it is not etiquette for our fashionables to drive, but only to walk along the cliffs, they seem to wear a more innocent and wholesome aspect in that novel position; i have seen a fine lady pause under such circumstances and pick a wild-flower; she knew how to do it. a footpath has its own character, while that of the high-road is imposed upon it by those who dwell beside it or pass over it; indeed, roads become picturesque only when they are called lanes and make believe that they are but paths. the very irregularity of a footpath makes half its charm. so much of loitering and indolence and impulse have gone to its formation, that all which is stiff and military has been left out. i observed that the very dikes of the southern rice plantations did not succeed in being rectilinear, though the general effect was that of tennyson's "flowery squares." even the country road, which is but an enlarged footpath, is never quite straight, as thoreau long since observed, noting it with his surveyor's eye. i read in his unpublished diary: "the law that plants the rushes in waving lines along the edge of a pond, and that curves the pond shore itself, incessantly beats against the straight fences and highways of men, and makes them conform to the line of beauty at last." it is this unintentional adaptation that makes a footpath so indestructible. instead of striking across the natural lines, it conforms to them, nestles into the hollow, skirts the precipice, avoids the morass. an unconscious landscape-gardener, it seeks the most convenient course, never doubting that grace will follow. mitchell, at his "edgewood" farm, wishing to decide on the most picturesque avenue to his front door, ordered a heavy load of stone to be hauled across the field, and bade the driver seek the easiest grades, at whatever cost of curvature. the avenue followed the path so made. when a footpath falls thus unobtrusively into its place, all natural forces seem to sympathize with it, and help it to fulfil its destiny. once make a well-defined track through a wood, and presently the overflowing brooks seek it for a channel, the obstructed winds draw through it, the fox and woodchuck travel by it, the catbird and robin build near it, the bee and swallow make a high-road of its convenient thoroughfare. in winter the first snows mark it with a white line; as you wander through you hear the blue-jay's cry, and see the hurrying flight of the sparrow; the graceful outlines of the leafless bushes are revealed, and the clinging bird's-nests, "leaves that do not fall," give happy memories of summer homes. thus nature meets man half-way. the paths of the wild forest and of the rural neighborhood are not at all the same thing; indeed, a "spotted trail," marked only by the woodman's axe-marks on the trees, is not a footpath. thoreau, who is sometimes foolishly accused of having sought to be a mere savage, understood this distinction well. "a man changes by his presence," he says in his unpublished diary, "the very nature of the trees. the poet's is not a logger's path, but a woodman's,--the logger and pioneer have preceded him, and banished decaying wood and the spongy mosses which feed on it, and built hearths and humanized nature for him. for a permanent residence, there can be no comparison between this and the wilderness. our woods are sylvan, and their inhabitants woodsmen and rustics; that is, a selvaggia and its inhabitants salvages." what thoreau loved, like all men of healthy minds, was the occasional experience of untamed wildness. "i love to see occasionally," he adds, "a man from whom the usnea (lichen) hangs as gracefully as from a spruce." footpaths bring us nearer both to nature and to man. no high-road, not even a lane, conducts to the deeper recesses of the wood, where you hear the wood-thrush. there are a thousand concealed fitnesses in nature, rhymed correspondences of bird and blossom, for which you must seek through hidden paths; as when you come upon some black brook so palisaded with cardinal-flowers as to seem "a stream of sunsets"; or trace its shadowy course till it spreads into some forest-pool, above which that rare and patrician insect, the agrion dragon-fly, flits and hovers perpetually, as if the darkness and the cool had taken wings. the dark brown pellucid water sleeps between banks of softest moss; white stars of twin-flowers creep close to the brink, delicate sprays of dewberry trail over it, and the emerald tips of drooping leaves forever tantalize the still surface. above these the slender, dark-blue insect waves his dusky wings, like a liberated ripple of the brook, and takes the few stray sunbeams on his lustrous form. whence came the correspondence between this beautiful shy creature and the moist, dark nooks, shot through with stray and transitory sunlight, where it dwells? the analogy is as unmistakable as that between the scorching heats of summer and the shrill cry of the cicada. they suggest questions that no savant can answer, mysteries that wait, like goethe's secret of morphology, till a sufficient poet can be born. and we, meanwhile, stand helpless in their presence, as one waits beside the telegraphic wire, while it hums and vibrates, charged with all fascinating secrets, above the heads of a wondering world. it is by the presence of pathways on the earth that we know it to be the habitation of man; in the barest desert, they open to us a common humanity. it is the absence of these that renders us so lonely on the ocean, and makes us glad to watch even the track of our own vessel. but on the mountain-top, how eagerly we trace out the "road that brings places together," as schiller says. it is the first thing we look for; till we have found it, each scattered village has an isolated and churlish look, but the glimpse of a furlong of road puts them all in friendly relations. the narrower the path, the more domestic and familiar it seems. the railroad may represent the capitalist or the government; the high-road indicates what the surveyor or the county commissioners thought best; but the footpath shows what the people needed. its associations are with beauty and humble life,--the boy with his dog, the little girl with her fagots, the pedler with his pack; cheery companions they are or ought to be. "jog on, jog on the footpath way, and merrily hent the stile-a: a merry heart goes all the day, your sad one tires in a mile-a." the footpath takes you across the farms and behind the houses; you are admitted to the family secrets and form a personal acquaintance. even if you take the wrong path, it only leads you "across-lots" to some man ploughing, or some old woman picking berries,--perhaps a very spicy acquaintance, whom the road would never have brought to light. if you are led astray in the woods, that only teaches you to observe landmarks more closely, or to leave straws and stakes for tokens, like a gypsy's patteran, to show the ways already traversed. there is a healthy vigor in the mind of the boy who would like of all things to be lost in the woods, to build a fire out of doors, and sleep under a tree or in a haystack. civilization is tiresome and enfeebling, unless we occasionally give it the relish of a little outlawry, and approach, in imagination at least, the zest of a gypsy life. the records of pedestrian journeys, the wanderjahre and memoirs of good-for-noth-ings, and all the delightful german forest literature,--these belong to the footpath side of our nature. the passage i best remember in all bayard taylor's travels is the ecstasy of his thuringian forester, who said: "i recall the time when just a sunny morning made me so happy that i did not know what to do with myself. one day in spring, as i went through the woods and saw the shadows of the young leaves upon the moss, and smelt the buds of the firs and larches, and thought to myself, 'all thy life is to be spent in the splendid forest,'i actually threw myself down and rolled in the grass like a dog, over and over, crazy with joy." it is the charm of pedestrian journeys that they convert the grandest avenues to footpaths. through them alone we gain intimate knowledge of the people, and of nature, and indeed of ourselves. it is easy to hurry too fast for our best reflections, which, as the old monk said of perfection, must be sought not by flying, but by walking, "perfectionis via non pervolanda sed perambulanda." the thoughts that the railway affords us are dusty thoughts; we ask the news, read the journals, question our neighbor, and wish to know what is going on because we are a part of it. it is only in the footpath that our minds, like our bodies, move slowly, and we traverse thought, like space, with a patient thoroughness. rousseau said that he had never experienced so much, lived so truly, and been so wholly himself, as during his travels on foot. what can hawthorne mean by saying in his english diary that "an american would never understand the passage in bunyan about christian and hopeful going astray along a by-path into the grounds of giant despair, from there being no stiles and by-paths in our country"? so much of the charm of american pedestrianism lies in the by-paths! for instance, the whole interior of cape ann, beyond gloucester, is a continuous woodland, with granite ledges everywhere cropping out, around which the high-road winds, following the curving and indented line of the sea, and dotted here and there with fishing hamlets. this whole interior is traversed by a network of footpaths, rarely passable for a wagon, and not always for a horse, but enabling the pedestrian to go from any one of these villages to any other, in a line almost direct, and always under an agreeable shade. by the longest of these hidden ways, one may go from pigeon cove to gloucester, ten miles, without seeing a public road. in the little inn at the former village there used to hang an old map of this whole forest region, giving a chart of some of these paths, which were said to date back to the first settlement of the country. one of them, for instance, was called on the map "old road from sandy bay to squam meeting-house through the woods"; but the road is now scarcely even a bridle-path, and the most faithful worshipper could not seek squam meeting-house in the family chaise. those woods have been lately devastated; but when i first knew that region, it was as good as any german forest. often we stepped almost from the edge of the sea into some gap in the woods; there seemed hardly more than a rabbit-track, yet presently we met some wayfarer who had crossed the cape by it. a piny dell gave some vista of the broad sea we were leaving, and an opening in the woods displayed another blue sea-line before; the encountering breezes interchanged odor of berry-bush and scent of brine; penetrating farther among oaks and chestnuts, we came upon some little cottage, quaint and sheltered as any spenser drew; it was built on no high-road, and turned its vine-clad gable away from even the footpath. then the ground rose and we were surprised by a breeze from a new quarter; perhaps we climbed trees to look for landmarks, and saw only, still farther in the woods, some great cliff of granite or the derrick of an unseen quarry. three miles inland, as i remember, we found the hearthstones of a vanished settlement; then we passed a swamp with cardinal-flowers; then a cathedral of noble pines, topped with crow's-nests. if we had not gone astray by this time, we presently emerged on dogtown common, an elevated table-land, over-spread with great boulders as with houses, and encircled with a girdle of green woods and an outer girdle of blue sea. i know of nothing more wild than that gray waste of boulders; it is a natural salisbury plain, of which icebergs and ocean-currents were the druidic builders; in that multitude of couchant monsters there seems a sense of suspended life; you feel as if they must speak and answer to each other in the silent nights, but by day only the wandering sea-birds seek them, on their way across the cape, and the sweet-bay and green fern embed them in a softer and deeper setting as the years go by. this is the "height of ground" of that wild footpath; but as you recede farther from the outer ocean and approach gloucester, you come among still wilder ledges, unsafe without a guide, and you find in one place a cluster of deserted houses, too difficult of access to remove even their materials, so that they are left to moulder alone. i used to wander in those woods, summer after summer, till i had made my own chart of their devious tracks, and now when i close my eyes in this oldport midsummer, the soft italian air takes on something of a scandinavian vigor; for the incessant roll of carriages i hear the tinkle of the quarryman's hammer and the veery's song; and i long for those perfumed and breezy pastures, and for those promontories of granite where the fresh water is nectar and the salt sea has a regal blue. i recall another footpath near worcester, massachusetts; it leads up from the low meadows into the wildest region of all that vicinity, tatesset hill. leaving behind you the open pastures where the cattle lie beneath the chestnut-trees or drink from the shallow brook, you pass among the birches and maples, where the woodsman's shanty stands in the clearing, and the raspberry-fields are merry with children's voices. the familiar birds and butterflies linger below with them, and in the upper and more sacred depths the wood-thrush chants his litany and the brown mountain butterflies hover among the scented vines. higher yet rises the "rattlesnake ledge," spreading over one side of the summit a black avalanche of broken rock, now overgrown with reindeer-moss and filled with tufts of the smaller wild geranium. just below this ledge,--amid a dark, dense track of second-growth forest, masked here and there with grape-vines, studded with rare orchises, and pierced by a brook that vanishes suddenly where the ground sinks away and lets the blue distance in,--there is a little monument to which the footpath leads, and which always seemed to me as wild a memorial of forgotten superstition as the traveller can find amid the forests of japan. it was erected by a man called solomon pearson (not to give his name too closely), a quiet, thoughtful farmer, long-bearded, low-voiced, and with that aspect of refinement which an ideal life brings forth even in quite uninstructed men. at the height of the "second advent" excitement this man resolved to build for himself upon these remote rocks a house which should escape the wrath to come, and should endure even amid a burning and transformed earth. thinking, as he had once said to me, that, "if the first dispensation had been strong enough to endure, there would have been no need of a second," he resolved to build for his part something which should possess permanence at least. and there still remains on that high hillside the small beginning that he made. there are four low stone walls, three feet thick, built solidly together without cement, and without the trace of tools. the end-walls are nine feet high (the sides being lower) and are firmly united by a strong iron ridge-pole, perhaps fifteen feet long, which is imbedded at each end in the stone. other masses of iron lie around unused, in sheets, bars, and coils, brought with slow labor by the builder from far below. the whole building was designed to be made of stone and iron. it is now covered with creeping vines and the debris of the hillside; but though its construction had been long discontinued when i saw it, the interior was still kept scrupulously clean through the care of this modern solomon, who often visited his shrine. an arch in the terminal wall admits the visitor to the small roofless temple, and he sees before him, imbedded in the centre of the floor, a large smooth block of white marble, where the deed of this spot of land was to be recorded, in the hope to preserve it even after the globe should have been burned and renewed. but not a stroke of this inscription was ever cut, and now the young chestnut boughs droop into the uncovered interior, and shy forest-birds sing fearlessly among them, having learned that this house belongs to god, not man. as if to reassure them, and perhaps in allusion to his own vegetarian habits, the architect has spread some rough plaster at the head of the apartment and marked on it in bold characters, "thou shalt not kill." two slabs outside, a little way from the walls, bear these inscriptions, "peace on earth," "good-will to men." when i visited it, the path was rough and so obstructed with bushes that it was hard to comprehend how it had afforded passage for these various materials; it seemed more as if some strange architectural boulder had drifted from some runic period and been stranded there. it was as apt a confessional as any of wordsworth's nooks among the trossachs; and when one thinks how many men are wearing out their souls in trying to conform to the traditional mythologies of others, it seems nobler in this man to have reared upon that lonely hill the unfinished memorial of his own. i recall another path which leads from the lower saranac lake, near "martin's," to what the guides call, or used to call, "the philosopher's camp" at amperzand. on this oddly named lake, in the adirondack region, a tract of land was bought by professor agassiz and his friends, who made there a summer camping-ground, and with one comrade i once sought the spot. i remember with what joy we left the boat,--so delightful at first, so fatiguing at last; for i cannot, with mr. murray, call it a merit in the adirondacks that you never have to walk,--and stepped away into the free forest. we passed tangled swamps, so dense with upturned trees and trailing mosses that they seemed to give no opening for any living thing to pass, unless it might be the soft and silent owl that turned its head almost to dislocation in watching us, ere it flitted vaguely away. farther on, the deep, cool forest was luxurious with plumy ferns; we trod on moss-covered roots, finding the emerald steps so soft we scarcely knew that we were ascending; every breath was aromatic; there seemed infinite healing in every fragrant drop that fell upon our necks from the cedar boughs. we had what i think the pleasantest guide for a daylight tramp,--one who has never before passed over that particular route, and can only pilot you on general principles till he gladly, at last, allows you to pilot him. when we once got the lead we took him jubilantly on, and beginning to look for "the philosopher's camp," found ourselves confronted by a large cedar-tree on the margin of a wooded lake. this was plainly the end of the path. was the camp then afloat? our escort was in that state of hopeless ignorance of which only lost guides are capable. we scanned the green horizon and the level water, without glimpse of human abode. it seemed an enchanted lake, and we looked about the tree-trunk for some fairy horn, that we might blow it. that failing, we tried three rifle-shots, and out from the shadow of an island, on the instant, there glided a boat, which bore no lady of the lake, but a red-shirted woodsman. the artist whom we sought was on that very island, it seemed, sketching patiently while his guides were driving the deer. this artist was he whose "procession of the pines" had identified his fame with that delightful forest region. he it was who had laid out with artistic taste "the philosopher's camp," and who was that season still awaiting philosophers as well as deer. he had been there for a month, alone with the guides, and declared that nature was pressing upon him to an extent that almost drove him wild. his eyes had a certain remote and questioning look that belongs to imaginative men who dwell alone. it seemed an impertinence to ask him to come out of his dream and offer us dinner; but his instincts of hospitality failed not, and the red-shirted guide was sent to the camp, which was, it seemed, on the other side of the lake, to prepare our meal, while we bathed. i am thus particular in speaking of the dinner, not only because such is the custom of travellers, but also because it was the occasion of an interlude which i shall never forget. as we were undressing for our bath upon the lonely island, where the soft, pale water almost lapped our feet, and the deep, wooded hills made a great amphitheatre for the lake, our host bethought himself of something neglected in his instructions. "ben!" vociferated he to the guide, now rapidly receding. ben paused on his oars. "remember to bo-o-oil the venison, ben!" shouted the pensive artist, while all the slumbering echoes arose to applaud this culinary confidence. "and, ben!" he added, imploringly, "don't forget the dumplings!" upon this, the loons, all down the lake, who had hitherto been silent, took up the strain with vehemence, hurling their wild laughter at the presumptuous mortal who thus dared to invade their solitudes with details as trivial as mr. pickwick's tomato-sauce. they repeated it over and over to each other, till ten square miles of loons must have heard the news, and all laughed together; never was there such an audience; they could not get over it, and two hours after, when we had rowed over to the camp and dinner had been served, this irreverent and invisible chorus kept bursting out, at all points of the compass, with scattered chuckles of delight over this extraordinary bill of fare. justice compels me to add that the dumplings were made of indian-meal, upon a recipe devised by our artist; the guests preferred the venison, but the host showed a fidelity to his invention that proved him to be indeed a dweller in an ideal world. another path that comes back to memory is the bare trail that we followed over the prairies of nebraska, in 1856, when the missouri river was held by roving bands from the slave states, and freedom had to seek an overland route into kansas. all day and all night we rode between distant prairie-fires, pillars of evening light and of morning cloud, while sometimes the low grass would burn to the very edge of the trail, so that we had to hold our breath as we galloped through. parties of armed missourians were sometimes seen over the prairie swells, so that we had to mount guard at nightfall; free-state emigrants, fleeing from persecution, continually met us; and we sometimes saw parties of wandering sioux, or passed their great irregular huts and houses of worship. i remember one desolate prairie summit on which an indian boy sat motionless on horseback; his bare red legs clung closely to the white sides of his horse; a gorgeous sunset was unrolled behind him, and he might have seemed the last of his race, just departing for the hunting-grounds of the blest. more often the horizon showed no human outline, and the sun set cloudless, and elongated into pear-shaped outlines, as behind ocean-waves. but i remember best the excitement that filled our breasts when we approached spots where the contest for a free soil had already been sealed with blood. in those days, as one went to pennsylvania to study coal formations, or to lake superior for copper, so one went to kansas for men. "every footpath on this planet," said a rare thinker, "may lead to the door of a hero," and that trail into kansas ended rightly at the tent-door of john brown. and later, who that knew them can forget the picket-paths that were worn throughout the sea islands of south carolina,--paths that wound along the shores of creeks or through the depths of woods, where the great wild roses tossed their airy festoons above your head, and the brilliant lizards glanced across your track, and your horse's ears suddenly pointed forward and his pace grew uneasy as he snuffed the presence of something you could not see. at night you had often to ride from picket to picket in dense darkness, trusting to the horse to find his way, or sometimes dismounting to feel with your hands for the track, while the great southern fire-flies offered their floating lanterns for guidance, and the hoarse "chuck-will's-widow" croaked ominously from the trees, and the great guns of the siege of charleston throbbed more faintly than the drumming of a partridge, far away. those islands are everywhere so intersected by dikes and ledges and winding creeks as to form a natural military region, like la vendee and yet two plantations that are twenty miles asunder by the road will sometimes be united by a footpath which a negro can traverse in two hours. these tracks are limited in distance by the island formation, but they assume a greater importance as you penetrate the mainland; they then join great states instead of mere plantations, and if you ask whither one of them leads, you are told "to alabama," or "to tennessee." time would fail to tell of that wandering path which leads to the mine mountain near brattleborough, where you climb the high peak at last, and perhaps see the showers come up the connecticut till they patter on the leaves beneath you, and then, swerving, pass up the black ravine and leave you unwet. or of those among the white mountains, gorgeous with great red lilies which presently seem to take flight in a cloud of butterflies that match their tints,--paths where the balsamic air caresses you in light breezes, and masses of alder-berries rise above the waving ferns. or of the paths that lead beside many a little new england stream, whose bank is lost to sight in a smooth green slope of grape-vine: the lower shoots rest upon the quiet water, but the upper masses are crowned by a white wreath of alder-blooms; beside them grow great masses of wild-roses, and the simultaneous blossoms and berries of the gaudy nightshade. or of those winding tracks that lead here and there among the flat stones of peaceful old graveyards, so entwined with grass and flowers that every spray of sweetbrier seems to tell more of life than all the accumulated epitaphs can tell of death. and when the paths that one has personally traversed are exhausted, memory holds almost as clearly those which the poets have trodden for us,--those innumerable by-ways of shakespeare, each more real than any high-road in england; or chaucer's "little path i found of mintes full and fennell greene"; or spenser's "pathes and alleies wide with footing worne"; or the path of browning's "pippa" "down the hillside, up the glen, love me as i love!" or the weary tracks by which "little nell" wandered; or the haunted way in sydney dobell's ballad, "ravelstone, ravelstone, the merry path that leads down the golden morning hills, and through the silver meads"; or the few american paths that genius has yet idealized; that where hawthorne's "david swan" slept, or that which thoreau found upon the banks of walden pond, or where whittier parted with his childhood's playmate on ramoth hill. it is not heights, or depths, or spaces that make the world worth living in; for the fairest landscape needs still to be garlanded by the imagination,--to become classic with noble deeds and romantic with dreams. go where we please in nature, we receive in proportion as we give. ivo, the old bishop of chartres, wrote, that "neither the secret depth of woods nor the tops of mountains make man blessed, if he has not with him solitude of mind, the sabbath of the heart, and tranquillity of conscience." there are many roads, but one termination; and plato says, in his "republic," that the point where all paths meet is the soul's true resting-place and the journey's end. the end. [frontispiece: "we are what conditions make us, miss wellington," he said.] prince or chauffeur? a story of newport by lawrence perry author of "dan merrithew," "from the depths of things," "two tramps," etc. with four illustrations by j. v. mcfall chicago a. c. mcclurg & co. 1911 copyright by a. c. mcclurg & co. 1911 entered at stationers' hall, london, england published, march, 1911 to my mother contents chapter i the midnight express ii miss wellington enlarges her experience iii prince vassili koltsoff iv the tame torpedo v at trinity vi an encounter with a spy vii miss wellington crosses swords with a diplomat viii when a prince woos ix armitage changes his vocation x jack mccall, at your service xi the dying gladiator xii miss hatch shows she loves a lover xiii anne exhibits the prince xiv underground wires xv anne and sara seek adventure xvi the adventure materializes xvii the night attack xviii anne wellington has her first test xix an encounter in the dark xx with reference to the dot xxi plain sailor talk xxii the ball begins xxiii the ball continues xxiv the ball ends xxv the expatriate xxvi conclusion illustrations "we are what conditions make us, miss wellington," he said . . . . . . _frontispiece_ "if you 'll allow me the honor of playing waiter, i 'll be delighted to serve you in the cabin" "is n't it beautiful," murmured anne. "so different from being on the _mayfair_, is n't it?" to-night she was a professional beauty, "rigged and trigged" for competition prince or chauffeur? chapter i the midnight express john armitage, lieutenant u. s. n., followed the porter into the rear car of the midnight express for boston, and after seeing his bag deposited under a lower berth, stood for a minute in frowning indecision. a half-hour must elapse before the train started. he was not a bit sleepy; he had, in fact, dozed most of the way from washington, and the idea of threshing about in the hot berth was not agreeable. finally, he took a short thick pipe from his pocket, and picking his way gingerly between the funereal swaying curtains and protruding shoes, he went outside to talk to the porter. the features of this functionary relaxed, from the ineffable dignity and self-containment of a dozing saurian, into an expression of open interest as armitage ranged alongside, with the remark that it was cooler than earlier in the evening. "ya'as, suh," agreed the porter, "it sut'nly am mighty cooler, jes' now, suh." he cocked his head at the young officer. "you 's in de navy, suh, ain't you, suh? i knowed," he added, as armitage nodded a bored affirmative, "dat you was 'cause i seen de 'u. s. n.' on yo' grip. so when dat man a minute ago asked me was dere a navy gen'lman on my cyar, why i said--" "eh!" armitage turned upon him so quickly that the negro recoiled. "asked for me! who? what did he say? when did he ask?" "i came outen the cyar after cahying in yo' bag, majah," replied the porter, unctuously, "and dey was a man jes' come up an' ask me what i tole you. 'ya'as, suh,' says i, 'i jes' took in de kunnel's bag.' so he goes in an' den out he comes again, givin' me fifty cents, an' hoofed it out through de gates, like he was in a hurry." armitage regarded the negro strangely. "what did he look like?" he asked. "quick!" "he was a lean, lanky man wid a mustache and eye-glasses. he looked like a foreigner. he--" but armitage had started on a run for the iron gates. in the big waiting-room there were, perhaps, a score of persons, dozing or reading, no one of whom resembled the man described by the porter. he passed across to the telephone booths and as he did so the one for whom he was searching emerged from the telegraph office, walked rapidly to the forty-second street doors, and jumped into a taxi-cab waiting at the curb. and so armitage missed him. he walked back to the train with a peculiar smile, emotions of pleasurable excitement and a sense of something mysterious conflicting. "missed him," he said in answer to the porter's look of inquiry. "friend of yo's, suh?" "well," said the officer, smiling grimly, "i should have liked to shake hands with him." his desire would have been keener could he in any way have known the nature of the message which the curious stranger had sent to a squalid little house on william street in newport: a. leaves here for torpedo station on midnight train. though he did not know it, despatches of a similar nature had been following or preceding him these past three months, a fact certainly not uncomplimentary to an officer who had been out of the academy a scant ten years, whatever the additional aspects. as it was, armitage, not given to worrying, dismissed the incident for the time being and yielded full attention to the voluble porter. the young officer was from kentucky, had been raised with negroes, and understood and liked them thoroughly. with five minutes remaining before midnight he was about to knock the fire from his pipe when a bustle at the gate attracted his attention. a party, two women, their maids, and a footman bearing some luggage, was approaching the train. the older woman was of distinguished bearing and evidently in no amiable mood; the younger was smiling, trying to pacify her. "well, mother," she said, as the party stopped at armitage's car, "the worst of the ordeal is over. it has all been so funny and quite exciting, really." that she was an interesting girl, armitage could see even in the ghastly effulgence of the arc lamps. slightly above the medium height, with a straight, slim figure, she was, he judged, about twenty-two or three years old. her light hair flowed and rippled from under a smart hat; her face, an expressive oval; her mouth not small, the lips full and red. armitage could not tell about the eyes, but considering her hair and vivid complexion they were, he decided, probably hazel. from his purely scientific or rather artistic investigation of the girl's face, he started suddenly to find that those eyes were viewing him with an unmistakably humorous disdain. but only for a second. then as though some mental picture had been vaguely limned in her mind, she looked at him again, quickly, this time with a curious expression, as of a person trying to remember, not quite certain whether she should bow. she did n't. instead, she turned to her mother, who was advancing toward the porter, voicing her disapproval of her daughter's characterization of the situation. "funny! exciting!" she exclaimed. "you are quite impossible, anne. porter, is this our car?" the negro examined the tickets and waved his hand toward the steps. "ya'as'm, cyar five; state room a, an' upper 'n lower ten, for dem ladies," indicating the maids. "ya'as'm, jes' step dis way." with a few directions to the footman, who thereupon retraced his steps to the station, the woman followed her daughter and the maids into the car. a minute or so later the train was rolling out into the yard with its blazing electric lights, and armitage, now hopelessly wakeful, was in the smoking compartment, regarding an unlighted cigar. here the porter found him. "say, gen'ral," he said, "dem folks is of de vehy fust quality. dey had got abo'd dey yacht dis ebenin', so dey was sayin', an' somethin' was broke in de mashinery. so dey come asho' from whar dey went on de ship at de yacht club station. dey simply hab got ter get to newport to-morrow, kase dey gwine receive some foreign king or other an'--" "sam," interrupted armitage, "did you find out who they are?" "ya'as, suh. ah sut'nly did," was the pompous reply. "dey is de wellingtons." "wellington," armitage regarded the porter gravely. "sam, i have been in newport off and on for some time, but have been too busy to study the social side. still, i happen to know you have the honor of having under your excellent care, the very elect of society." "well, dey only gib me fifty cents," grimaced the porter, "an' dat don' elect 'em to nothin' wid me." armitage laughed. "you were lucky," he said. "you should have paid them for the honor." the porter shook his head gloomily. "two bits," he growled. "i don' see no sassiety partiality in dat." "no," armitage reached into his pocket; "here, sam, is fifty cents for hefting that young woman's bag." he paused and smiled. "it is the nearest i have ever come to paying the bills for such a beautiful creature. i like the experience. now don't forget to call me at wickford junction, or the other people either; for when i get them aboard the _general_ i am going to start a mutiny, throw the mater overboard, and go to sea. for, sam, i rather imagine miss wellington glanced at me as she boarded the train." the porter laughed, pocketing the silver piece, and left armitage to his own devices. he sat for a long time, still holding the unlighted cigar, smiling quizzically. some underlying, romantic emotion, which had prompted his vicarious tip to the porter, still thrilled him; and it was not until the train had flashed by larchmont, that he went to his berth. the full moon was swimming in the east, bathing the countryside in a light which caused trees and hills, fences and bowlders to stand out in soft distinctness. armitage raised the window curtain and lying with face pressed almost against the pane, watched the ever-changing scenes of a veritable fairyland. he was anything but a snob. he was not lying awake because a few select representatives of the few hundred happened to be in his car. not by a long shot. but that girl, he admitted, irrespective of caste, was a cause for insomnia, good and sufficient. "anne!" he muttered the name to himself. by george, it fitted her! he did not know they bred her sort in the newport cottage colony. armitage was sufficiently conceited to believe that he knew a great deal about girls. he had this one placed precisely. she was a good fellow, that he would wager, and unaffected and unspoiled, which, if he were correct in his conjectures, was a wonderful thing, he told himself, considering the environment in which she had been reared. "i may be wrong, anne wellington," he said to himself, "but i 've an idea we 're going to know each other better. at any rate, we, speaking in an editorial sense, shall strive to that end." he chose to ignore the obvious difficulties which presented themselves in this regard. who were the wellingtons? his great, great grandfather was signing the declaration of independence when the wellingtons were shoeing horses or carrying sedan chairs in london. his father was a united states senator, and while ronald wellington might own one or two such, he could not own senator armitage, nor could any one else. the train flashed around the curve into greenwich and the sound appeared in the distance, a vast pool of shimmering silver. armitage started. "that torpedo of mine could start in that creek back there and flit clean into the sound and chase a steel hull from here to gehenna. in two weeks i 'll prove it." how had anne wellington suggested his torpedo? or was it the moonlight? well, if he set his mind on his torpedo he would surely get no sleep. it had cost him too many wakeful hours already. he lowered the curtain and closed his eyes. chapter ii miss wellington enlarges her experience few places in the well-ordered centres of civilization are so altogether dreary as wickford junction, shortly before five o'clock in the morning, when the usual handful of passengers alight from the boston express. the sun has not yet climbed to the top of the seaward hills of rhode island, the station and environment rest in a damp semi-gloom, everything shut in, silent--as though nature herself had paused for a brief time before bursting into glad, effulgent day. the station is locked; one grocery store in the distance presents a grim, boarded front to the sleeping street. no one is awake save the arriving passengers; they are but half so, hungry and in the nature of things cross. mrs. wellington was undisguisedly in that mood. armitage found some degree of sardonic pleasure in watching her as she viewed with cold disapproval the drowsy maids and her daughter, who although as immaculate and fresh and cool and altogether delightful as the morning promised to be, persisted in yawning from time to time with the utmost abandon. armitage had never seen a woman quite like the mother. somewhat above medium height, there was nothing in the least way matronly about her figure; it had still the beautiful supple lines of her youth, and her dark brown hair was untinged by the slightest suggestion of gray. it was the face that portrayed the inexorable progress of the years and the habits and all that in them had lain. cold, calculating, unyielding, the metallic eyes dominated a gray lineament, seamed and creased with fine hair-like lines. no flippant, light-headed, pleasure-seeking creature of society was belle wellington. few of her sort are, public belief to the contrary notwithstanding. her famous fight for social primacy, now lying far behind in the vague past, had been a struggle worthy of an epic, however meticulous the object of her ambition may have appeared in the eyes of many good people. at all events she had striven for a goal not easy of attainment. many years before, on the deck of her husband's yacht--whither, by methods she sternly had forgotten, had been lured a select few of a select circle--the fight had begun. even now she awoke sometimes at night with a shudder, having lived again in vivid dream that august afternoon in newport harbor, when she sat at her tea table facing the first ordeal. she had come through it. with what rare felicity had she scattered her conversational charms; with what skill had she played upon the pet failings and foibles of her guests; what unerring judgment had been hers, and memory of details, unfailing tact, and exquisite taste! a triumph, yes. and the first knowledge of it had come in a lingering hand clasp from the great man of them all and a soft "dear" in the farewell words of his wife. but she had fainted in her cabin after they left. since that day she had gone far. she was on familiar terms with an english earl and two dukes; she had entertained an emperor aboard her yacht; in new york and newport there were but two women to dispute her claims as social dictator, and one of these, through a railroad coup of her husband's, would soon be forced to her knees. it was all in her face. armitage could read it there in the hard shrewd lines, the cold, heartless, vindictive lines, or the softer lines which the smiles could form when smiles were necessary, which was not so often now as in former years. and in place of the beauty now gone, she ruled by sheer power and wit, which time had turned to biting acidity,--and by the bitter diplomacy of the medicis. "ugh!" armitage drew his pipe from his pocket with humorous muttering. "a dreadnaught, all right. an out-and-out sundowner. and i beg leave to advise myself that the best thing about fair anne is that she favors her father, or some relative considerably more saintly than my lady of the marble face." as armitage passed the group in pacing the platform, the woman whom he had been studying raised her eyes and gazed at him with just a touch of imperiousness. "i beg your pardon," she said, and a trace of the little formal smile appeared; "but can you tell me when we are to have a train?" armitage glanced at his watch. "it is due now," he said, "i think--here it comes," he added, inclining his head towards a curve in the track around which a little locomotive was pushing two dingy cars. mrs. wellington nodded her thanks and turned to her daughter, as though dismissing armitage, who, indeed, had evinced no desire to remain, walking toward the upper end of the platform where his bag reposed upon a pile of trunks. he did not see them again until they boarded the _general_ at wickford landing for the trip down narragansett bay. they were all in the upper cabin, where mrs. wellington was evidently preparing to doze. armitage walked forward and stood on the deck under the pilot house, watching the awakening of the picturesque village across the narrow harbor, until the steamboat began to back out into the bay. the sunlight was glorious, the skies blue, and the air fresh and sparkling. armitage faced the breeze with bared head and was drawing in deep draughts of air when footsteps sounded behind him, and anne wellington and her maid came to the rail. "how perfectly delightful, emilia," she exclaimed. "now if i could have a rusk and some coffee i should enjoy myself thoroughly. why don't they conduct this boat like an english liner!" her eyes, filled with humorous light, swept past armitage; yes, they were hazel. "i am so hungry, emilia!" she smiled and sniffed the air with mock ardor. "emilia, did n't you smell that tantalizing odor of hot biscuits in the cabin? i wonder where it came from." armitage suddenly remembered a previous journey in this boat and he was on the point of addressing the girl when he checked himself, but only for a minute. her mother had addressed him in her presence, had she not? certainly that constituted, well, if not an acquaintance, at least something which involved warrant to assist her in time of stress, which he decided to be here and now. so he turned to the girl with that boyish grin and that twinkling of his clear, gray eyes which people found so contagious in him, and addressed her in the most natural way. "if i don't intrude egregiously--" he rounded out this beautiful word, a favorite of his father's, with a drawling, tentative inflection, which caused anne to smile in spite of herself. seeing which armitage continued: "i happen to know that the steward in the galley below makes biscuits and brews coffee at this hour each morning such as are given to few mortals. if you 'll allow me the honor of playing waiter, i 'll be delighted to serve you in the cabin." [illustration: "if you'll allow me the honor of playing waiter, i'll be delighted to serve you in the cabin."] anne wellington heard him in wide-eyed astonishment. then she laughed, not at all affectedly, and glanced swiftly through the cabin windows, to where her mother sat apparently in slumber. "i thank you. it's awfully polite of you. but you needn't play waiter. instead--would it be too much trouble for you to show us where the--the--" "galley," suggested armitage. "where the galley is?" armitage hesitated. "no," he said, "it would be a pleasure. only, the galley, or, rather, the mess room, is rather a stuffy place. i--" "oh, i should n't mind that in the least. i am not unused to roughing it." she turned to her maid. "emilia, go and tell morgan to say to mother, if she wakes, that we are in the galley, breakfasting on plum duff." armitage said nothing while they waited for her return. anne wellington was silent, too. she simply stood waiting, tapping the toe of one of her small russet pumps on the deck and gazing out over the bay with a curious little smile rippling up from the corner of her mouth. armitage did not quite understand her. while she had been cordial enough, yet there was an underlying suggestion of reserve, not at all apparent and yet unmistakably felt. it was, he felt, as though in her life and training and experience, she had acquired a poise, a knowledge of at least certain parts of the world and its affairs, which gave her confidence, made her at home, and taught her how to deal with situations which other girls less broadly endowed would have found over-powering, or, at best, distinctly embarrassing. not that armitage had in any way sought to embarrass miss wellington. he had spoken simply upon impulse, being of that nature, and he could not but admire the way in which she had diagnosed his motive, or rather lack of motive save a chivalrous desire to serve. evidently she had long been accustomed to the homage of men, and more, she was apparently a girl who knew how to appraise it at its true value in any given case. if armitage had but known it, this was a qualification, not without its value to the girls and elder women who occupied anne wellington's plane of social existence. the society calendar of scandal is mainly a list of those who have not possessed this essential. when the maid returned, miss wellington smiled and nodded to armitage, who led the way into the cabin and to the main stairway and thence down into the hold. the steward was a bustling, voluble little man with well-rounded proportions and a walrus-like mustache. as armitage and his two companions entered, he was engaged in removing a coffee-stained table cover--the crew had finished breakfasting--which he replaced with a spotless red-and-white checkered cloth. "steward," said armitage, falling unconsciously into the crisp voice of command, "get some coffee and biscuits for this lady and her maid, please." "yes, sir," the steward smiled affably, "certainly, sir. they 're fine this morning--the biscuits, i mean. fine!" "very good," said armitage. he pulled two chairs to the table and was leaving the room when the girl looked over her shoulder. "are n't you going to join us?" she asked. "well," said armitage smiling, "i was going to breakfast in the galley. it is so warm by the range, you know." "nonsense! don't mind us. it's rather novel breakfasting with one's maid--and a stranger." she said this in rather an absent manner, as though the fact to which she called attention were almost too obvious for remark. certainly it was not said in any way to impel armitage to introduce himself, and he had no wish to take advantage of a lame opportunity. "yes," he said, seating himself at one end of the table; "it impresses me that way, too." to say that the biscuits were delicious and the coffee uplifting, inspiring, would, in the mind of all who have shared the matutinal hospitality of the steward of the _general_, be an inadequate expression of gastronomic gratitude. let it be sufficient to note that anne wellington beamed gratefully upon the steward, who, expanding under the genial influence, discussed his art with rare unction. "the secret," he said, leaning confidentially over the back of miss wellington's chair, "is to be sparin' of the yeast; and then there is somethin' in raisin' 'em proper. now, the last time mrs. jack vanderlip was down here, she made me give her the receipt for them identical biscuits; gave me a dollar for it." "mrs. jack vanderlip!" cried miss wellington, "did she ever grace your table?" "did she ever grace this table! well, i should say so, and the tyler girls and hammie van rensselaer and billy anstruther,--he comes down here often." miss wellington laughed. "i often have marvelled at billy's peach-blow complexion," she said; "now i have the secret." "don't tell him i said so, miss wellington," said the steward. the girl, with a biscuit poised daintily in her fingers, did not seem surprised to hear her name. "your acquaintance is rather exten--rather large," she said. the steward actually blushed. "i live in newport, miss," he said. "oh!" that was all, and the curious little smile did not leave her face. but armitage noticed that in some way the steward found no further opportunity for exercising his garrulity. evidently she assumed that armitage now knew whom she was, if he had not known before the steward uttered her name, for he noticed a slight modifying of her previous attitude of thorough enjoyment. for his part, armitage of course had no reason for altering his bearing, and that he did not was observed and appreciated by his companion. this eventually had the effect of restoring both to their former footing. "yes," she said finally, "it has been rather a novel experience. i am indebted to you." "not to me," said armitage. then, by way of conversation, "novel experiences, as a rule, are not so easily had." "no, i grasp them whenever," she jerked her head toward the cabin above and smiled, "whenever i can, conveniently. my old tutor in munich was always impressing it upon me never to neglect such opportunities." "opportunities? oh, i see--slumming." armitage glanced about the apartment and laughed. she frowned. "i was speaking categorically, not specifically; at least i meant to. i did not mean slumming; i detest it. '_seine erfahrungen erweitern_'--enlarging one's experience--is the way my teacher put it. life is so well-ordered with us. there are many well-defined things to do--any number of them. the trouble is, they are all so well defined. we glide along and take our switches, as father would say, like so many trains." she smiled. "and so i love to run off the track once in a while." "may i have the credit of having misplaced the switch?" armitage's eyes were twinkling as the girl arose with a nod. in the upper cabin, mrs. wellington, apparently, still slept, to armitage's great joy. her daughter, with hardly a glance into the cabin, stepped to the rail and looked down the bay with radiant face. the promise of the early hours had been established; it was a beautiful day. it was one of these mornings typical of the hour; it looked like morning, smelt like morning, there was the distinct, clean, pure, inspiring feel of morning. the skies were an even turquoise with little filmy, fleecy shreds of clouds drifting across; the air was elixir; and the blue waters, capped here and there with white, ran joyously to meet the green sloping shores, where the haze still lingered. ahead, an island glowed like an opal. "perfect, perfectly stunning!" cried the girl. somehow armitage felt the absence of that vague barrier which, heretofore, she had seemed almost unconsciously to interpose, as her eyes, filled with sheer vivacity, met his. "what are those little things bobbing up and down in the water over there?" she asked. "i believe that is the torpedo testing ground," he said. "torpedoes! ugh!" she shrugged her shoulders. "mother knew vereshchagin, who was in the _petrapavlovsk_ when she struck the japanese torpedo and turned upside down. do you know anything about torpedoes?" "not much; a little." armitage thrilled at the first sign she had given him that she considered or was in any way curious regarding his personality. she looked at him. "i am certain i have seen you before," she said. "you don't live in newport?" "that is not my home," said armitage. "i come from kentucky. i am something of a wanderer, being a sort of fighter by profession." the girl started. "not a prize fighter?" she glanced quickly at the handsome, square, fighting face, the broad chest and shoulders, and flushed. "are you really that?" armitage had intended to tell her he was a naval officer, but obsessed of the imp of mischief, he nodded. "i can imagine situations wherein i might fight for a prize." she overlooked what she regarded as the apparent modesty of his answer. "really!" she exclaimed. "how interesting! now i am glad i met you. i had no idea you were that, of all things. you seemed--" she checked herself. "but tell me, how did you begin? tommy dallas is keen on your sort. did he ever--ever back you, i believe he calls it--in a fight?" the new trend speedily had become distasteful to armitage, who inwardly was floundering for a method of escape from the predicament into which his folly had led him. he had no wish to pose as a freak in her eyes. still, no solution offered itself. "no," he said at length, "he never backed me. as a matter of fact, i am more of a physical instructor, now." "oh," she said, disappointedly, "i was going to gloat over tommy. physical instructor! do you know father is looking for one for my two kid brothers? why don't you apply?" "thanks," said armitage, a bit ungraciously, "perhaps i shall." plainly the girl's interest in him was fast waning. extremely chapfallen and deeply disgusted with himself, armitage bowed, and, muttering something about looking after his luggage, withdrew. chapter iii prince vassili koltsoff when miss wellington entered the cabin she found her mother in the same position in which she had left her, but her eyes were open, looking straight at the girl. "mother, i never knew you to do anything quite so _bourgeois_ before." there was a gleam of mischief in her eyes. "sleeping in a public place! you weren't sleeping, were you?" "no, i was not," said her mother. "i have been thinking, planning." "oh, prince koltsoff!" "yes." mrs. wellington raised her hand languidly to her face. "he wrote he was coming to us this afternoon, direct from the russian ambassador's at bar harbor. did he not?" "yes, unless miss hatch was mistaken in what she said the other day." "miss hatch," said the elder woman, "is one of the few secretaries i ever had who does not make mistakes. however, that is neither here nor there. prince koltsoff has been in newport for a week." "a week! the idea! where? not with the van antwerps?" miss wellington's eyes blazed with interest. "no, not with any one that i was able to discover. but clarie pembroke, of the british legation, was driving from the reading room to the yacht club with your father the other day. he told me he was certain he saw koltsoff standing on a side street near the aquidneck." "why on earth did n't you tell me before?" cried the daughter. "what a delightful mystery!" she smiled with mischief. "do you suppose after all he is some no-account? you know russian princes are as numerous as russian bears; they can be as great bounders and as indigent as italian counts--" "all of which you have heard me say quite frequently," interrupted mrs. wellington placidly. "koltsoff is not pinchbeck. the koltsoffs are an illustrious russian family, and have been for years. i think i know my almanach de gotha. why, koltsoff is _aide-de-camp_ to the czar and has, i believe, estates in southern russia. his father fought brilliantly in the russo-turkish war and gained the cross of st. anne; his great, or great-great-grandfather, i don't recall which, was a general of note of catherine the great's, and if certain intimate histories of that time are not wholly false, her rewards for his services were scandalously bestowed." "no doubt," said the girl carelessly. "and koltsoff?" "a genuinely distinguished fellow. he was educated, of course, at the cadet school in st. petersburg and during the japanese war was with the czar. i met him in london, last may, at lord mcencroe's, as i have already told you, i think, and when he spoke of coming to america this summer i engaged him for august." "it was rather farsighted of you," said the girl admiringly. "newport needs some excitement this season. if he 's anything like that last russian who came here on a warship two years ago, you will shine as a benefactor, especially in the eyes of reporters." mrs. wellington smiled grimly. "the grand duke ivan?" "yes; what a great bearded beast he was! i remember father bemoaning, when ivan the terrible departed, that there was no more of his favorite planet brandy left in the reading room cellars." mrs. wellington did not smile. she was eying her daughter curiously. "i want you and the prince to become good friends," she said. "that will depend upon whether he can gracefully explain his mysterious presence in newport the past week," replied the girl laughingly. suddenly her face grew grave. "what do you mean, mother?" "merely that i expect--that prince koltsoff hopes"--and under her daughter's steady gaze, she did something she had done but once or twice in her life--floundered and then paused. the girl's lip curled, not mirthfully. "ah, i begin to understand," she said. "prince koltsoff's visit was conceived hardly in the nature of ordinary social emprise." "now, please don't go on, anne," said the mother. "i have expressed nothing but a wish, have i? wait until you know him." "but you said koltsoff had expressed a--a--" "a hope, naturally. he saw sargent's portrait of you in london." "how romantic! i do not wonder you couldn't sleep, mother." "perhaps there were other reasons. who was the man you ensnared outside?" miss wellington laughed. "trust you, mother. he was very decent. he took me below and fed me hot biscuits and coffee. he said he was a prize fighter." "a prize fighter!" "he said so. but he was not telling the truth. he was awfully good looking and had a manner that one does not acquire. i am rather curious concerning him. you don't imagine he was koltsoff, incog?" mrs. wellington glanced witheringly at her. "i imagine he may have been a reporter, anne. why are n't you more careful! there may come a time when your efforts to uphold your reputation for eccentricity and for doing the cleverly unexpected will react disagreeably." it was the first time her mother had given her reason to believe that she shared in any way in the views concerning her which were prevalent among the younger set at least. the girl was not flattered. "mother, don't be so absurd," she said. "the only efforts i have ever made have been to lead a normal, human life and not a snobbish, affected one. eccentric! the conditions under which we live are eccentric. my only desire is to be normal." "life is relative, you know," said mrs. wellington. "if you--" she glanced out the window and saw the torpedo station slipping past. "why, we are almost in," she said. "morgan, go out, please, and see if they have sent a motor for us." the handful of passengers were filing down to the main deck and mrs. wellington, her daughter, and emilia followed, where morgan presently joined them with the announcement that she had not seen a wellington car. "_peste!_" murmured mrs. wellington. "this is the last of dawson if he has n't sent a car. i telegraphed last night." "telegrams have been known to go astray," suggested her daughter. "rot! so has dawson," observed mrs. wellington. it was only too plain when they crossed the gang plank that something or somebody had gone wrong. no automobile or horse-drawn vehicle bearing the wellington insignia was at the landing. having adjusted herself to the situation upon receiving her maid's report, mrs. wellington immediately signalled two of the less dingy hacks, entered one with her daughter, leaving the other for the maids. "the crags," she said, designating her villa to the hackman, who, touching his hat with the first sign of respect shown, picked up the reins. the driver, half turned in his seat to catch any conversation of an interesting nature, guided his horse to thames street and thence along that quaint, narrow thoroughfare toward harbor road. miss wellington glanced at the driver and then looked at her mother solemnly. "do you suppose they will be up yet, mamma?" she said, with a sort of twanging nasal cadence. mrs. wellington turned her head composedly toward the show windows of a store. "i don't see why you won't say what you think, mamma," resumed the girl. "you know some of these newporters, so the papers say, do not breakfast before eight o'clock." "eight o'clock!" there was an explosion of derisive mirth on the seat above them. "ladies," the driver looked down with red cheeks and watery eyes, "if you expect to see 'rome' wellington's people, you 'd better drive round 'till eleven o'clock. and at that they won't have the sleep out of their eyes." "do these society people really sleep as late as that?" asked the girl. the driver glanced at her a second. "aw, stop yer kiddin'," he said. "all i can say now is that if you try to wake 'em up now they 'll set the dogs on you." "very well, let them," interposed mrs. wellington. "now drive on as quickly as possible--and no more talking, please." the driver had a good look at her as she spoke. his round face became red and pale in turn and he clucked asthmatically to his horse. "good lord," he muttered, "it's herself!" but he had not much farther to go. just as they turned into the harbor road, a wellington car came up. the _mã©canicien_ had been losing no time, but when he caught sight of the wellingtons he stopped within a distance which he prided himself was five feet less than any other living driver could have made it in, without breaking the car. the footman was at the side of the hack in an instant and assisted the mother and daughter into the tonneau, which they entered in silence. mrs. wellington, in fact, did not speak until the car was tearing past the golf grounds. here she turned to her daughter with a grim face. "anne," she said, "i 've about made up my mind that you escaped being really funny with that impossible hackman." "yes, mother," said the girl, absently viewing the steadily rising roof of her home. "our ideas of humor were ever alien. i wonder if prince koltsoff has arrived." the crags was one of the few newport villas bordering on the sea, whose owners and architects had been sufficiently temperamental to take advantage of the natural beauties of its site. upon huge black rocks, rising twenty-five or thirty feet, the house had been built. windows on either side looked down upon the waters, ever shattering into white foam on half-hidden reefs, or rushing relentlessly into rocky, weed-hung fissures or black caverns. sometimes in the autumn storms when the inrushing waves would bury deep the grim reefs off bateman's point and pile themselves on the very bulwarks of the island, the spray rattled against the windows of the crags and made the place seem a part of the elemental fury. in front of the house was an immense stretch of sward, bordered with box and relieved by a wonderful _parterre_ and by walks and drives lined with blue hydrangeas. the stable, garage, and gardener's cottage were far to one side, all but their roofs concealed from the house and the roadway by a small grove of poplars. supplementing the processes of nature by artificial means, ronald wellington had had a sort of fjord blasted out of the solid rock on the seaward side, as a passage for his big steam yacht, with steps leading from the house to the little wharf. here lay the _mayfair_ when not in service; from the road you could see her mast tops, as though protruding from the ground. but now the _mayfair_ was down in a south brooklyn shipyard; this thought, recurring to mrs. wellington, framed in her mind a mental picture of all that she had undergone as a result of that stupid blowing out of steam valves, which, by the way, had seriously scalded several of the engine-room staff and placed the keenest of edges upon her home-coming mood. no subject of nervous irritability, she. incidents, affairs, persons, or things qualified to set the fibres of the average woman of her age tingling, were, with her, as the heat to steel; they tempered her, made her hard, keen, cold, resilient. the butler, flanked by two or three men servants, met them at the door. breakfast was served, he said. prince koltsoff, indeed, had already arrived, and had breakfasted. "the prince--" mrs. wellington checked herself and hurried into the breakfast room with inscrutable face. her daughter followed, smiling broadly. "the prince seems to have anticipated us," she said. mrs. wellington glanced at the alert-faced second man, who had just brought in the coffee, and compressed her lips into a straight line. there was no conversation in the course of the short light breakfast. anne went to her apartments, while mrs. wellington, after arising from the table, stood for a minute gazing from the window toward the polo grounds. then slowly she mounted the stairs and, entering her boudoir, rang for her maid. an hour and a half later, massaged, bathed, and robed in a dainty morning gown, mrs. wellington stepped into her "office," than which no one of her husband's many offices was more business-like, and seated herself at a large mahogany desk. miss hatch, her secretary, arose from a smaller desk with typewriter attachment and laid before her a number of checks for signing, bills rendered, invitations, and two bank books. then she resumed her seat in silence. mrs. wellington did not glance at the mass of matter. with a muttered "thank you," she gazed thoughtfully at the row of white push buttons inlaid at her elbow. there were more than a dozen of them and they ranged from the pantry to the kitchen, from the garage to the stable. by means of them the mistress of the crags kept in touch with nearly fifty servants. here at her desk she could plan her campaigns, lay counter mine against mine, plan stratagems, and devise ideas. her superiority over those who sought, or had sought in the past, to rival her lay in the fact that she could devise, outline, and execute her projects without assistance. a former secretary with some degree of literary talent had, upon dismissal, written up that office and its genius for a sunday newspaper, and several hundred thousand good people, upon reading it, had marvelled at the tremendous means employed to such trivial ends. but after all, who shall say what is trivial in this world and what is not? let it rest with the assertion that in any other sphere, business, sociology, charity, belle wellington's genius would have carried her as far as in that domain wherein she had set her endeavors. as to charity, for that matter, she had given a mountain recluse, a physician, five hundred thousand dollars with which to found a tuberculosis sanitarium, and--but those were things which not even her friends knew and concerning which, therefore, we should remain silent. slowly she leaned forward and pressed a button. mrs. stetson, the housekeeper, soon appeared. "good-morning, mrs. stetson," she said. "prince koltsoff seems to have anticipated us." she suddenly remembered she had utilized her daughter's expression, and bit her lips. "when did he arrive?" "he came last night in the french ambassador's carriage." "last night!" mrs. wellington glanced at her secretary. "will you bring my engagement book, please." this in hand, she turned the pages hastily, then put it down. "there has been some mistake. he was not to come to us until luncheon to-day. was m. renaud with him?" "yes, mrs. wellington, but he did not stay. the prince seemed to know he was not expected. he apologized profusely, but said that events had brought him here a day early and trusted there was no inconvenience. he did not dine, but spent the evening in the smoking-room, writing. he sent two cable despatches by parker." "um-m, _dã©gagã©_, even for a russian," said mrs. wellington. "and he arose early?" "very early. he asked mr. dawson for a car to go to the village at half after six." mrs. wellington almost revealed her intense interest. "ah, to the village," she said. "did he say--did he explain the reasons for his early trip?" "no, but parker told mr. dawson he stopped at the telegraph office." "where is the prince now?" "he is in the morning-room, writing." "thank you, mrs. stetson." as the housekeeper left, mrs. wellington pressed another button, summoning the superintendent. "mr. dawson," she said, "you received my wire last night that the _mayfair_ had broken down and that we were taking the midnight train from new york?" "yes, mrs. wellington." "and you thought the prince was going to meet us with that car? that was the reason for your failure to follow my instructions?" "yes, madame, thank you. i supposed prince koltsoff knew you were coming and that he had ordered the car to meet you. when this proved wrong i sent rimini. i am glad he was not late." "he was late. he met us, packed in a miserable hack. hereafter i must insist upon strict compliance with my wishes. do not assume things, please. am i quite clear? thank you." mrs. wellington turned from him and pressed still another button. in a moment the tutor of her two sons, ronald, sixteen years old, and royal, twelve, stood before her. he was a frenchman, whose facial expression did not indicate that his duties had fallen in the pleasantest of places. "good-morning, m. dumois. where are my sons?" she spoke in french. "they attended a party at bailey's beach and remained the night with master van antwerp." "how have they been?" "very well, thank you, except--" "except?" "i found master ronald smoking a cigarette in the smoking-room yesterday." mrs. wellington dashed a note on her pad. "thank you," she said in her soft tone of dismissal. "lest miss wellington forget, you might, on your way, remind her, in my name, not to meet prince koltsoff until i receive him at luncheon." she turned to the mass of correspondence on her desk and selected for first reading a long telegram from her husband, who, when he sent it, was speeding eastward through the middle west in his special car. she laid it down with a faraway smile in her eyes. she loved and admired her big husband, who did things, knocked men's heads together, juggled railroads and steamships in either hand. and this love and admiration, in whatever she had done or wherever placed, had always been as twin flaming angels guarding her with naked swords. presently she turned to her secretary and dictated a statement concerning the arrival of prince koltsoff, who he was, and a list of several of the entertainments given in his honor. "you might call mr. craft at the newport _herald_ office and give him this," she said. half an hour was spent in going over accounts, signing checks, auditing bills, and the like, and then with a sigh she arose and passed into her dressing-room. ordinarily she would have dressed for the beach or the casino. but to-day she threw herself on a couch in her boudoir and closed her eyes. but she did not sleep. m. dumois, hastening to comply with his mistress' command, failed to find the girl in her apartments. at the moment, indeed, that emilia was informing the tutor that the girl had left for the stables, miss wellington from a corner of the hall was gazing interestedly at the prince, who sat with his profile toward her. he was bending over a table upon which was spread a parchment drawing. the sunlight fell full upon him. he was not at all unprepossessing. tall and slim, with waist in and well-padded shoulders, his blonde hair and van dyck bead, long white eyelashes, darker brows, and glittering blue eyes, he was the very type of the aristocratic muscovite. as the girl looked she saw his lips part and his teeth glisten. he half arose, leaned forward, and smote the chart. miss wellington hurried down the hall and out of the house. "prince koltsoff," she murmured, as she swung down the path to the stable, "i would give worlds to know what you 're up to. i definitely place you as a rascal. but oh, such a romantically picturesque one!" chapter iv the tame torpedo that night lieutenant armitage, in a marine's drab shirt and overalls, stood among a silent group of mechanics on a pier near the goat island lighthouse. a few hundred feet out lay a small practice torpedo boat, with the rays of a searchlight from the bridge of the parent ship of the first flotilla resting full upon her. suddenly armitage leaned forward. when he straightened there came a dull report, a lurid flash of light, and with a sharp whirring sound a model torpedo about half the regulation size, leaped through the darkness and with a clear parting of the waters disappeared. a green very star cleaved the night. intense silence followed. one second, two seconds, elapsed and then from the practice boat out in the harbor a red star reared. armitage turned to the master mechanic at his side. "bully!" he said. "i aimed at least twenty feet wide of the _dumont_. the magnetos fetched her. but wait--" in the glare of the searchlight he could see they had lowered a boat and were recovering the torpedo. he saw a group of young officers gather about it as it was hauled aboard, and then in a minute or so the red and green ardois lights began to wink. as armitage watched with straining eyes he spelled the message as it came, letter by letter. "a fair hit. but the wrong end struck." the _dumont_ was sufficiently near the pier for the message to have been shouted. but tests of new torpedoes are not to be shouted about. armitage discharged a white star from his pistol, the signal to come in for the night, and walked toward the shops. "you may turn in," he said to the men. "i have a good night's work, alone, ahead of me." "she should not have struck with her stern, sir," said a short, squat man, hurrying to armitage's side. he spoke with a strong accent and passed as a lithuanian. his expert knowledge of electricity as well as his skill in making and mending apparatus had caused armitage to intrust him with much of the delicate work on the model, as well as on the torpedo of regular size, based on the model, now in course of construction. his was a position of peculiar importance. as the blue-prints of the invention, from which detailed plans were worked, passed into the shops, they came into the hands of this man, who, thus, many times in the course of the day had the working prints of the controlling mechanism in his exclusive possession. for some reason that he could not explain, all this shot through armitage's mind as the man spoke. "no, yeasky, it should not. but i 'll fix that. by the way, how long--no matter, i shan't need you any more to-night, yeasky." as he entered the shop the storekeeper was leaving. he nodded to the officer. "what luck, lieutenant armitage?" "fair, the wrong end hit first. i think the regulation size would have worked all right. at all events, i 'll study it out to-night." he paused. then as the storekeeper stepped past him he called him back. "mr. jackson, i may be silly, but i 've been a bit worried of late. you keep a close eye on the record of parts, don't you?" "yes, indeed, sir, i go over it every night." "do you ever actually go over the parts to see that they tally with the records? what i mean is, important parts might be missing, although the daily record might be so juggled as to make it appear they were not." "by george!" exclaimed the storekeeper, "i never have done that. i 'll begin to-morrow." "thanks, i should if i were you. good-night." armitage passed into the shop and switched on an electric light over a long pine table in the centre of the apartment. then he went to the safe, opened it, and returned to the table with an armful of rolled parchment and specifications. these he spread out and thereafter, while the night waned, he was lost to the world and its affairs. briefly, armitage had invented a torpedo, whose steering was so controlled by delicate magnetos, that while ordinarily proceeding in the line of aim, if such aim, through the movement of the vessel aimed at, or through some other cause, should result in a miss, the effect of the steel hull of the objective ship on the delicate magnetos of the armitage torpedo would be such as to cause a change in the course of the deadly missile, and have her go directly toward the vessel and even follow her. armitage, whose mechanical genius had marked him while at the academy as a man of brilliant possibilities, had developed his idea in the course of several years, and when it was perfected in his mind he had gone to the chief of ordnance at washington and laid the matter before him in all its details. the chief at once gave the lie to the theory long current that the department was averse to progress along whatever line, by expressing unqualified delight. he had armitage ordered to the torpedo station at newport to carry on experiments forthwith, and instructed the superintendent of the station to give the inventor every facility for carrying on his work. two months had already elapsed and the work was at the stage when a destroyer and a practice torpedo boat had been detached from regular duty and placed at his exclusive service. the government was deeply interested in the progress of the work, and had shown it in many ways. the significance of such a torpedo in any war in which the country might become involved was patent. rumors more or less vague had leaked, as such things do, to foreign war offices, and there was not a naval _attachã©_ at washington but had received imperative orders to leave nothing undone by which the exact nature of the torpedo and its qualifications might be ascertained. but neither armitage nor the department had any idea of permitting the slightest information regarding the invention to escape. all matters connected with the invention had been carried forward with the utmost secrecy, while the pedigree of every man employed in the work had been investigated carefully. all but yeasky were native-born mechanics, and he had come from a great electrical plant in new jersey with highest recommendations as to character and ability. the sound of bells ringing for early mass was floating across the water from the city, when armitage, with a deep breath of relief, walked from the table and threw himself with legs outstretched into a chair. "no," he said with a triumphant grimace, "there will be no mistake next time. there was not a single fault in the model except--" he suddenly started bolt upright and looked about him. then he settled back laughing. "a fine state of nerves," he added, "when i am afraid to talk to myself." he arose with the pleasing design of enjoying a cold tub and a shave on board the destroyer, the _d'estang_, but the idea of pumping his water did not accord with his mood. he walked over to billy harrison's house. billy commanded the first flotilla and, being married, had quarters on the reservation. a drowsy servant answered the bell. she said that the harrisons were still asleep. "well, never mind," said armitage, chuckling, "i'll be back later." instead of going away he went around to the side, seized a handful of gravel, and threw it into an open second story window. he could hear it rattle against the wall and floor. a short silence followed and armitage was about to pick up more gravel when a girl in a green and white dressing-gown appeared. "jack armitage!" she cried, falling to her knees, so that only her head rose above the sill. "what on earth do you want now?" "why, hello, letty," laughed armitage. "where 's billy?" "he 's here, sleeping. what do you mean by throwing stones into my window?" "i want to talk to billy," said armitage. "he's asleep, i tell you. what do you want?" "well, i want to borrow your tub and billy's razors." "why didn't you say so? ring the bell and come right up. i 'll have some towels put in. and say, jack, really--" "what?" "i hope you drown, waking me this way. and, jack, stay to breakfast, won't you, like a good chap?" which jack did. an hour or so later, fresh and cool and with that comfortable feeling which follows a well-cooked navy breakfast,--bacon and eggs,--his pipe sending blue clouds into the sparkling air, armitage walked over to the torpedo boat slips. across the harbor lay the city, bathed in golden sunshine, the tree-clad streets rising tier by tier to the crown, bellevue avenue. his gaze wandered seaward and for the first time since sunset he thought of anne wellington. would he ever see her again? what was she doing now, he wondered. no doubt she would attend service at trinity; many of the cottagers did. he, too, would go to church there. he had not been lately; it would do him good, he told himself. thus thinking, he stepped aboard the black, ominous, oily _d'estang_, made his way aft and clambered down the companion ladder. there was the usual sunday morning gathering of young officers from the boats of the flotilla. the smoke, mainly from pipes--three weeks having elapsed since pay day--was thick, and an excited argument, not over speeding records, or coal consumption, but over the merits of an english vaudeville actor who had appeared the week before at freebody park, was in progress. "hello, jack," said a tall dark officer in spotless white uniform, "how 's the tame torpedo this morning?" "fine, fine, blackie," grinned armitage. "how's that tin cup, misnamed the _jefferson_, to-day?" "did n't eat out of your hand last night, did she?" observed tommy winston of the _adams_, attired in blue trousers and a flannel shirt. "no, but she will," said armitage. "no doubt," replied winston with his quaint southern drawl. "look here, jackie, where you going this morning, all dressed up in gorgeous cits clothes?" "to church," replied armitage, "to trinity; any one want to go with me?" he asked, ignoring the derisive chorus. there was a moment's silence and then bob black looked at him quizzically. "does any one want to go with you?" he jeered. "who 's the girl?" "i wonder--but seriously, i have never been to the service there and since the wellingtons asked me to drop into their pew any sunday, i--" "the wellingtons!" exclaimed thornton of the submarine _polyp_. "you don't mean the ronald wellingtons?" "no, i don't mean any wellingtons at all. i was joking. why?" "then you did n't hear of thornton's run in with them last week?" said winston. "that's so, you were in washington." "what was it, joe?" asked armitage, turning to thornton. "why, nothing much. two of my men were arrested last thursday for assaulting the wellington kids. it seems they were walking past bailey's beach and the youngsters bombarded them with clam shells and gravel. it would have been all right, but one of the shells caught kelly on the cheek and cut him. the men didn't do a thing but jump over that hedge into the holy of holies, gather in the young scions, and knock their heads together." "you don't say! what happened then?" "they were arrested and the chief sent over here. i got the men's story and then called the wellingtons' house on the telephone. mrs. wellington's secretary answered. i told her who i was and that i wanted to talk about the case with some one in authority. she asked me to hold the wire and in a few seconds the queen herself was holding pleasant converse with yours truly. "'you say the men are under your command?' she said. "i replied, 'even so.' then she gave me the name of her lawyer and said kelly and burke would be prosecuted on every charge that could be brought to bear." armitage laughed. "trust her! what did you say?" "i got hot under the collar right away, then. 'mrs. wellington,' i said, 'my men were not to blame. if they were i should not have called you on the 'phone. but your sons threw shells and cut one of them. they were punished, and justly. and i now advise you i am going to have counter warrants issued against your boys if the charge is pressed in court to-day!' just like that. "her voice came crisp. 'you say my sons were at fault? have you any proof of that?' "i came back in a second. 'i have sufficient proof to convince even your lawyer.' "'very well,' she said. 'then do it. i shall direct him to see you at once. if what you say is true we will of course take no further action.' "the case was dropped all right." "bully for you," said armitage. "my lady evidently has a sense of justice." "here 's a paragraph," said winston, holding up a local paper, "which says that a physical instructor is wanted at the crags. they are going to prepare for future engagements with our men, evidently." "well, let me tell you that anne wellington is a corker," observed black suddenly. "anne wellington?" said armitage ingenuously. "yes," continued black, "the daughter. i saw her at the casino the other day. she was joshing some little old rooster who was trying to play tennis and she had him a mile up in the air. she 's beautiful, too. that's more than you can say of most of these alleged society beauties." "which reminds me," said armitage, glancing at his watch, "that i am due for church. come on, joe," he added, "be a good chap." thornton in the goodness of his nature arose. "all right," he said. "i'm game." thornton had been a star full-back at annapolis when armitage was an all america end, and he would have gone to worse places than church for his old messmate. nowadays he spent his time in sinking the _polyp_ among the silt on the harbor bottom, for which work his crew received several dollars apiece, extra pay, for each descent. thornton received not even glory, unless having gone to the floor of long island sound with a president of the united states be held as constituting glory. chapter v at trinity old trinity rests on the hillside, serene in the afterglow of its one hundred and eighty-four years. the spotless white walls, the green blinds, the graceful colonial spire, are meetly set in an environment which strikes no note of dissonance. on either side are quaint, narrow streets, lined with decent door-yards and houses almost as old as the church. within the cool interior the cottagers, and representatives of a native aristocracy--direct descendants of the english of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, who are so conservative, so proudly, scornfully aloof, that one would doubt they existed at all, were it not for their stately homes in the older sections of the city, where giant elms keep watch and ward over eave and column and dormer window, where hydrangeas sweep the doorstep, and faun and satyr, rough hewn, peer through the shrubbery--sit primly in the box-like pews with the preacher towering above them under the white sounding board. the church was not half filled when armitage and thornton arrived, but a double line of visitors were standing in the rear aisle. armitage caught the eye of one of the ushers and beckoned to him. but that frock-coated, austere personage coldly turned his glance elsewhere and armitage had started forward to enlist his attention in a manner that would admit of no evasion when his companion caught him by the sleeve, chuckling. "look here, old chap," he whispered, "you have to wait until they know how many pew-holders are going to be absent. this is n't a theatre." armitage turned his head to reply, when a rustling of skirts sounded behind him and thornton punched him in the ribs. "the wellington bunch," he whispered, "and the russian they have captured." it was a fine entry, as circus folks say. first came mrs. wellington in a simple but wonderfully effective embroidered linen gown, then her two sons, likely enough boys, and then anne wellington with prince koltsoff. she almost touched armitage as she passed; the skirt of her lingerie frock swished against his ankles and behind she left, not perfume, but an intangible essence suggestive, somehow, of the very personality of the cool, beautiful, lithe young woman. as armitage turned in response to thornton's prod in the ribs, he met her eyes in full. but she gave no sign of recognition, and of course armitage did not. the wellingtons had two pews, according to the diagram on the rear seats, and as armitage followed the party with his eyes, he saw the mother, her daughter, and the prince enter one, the boys seating themselves in the stall ahead. in the meantime the congregation had assembled in large numbers and the body of the church as well as the side aisles were comfortably filled. from time to time the ushers, with machine-like precision, took one or two persons from the patiently waiting line of non-pew-holders and escorted them to seats, a proceeding which began to irritate armitage, seeing which thornton grinned and observed, _sotto voce_, that one might worship here only at the price of patience. "it's the sheep and the goats, jack," he whispered. "i don't know about the sheep, but we 're the goats, all right," replied armitage, "and i for one am going to beat it right now." he had started for the door and thornton was following when an usher hurrying up touched him on the shoulder, bowing unctuously. "miss wellington," he said, "asked to have you gentlemen shown into the wellington pew." his voice clearly indicated that he felt he had been neglecting angels unawares, to say nothing of a desire to atone for his indiscretion. the young men nodded as indifferently as the situation seemed to require and followed the man to the stall in which the boys were seated, who pushed in hospitably enough and then returned to their prayer books. it must be said that two handsomer men, or men better constructed physically, never sat together in old trinity; thornton a perfect, brawny, rangy blonde; armitage, shorter, better knit, perhaps, with shoulders just as broad, and short crinkling brown hair surmounting his squarely defined, sun-browned features. the sermon was somewhat revolutionary, but anne wellington paid but slight attention. while the good clergyman warned his hearers of the terrible reckoning which must eventually come from neglect by the upper classes of the thousands born month after month in squalor and reared amid sordid, vicious surroundings, the girl's eyes rarely wandered from the two men in front of her. it was uplifting, conducive to healthful, normal emotions to look at them, and such emotions were exactly what she needed. radiating, as it were, from prince koltsoff was an influence she did not like. on the contrary, feeling its power, she had begun to fear it. he attracted her peculiarly. she could not quite explain the sensation; it was indefinable, vague, but palpable nevertheless. then he was high in the russian nobility, upon terms of friendship with the czar, a prominent figure in the highest society of european capitals. his wife would at once take a position which any girl might covet. true, she would probably be unhappy with him after the first bloom of his devotion, but then she might not. she might be able to hold him. miss wellington flattered herself that she could. and if not--well, she would not be the first american girl to pocket that loss philosophically and be content with the contractual profits that remained. a russian princess of the highest patent of nobility--there was a thrill in that thought, which, while it did not dominate her, might eventually have that effect. at all events, she found it not at all objectionable that prince koltsoff was apparently enamoured of her. of this she was quite certain. he had a way of looking his devotion. his luminous blue eyes were wonderful in their expressiveness. they could convey almost any impression in the gamut of human emotions, save perhaps kindliness, and among other things they had told her he loved her. that was flattering, but the trouble was that so often his eyes made her blush confusedly without any reason more tangible than that he was looking at her. anne wellington was as thoroughly feminine as any girl that ever lived, and had always gloried in her sex. she had never wished she were a man. still there is a happy mean for every normal american girl, and already she had begun to wonder if the prince was ever going to forget that she was a woman and treat her as an ordinary human being, with the question of sex in the abstract at least. yet on the other hand there was that thrill which she could not deny. she felt as though she were living through an experience and was curious as to the outcome. with her, curiosity was a challenge. withal, for the first time in her life, she was afraid of herself. and so she found her study of the two young men in front of her wholesome and antiseptic, as kipling says. as the preacher suddenly paused and then demanded in ringing tones what those of the upper classes intended to do about the situation which he had been eloquently portraying, a portly old gentleman whose breath would have proclaimed that he had had a cocktail at the reading room before service, heaved a loud, hopeless sigh. she saw thornton nudge armitage with his shoulder and the replying grin wrinkle jack's face. swiftly her eyes turned sideways to the prince. he was sitting half turned in the seat regarding her with worshipping gaze. she thrilled under the contrast; compared to the men in front of her, koltsoff was a mere--yes, a mere monkey. what did he take her for, a school girl? filled with her emotions, she impulsively opened a little gold pencil with which she had been toying and wrote rapidly upon one of the blank pages of her hymnal, which later she surreptitiously tore out. when the service was ended and armitage and thornton with slight bows of acknowledgment passed into the aisle, the girl leaned toward the younger of her two brothers. "muck," she said, "be a good chap and give this note to the dark-haired man who sat next to you. do it nicely, now, muck, so no one will see you. i'll pay you back for it. hurry." muck, who adored his sister, nodded and worked his way through the departing worshippers until he came up with armitage. he pushed the note into the young officer's hand and as armitage started in surprise the boy nodded his head knowingly. "say nothing," he warned. so well had the boy carried it through that not even thornton observed the incident. armitage said nothing to enlighten him, but spread the page open in his hand as though he had taken a memorandum from his pocket. it was as follows: my dear mr. prize fighter-i was really serious the other day about your applying for the position of physical instructor. my small brothers were mauled by sailors the other day and mother is keen for some one who will teach them how to obtain their revenge some day. you might see mother or her secretary any morning after eleven. i have spoken to both about you. a. v. d. w. twice armitage read it and then he folded it carefully and placed it in his breast pocket, a curious smile playing over his face. "we think," he said, addressing himself under his breath, as was his wont upon occasion, "we think we shall keep this for future reference. for we never know how soon we may need a job." it has been observed ere this how many truths are sometimes spoken in jest. chapter vi an encounter with a spy at the door of the church, thornton met a retired rear admiral and his wife, whose daughter he knew. so he paused and was affably solicitous whether they found the glorious august weather conducive to their general well-being. armitage bowed and drew to one side, just as the wellington party passed out into the churchyard and walked down the path to their motor panting at the curb. the prince helped mrs. wellington and her daughter into the tonneau with easy grace and then motioned the two boys to precede him. he was not at all bad looking, armitage decided. tall and rather wasp-waisted he was, nevertheless well set up, and his tailor easily might have left a pound or so of padding out of the blue jacket and still have avoided the impression that the prince was narrow-backed. his manner certainly bore every impress of courtly breeding and the insolence of rank was by no means lacking, as armitage learned the next instant, when a man whose back was strangely familiar, suddenly appeared at koltsoff's side and, with hat in hand, essayed to address him. armitage, watching eagerly, saw the russian's form stiffen, saw his eyes, as cold and steady as steel discs, fix themselves unseeingly over the man's head, who bowed awkwardly and turning hurriedly with a flushed face, stumbled against a horse post. a low exclamation leaped from armitage's lips. he hesitated just an instant and then fairly ran out of the doorway and down the path to the street. he caught up with the fellow before he had gone a hundred feet. looking back to see that the wellington car had gone, he touched him on the arm. "look here, yeasky," he said, as the man wheeled in nervous haste, "who was that chap you spoke to at that motor car?" yeasky hesitated a moment and then looked the officer full in the eyes. "i do not know," he said; "i thought it was commander harris. i was going to ask him about those coils which have not come yet. when i found i mistook, i was ashamed." armitage returned the electrician's gaze for a second. he was at a loss. there was a slight resemblance between harris and the prince, to be sure. then, suddenly, as he recalled the incident at the grand central station and his fears of the previous evening, a wave of anger swept over him and he thrust his face belligerently toward the workman, the muscles of his right shoulder calling nervously for action. "yeasky," he said, "you are lying. who do you think you are up against,--a child?" he shook his finger in the man's face. "now quick; tell me what business you had with that man." yeasky drew himself up with an air of offended dignity not altogether compatible with his putative station in life. armitage noticed it and pressed on. "do you hear?" he said in a low tense voice. he was already past saving; he had never been a diplomat. "hurry up, speak, or i 'll knock your polack head off." before the man could reply, thornton, who had hurried up, interposed. "what's the matter, jack? did this gentleman have the misfortune to demand all of the sidewalk?" armitage replied over his shoulder. "you go along, joe, and leave this to me. i saw this man trying to talk to that russian prince--and he's employed on confidential work in the shops." "i know, jack," said thornton soothingly, placing his hand on armitage's shoulder. "but it is n't policy to get into a street fight about it, you know, old chap." "it wouldn't be a fight," began armitage sneeringly. he turned suddenly toward yeasky. "i have been pestered and worried for a week now. i know i was shadowed in new york. now that i 've a clue i am not going to let go of it." "of course not," said thornton, "but you don't want to go off half cocked. remember you were up all last night. just heave to a second. has anything happened at the shops?" "no," said armitage, cooling a bit, "not that i know of. but this fellow's doing inside work here on the torpedo and i saw him talking to that russian." "talking?" "i mean he tried to. he says he thought the man was harris, and he wanted to ask him about some coils. that was too fishy for me." "did the prince talk to him?" "no; snubbed, ignored him." "oh," smiled thornton. "well, i say, jack, honestly i think you might be wrong. harris does suggest that prince chap; i thought so in church. of course you can decide about this fellow's future in the shops, as you think best. but you really can't do anything here." "i suppose you are right," said armitage reluctantly. he nodded toward the man. "yeasky, if you are straight, meet me at the storekeeper's office at three o'clock this afternoon. i hope by that hour to be in a position to apologize to you. in the meantime," his good nature, as with all persons of warm temperament, speedily returning, "if i have wronged you, i am sorry." "you have wronged me," replied yeasky. "but i understand your feelings. i shall certainly meet you at three o'clock." "three, sharp." and armitage, with thornton's arm drawn through his, walked down the street. yeasky stood watching them for a second and then clapping his hand to his pocket a smile spread slowly over his face. he followed the two stalwart officers for a few steps and paused irresolutely. then, without further hesitancy, he walked rapidly to spring street and thence to the hotel aquidneck, where he entered the telephone booth. when he emerged he paid toll on five charges. this done he went into the writing-room and called for a small piece of wrapping paper and twine. when it came he took from his pocket a bulky, heavy object, done up in a newspaper. without removing this, he wrapped it neatly in the manila paper, bound it securely, and addressed it in printed letters. he sat for a moment looking thoughtfully at the package. then he drew a sheet of note paper toward him, cut off the hotel heading and dipped his pen in the ink. he began: vassili andreyvitch, i am sending you by messenger as you instructed over the telephone, the vital part. there is nothing more to do and i leave newport this hour, for excellent reasons. i was seen trying to address you this morning, so watch out. yeasky read this last sentence again and then the thought that he would be confirmed as a bungler in his superior's mind occurred to him. he inked out the sentence, muttering that koltsoff must take care of himself, as he had had to do, and then resumed his writing. when you get this i shall be in parts unknown. i begin to fear i am suspect. you can reach me care of garlock, boston, to-night, and blavatsky, halifax, on wednesday. on that day i go via the dominion line to england and thence to the secret police office in st. petersburg. forgive, i pray, this haste, but i have done all there is to be done. i accept your congratulations--and now having no desire to pose as the centre of a diplomatic situation, i go--au revoir. he called a messenger, despatched the package and the letter, and within half an hour was in a trolley car bound for fall river. chapter vii miss wellington crosses swords with a diplomat as koltsoff, who had been summoned to the telephone, returned to the morning-room of the wellington house, he looked about him with a triumphant gleam in his eye. he loved the part he was playing in newport, a part, by the way, which he had played not always ineptly in other quarters of the world. he loved mystery; and like many russians, the fact that he was a part, the centre, of any project of international emprise, questionable or otherwise, was to him the very breath of life. innuendo, political intrigue, diplomatic tergiversation--in all these he was a master. nor did he neglect the color, the atmosphere. here was his weakness. vague hints, a significant smile here, a shrug there, a lifting of the brows--all temptations too great for him to resist, had at times the effect of setting his effectiveness in certain ventures partially if not completely at naught. temperamental proclivities are better for their absence among the component elements of a diplomat's mental equipment. he had now in contemplation a genuine _affaire du coeur_. thus far, everything had gone well. he sighed the sigh of perfect self-adjustment, sign of a mind agreeably filled, and stretching out his legs picked up a volume of bourget. he fingered the pages idly for a few minutes and then laid it aside and half closed his eyes, nodding and smiling placidly. he sat thus when anne wellington entered. rays of sunlight, flooding through the windows glorified the girl, made her radiant as a spirit. and the prince, who, if genuine in few things, was at least a true worshipper of beauty, was exalted. he arose, bowed slightly, and then advanced with wonderful charm of manner. "my dear miss wellington," he murmured, "you come as the morning came, so fresh and so beautiful." "how polite of you," smiled the girl. "if our men were so facile--" she opened one of the french windows and stepped out on the veranda, looking over the restless waters to the yellow-green narragansett hills. "so facile?" asked koltsoff, following. "--so facile in their compliments, i am afraid we should grow to be unbearable." she paused and smiled brightly at the prince. "and yet women of your country are not so; at least those whom i have met." "that," replied the russian, turning his eyes full upon hers, "is because we are discriminating, if, as you say, facile." anne flushed and laughed and then dropped lightly into a big wicker chair, conscious that koltsoff had not withdrawn his gaze. she leaned forward and flicked her skirts over her ankles, nervously pulled a stray wisp of hair from her neck. then she slowly met the eyes of the man standing at her side and propounded an inquiry having to do with nothing less banal than his views of america thus far. prince koltsoff tossed his head and thus threw off the question. this amused the girl. "really," she said, "don't you find a remarkable resemblance between newport and the isle of wight? at least--pray sit down, won't you--i have found them very like." prince koltsoff seated himself daintily in a chair at her side and his face lit under the influence of a triumphant thought. "you speak of the isle of wight, miss wellington, neglecting one great point of difference. newport possesses you. they are, therefore, to me, totally different." he waved one hand slightly and drew his cigarette case from his pocket with the other, glancing at the girl. "oh, certainly," she said, "please smoke." "but the difference," pursued koltsoff, "don't you think it remarkable that it should be so apparent to me?" "do you know," she said, glancing down at the toes of her slippers, "i am not sufficiently inter--" she stopped abruptly and shrugged her shoulders. "oh, let us be impersonal, prince koltsoff, it is so much nicer." the prince frowned. "but, please," he said, "i wish to be personal. am i at fault if i find you interesting? character is one of my most absorbing studies. i am rather scientific. i see sometimes in persons, more than others see who are not so observing, or scientific, as you please." he lit his cigarette. "in you, for instance." miss wellington, caught off her guard, started. the flash of a smile crossed koltsoff's face. his inclination to show off, to reveal his cleverness, triumphed over his small supply of tact. "i! 'for instance'! what do you mean, prince koltsoff?" "why, this morning at your church. as hidden depths of character reveal themselves--" the prince raised his eyes. "that billet--shall we say _billet doux_?" he raised his shoulders and let them fall slowly. "women! ah! most interesting!" for a moment anne maintained her expression of mild inquiry, but within she was mentally perturbed. irritation succeeded and she resolved to punish him for his insolence, even at the risk of indiscretion. "you see many things, do you not?" she said, mockingly. "yes," he agreed, following her lead, "i see very, very many things. it is a faculty. it has been most useful." "i should not flatter myself that i alone possessed that faculty, prince koltsoff, if i were you." she leaned forward, her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully seaward. "i also am not sightless." she leaned back in her chair languidly and watched the prince's change of expression with open amusement. "so, you have found it worth while to observe me? i am quite flattered." his impression that she had discharged a random shot grew with his words and soon became conviction. "i thank you." anne laughed. "you are quite welcome to all you received--in the way of my interest in you. it is only fair, however, to suggest that we do not always obtain information concerning our friends--'you, for instance,'" she mimicked him perfectly, "through general observation. some things may obtrude themselves, don't you know, in the most--what was your word? oh, yes, 'scientific'--the most unscientific manner." the prince looked at her intently. "you are speaking in innuendo, miss wellington," he replied. his tone was low and rapid. "i am speaking quite truthfully, prince koltsoff," she said, with an inflection of emphasis. "how could i doubt that!" he bowed. "that is why i am certain that you will be more explicit." "there, you really don't insist, do you?" he saw a malicious light in her eyes. "my dear miss wellington, most assuredly i do insist. i--i beg your pardon--i do more: i demand. certainly it is my right." anne was all mischief now. "very well, then, i am able to inform you that you were in newport incog, several days before you came to us. do you conceive my right to call this to your attention, in view of the fact that you told us you had just arrived from washington?" prince koltsoff, as though absorbing her meaning, sat motionless, gazing at her steadily. then he leaned forward and placed his hand on hers for a moment. "miss wellington, you have done well. i pride myself on some diplomatic experience. you have negotiated your _coup_ in a manner worthy of a de staã«l. you would adorn the service. i wonder if you realize the possibilities of your future in an international sphere. to you i have no fear of talking. listen, then." unconsciously the girl bent toward him. "i am a diplomat," he continued. "there are things which--" he lifted his brows. "newport--the french ambassador is here; the german ambassador is at narragansett pier, and i--who knows where i am--and why? but some day--" he drew a long breath. "rest content now, miss wellington, that i am progressing toward the gratitude of my government; you shall hear more. of course," he waved his hand, "i have spoken for your ear." "of course," said miss wellington, calmly, but inwardly curious nevertheless. "should you care to walk to the stables?" he nodded and then walking beside her he continued impulsively: "i am not a soldier, miss wellington. but all victories are not won on the battlefields. the art--one of the arts--of diplomacy is to bring on war, if war must be, when you are ready and your adversaries are not. there are other functions. let it be so. i but observe that one may wield things other than the sword and better than the sword, to serve one's country." "i quite believe you." there was enthusiasm in her voice. "you may never expect the glory of the soldier, and yet how glorious the work must be! the matching of wits instead of guns, and then--you have the opportunity of winning the victories of peace--" "of which the world seldom hears," interpolated the prince. "but that makes it finer," she said. "have we any real diplomats, who--oh, i don't know--make themselves felt in the inner circle of things: men that we--that the country--does not know of, who are doing the--the things you are?" the prince smiled. "i don't know really. you have the 'new diplomacy' which is shouting what other people whisper--or keep to themselves--and _le gros gourdin_--the laughable big stick; it amuses us more than it impresses, i assure you." he regarded the girl closely and she smiled questioningly. "you do not flush! you are not irritated?" he asked. "why should i be? what do you mean?" "i was speaking lightly of your country." "oh, were you? i did not notice. i fear i am used to that, having spent much time in europe." the prince looked at her curiously. she colored. "no," she said, "i do not go in strongly for the _furore americanus_, if that is what you mean." "so. your country must look to its _bourgeoise_ for its joans of arc. but then your men are ungallantly self-sufficient. in russia," the prince shrugged his shoulders, "we send women to siberia--or decorate them with the order of st. katherine." "you actually shame me, prince koltsoff. we are different here; even our suffragettes would by no means allow devotion to their cause to carry them to jail; and as for influencing statesmen, or setting their plans at naught--" she shook her head--"why, i do not even know who they are. they are not in our set," laughing. "really, we are pretty much butterflies from your--from any--viewpoint, are n't we? but after all, why?" "ah, why?" he turned to her suddenly. "do you love your country, miss wellington?" "what an absurd question! of course i do." "easily answered," replied the prince, "but think a moment. i said _love_. that love which inspired your women to send their sons and husbands to die for their country in your civil war; the love that exalted charlotte corday. have you breathed the quicker when you saw your flag in foreign lands?" he looked at her strangely. "would you loathe the man you loved if you learnt he had injured your country? think, miss wellington." "your fervor renders it quite impossible for me to think; if it will satisfy you i will say i don't believe i begin to know what patriotism is. yet i would not have you think i am altogether shallow. sir clarence pembroke has praised my grasp of british affairs. i have always regarded that as quite a compliment." "you have reason. you know, we know, that the american woman who would move in the tense affairs of the world must find her opportunity in europe. it does not exist here." "and never can exist, in a republic, i imagine," said the girl, "at least in a republic constituted as ours is." "no, surely not. by-the-bye, who is your secretary of the navy? your attorney-general?" "help!" cried the girl in mock despair. "really, prince koltsoff, i must ask you to consider your demonstration of my unfitness to even consider myself an american complete. further humiliation is unnecessary. at least i suppose i should feel humiliated. but somehow, i 'm not. that's the pitiable part of it." "and yet, miss wellington, have you ever considered what would lie before you with your,--pardon me,--your beauty and your wit, in europe?" "no, i never have," said anne not quite truthfully. "please, prince koltsoff, let us change the subject." chapter viii when a prince woos but prince koltsoff evidently deemed it expedient to obey the letter, not the spirit, of the wish. an ardent lover of horses, he gave himself wholly to them when they arrived at the stables, conversing freely with the grooms and going over the various equines with the hands and eyes of an expert. when at length they strolled from the stables to a little wooded knoll near the boundary of the estate, commanding a view of the main road, which ran straight for a quarter of a mile and then dived into the purple hills with their gray out-jutting rocks, the girl, who had been left pretty much to her own thoughts, felt in ever-growing degree the disadvantage at which she had been placed in the course of their conversation. she had sat, it seemed, as a child at the feet of a tutor. at least in the mood she had developed, she would have it so. the thought did not please her. and then she began to burn with the memory that on the veranda the prince had placed his hand upon hers and that for some reason beyond her knowledge, she had permitted it to remain so until he had withdrawn it. this sufferance, she felt, had somehow affected, at the very outset, a degree of tacit intimacy between them which would not otherwise have occurred in a fortnight, perhaps never. but he had done it with an assurance almost, if not quite, hypnotic, and he had removed his hand--a move, she recognized, which offered more opportunities for bungling than the initial venture--with the exact degree of insouciance, of abstraction, but at the same time not without a slight lighting of the eyes expressive alike of humility and gratitude. lurking in her mind was an irritation over the position in which she had been placed, and her only solace was the thought that her revenge might be taken when koltsoff tried it again, as she had no doubt he would. if she had analyzed her emotions she would have been obliged to face the disagreeable truth that she, anne wellington, was jealous. jealous of a stable of horses! after all, introspection, however deep, might not have opened her eyes as to the basic element of her mood, for jealousy had never been among the components of her mental equipment. at all events she was, as she would have expressed it, "peeved." why? because he had held her hand--and talked to her like a school girl. but silence, smilingly indifferent, was the only manifestation of her state of mind. if he noticed this he said nothing to indicate that he did, but resumed his conversation as though no interruption had occurred. and curiously enough even her simulation of indifference disappeared as he turned to her, bringing words and all the subtle charm of his personality to bear. strange elation possessed him and she yielded again as freely as before to that indescribable air of the world which characterized his every action and word. he spoke english with but the faintest accent. once he lapsed into french, speaking as rapidly as a native. anne caught him perfectly and answered him at some length in the same tongue. koltsoff stopped short and gazed at her glowingly. "there, you have demonstrated what i have been trying to say so poorly. permit me to carry on my point more intimately. yes, it is so; you are typically an american girl. but wherein do such young women, such as you, my dear miss wellington, find their _mã©tier_? in america? in new york? in newport? no. they are abroad; the wives of diplomats, cabinet ministers, or royal councillors of france, germany, austria, italy, and," the prince bowed slightly, "of my native land. here, what lies before you? ah," he stooped and snatched a bit of clover, "i have seen, i have studied, have i not? washington, what is it to you? a distant place. and its affairs? bah, merely items to be skipped in the newspapers. as you have admitted, you know nothing of them. you do not know your cabinet officers; and so you marry and--and what do you americans say?--settle down." "how knowingly you picture us," smiled the girl. the prince waved his hands. "you travel, yes, but at best, most significantly, your lives are narrow. you are wives and mothers, living in ruts as well-defined as those of your most prosaic middle-class women. what do you know of the inner world, its moving affairs? who of you can read the significance, open though it may be, of the cabled statement or speech of a prime minister, in relation to america?" "perhaps our opportunities or incentives do not exist," replied the girl gravely. "i have heard father say ours is a government of politicians and not statesmen." "precisely, that is it. but in europe, where conditions are different, what do we find? lady campbell in egypt--an american girl; the princess stein in st. petersburg; the marquise de villiers in france; lady clanclaren in london--oh, scores, all american girls, some of whom have made their influence felt constructively, as i can personally assure you. american history is so uninteresting because there is not a woman in it." "you know the marquise de villiers!" exclaimed the girl. "won't you tell me, sometime, all about her? how interesting her story must be! i have heard garbled versions of the berlin incident." "i do know her," the prince smiled, as he thought how intimate his knowledge was, "and i shall delight in telling you all about her sometime. but now," he continued, "allow me to carry on my thought. you travel--yes. you even live abroad as the, ah, butterfly--your own word--lives. i know. have not i heard of you! have i not followed you in the newspapers since i saw your face on canvas! i read from a _dossier_ that i formulated concerning you." he drew a notebook from his pocket and glanced at the girl. "may i?" "it is yours," was the reply. "january," he read, "miss w. is tobogganing in switzerland. february, she is viewing the battle of flowers at nice. march, she is at monaco, at monte carlo--ah! april, miss w. has arrived in paris. may and june, she is in london. july, she is attending english race meetings with young clanclaren--" the prince paused with a sibilant expulsion of breath. "i must not read my comment." "yes, you must, please. i never heard of such a romantic russian!" the prince raised his eyebrows and glanced at the book--"with young clanclaren, damn him! august," continued koltsoff hurriedly, drowning her subdued exclamation, "at clanclaren's scotch shooting box. september, she is again in england, deer stalking--most favored deer! october, november, she is riding to hounds in england. december, she is doing the grand tour of english country houses." the prince paused. "so, our acquaintance--my acquaintance with you--is of more than a few days. i have known you for more than a year. do you find it not agreeable?" "not agreeable! i don't know. i am--i--i--oh, i don't know, it seems almost uncanny to me." "not at all, my dear miss wellington. surely not uncanny. let us ascribe it to the genius of sargent; to the inspiration of a face on canvas." "but you really haven't known me at all. you--" he interrupted. "know you! ah, don't i! i know you above these trivial things. the world of affairs will feel the impress of your personality, of your wit, your intellect--of your beauty. then vale the idle, flashing days of pleasure. iron will enter into your life. but you will rejoice. for who is there that finds power not joyous? ambassadors will confide in you. prime ministers will forget the interests of their offices." he paused. "who knows when or how soon? but it shall be, surely, inevitably. . . . i wonder," he was speaking very slowly now, "if you will recognize your opportunity." "who knows," she said softly. the prince remained silent, looking at her. she seemed to feel the necessity of further words but was wholly without inspiration. she glanced down the road and saw a boy in blue toiling along on a bicycle. her exclamation was out of all proportion to the event. "a messenger boy! he brings word from father--we expect him to-morrow, you know." "he brings no word from your father," replied the prince mysteriously. "his errand concerns me. you shall see." they moved to the gate and the boy alighting, glanced at the two with his alert irish eyes. "say, does a fellow named koltsoff live here?" "i am he; give me the package, boy. it is prepaid--very well; here is something for you," tossing the urchin a quarter. "thanks," said the boy, who suddenly paused in the act of remounting his wheel and clapped his hand to his pocket. "here's a letter, too." as he rode away the two slowly retraced their steps. "you will pardon me if i read this note?" anne, strangely abstracted, nodded, and koltsoff tore open the envelope. as he read the letter his brow darkened. "gone!" he muttered. then he read the letter again. yeasky would not have departed without the best of reasons. he held the inked-out line to the light but could make nothing of it. he walked along beside the girl in deep thought. his hands trembled. he knew that in his possession was that which represented the triumph of his career. there were few honors which a grateful government would withhold from him. besides, it meant the probable rehabilitation of the prestige of the russian arms; that thought thrilled him no less, for he was a patriot. and yet amid all his exaltation indecision filled him. duty pointed a direct and immediate course to st. petersburg. other emotions dictated his remaining at the crags. the package could not be intrusted to the express companies. it must be carried personally to russia. and yet--and yet he could not leave newport now. just a little while! he must wait. to his czar, to his country, he owed haste; to himself he owed delay. which debt should he cancel? suddenly with a sharp upward turn of the head he dismissed all conflicting thoughts from his mind, refused utterly to allow them to remain, and turned to the girl. they were entering a small grove of trees. an inspiration had flashed over him, dominant, compelling. he spoke impulsively, almost wildly; so much so that anne stopped, startled. in his outstretched hand the package was within a few inches of her face. "miss wellington," he cried, "we were speaking of opportunities, but a while ago. may i call upon you now? i have said i am not in newport for pleasure alone. a great matter has been consummated. i hold it in my hand. who can trust servants? my valet? no! who? can i trust you. miss wellington? can i place my honor, my life, in your hands, for a week, not more?" "why, i--" began anne. "is it then too much to ask?" "i hope not, prince koltsoff. tell me and then i can judge." "so!" and koltsoff held out the package to her. "keep this for me. let no one know where it is except myself. keep it until i ask for it. if matters arise of such nature to prevent my asking, keep it still. keep it!" koltsoff was now acting as he loved to act. "keep it until i ask for it; or until i am dead. if the latter, throw it over the cliffs. my country is on the verge of a war with--with you may guess whom. japan, no less. that, that which you hold in your hand is the heart of our hopes." he paused. he was really sincere. his desire was to forestall any defeat of his plans by having the package out of his hands until such time as he would leave newport. one of his valets had once been successfully bribed. but equally did he desire that the girl should have a bond of interest akin to his; through this, he knew, must lie the success of that understanding which alone kept him from following yeasky out of newport forthwith. but the girl could not know this. her pride in sharing in so intimate a way a matter which she believed to--and for that matter, really did--affect the policy of a great empire, held her spellbound. there was the feminine delight, too, in being on the inner side of a mystery. she nodded mechanically. "i shall do as you ask," she said. the prince sprang forward, caught her hands and pressed upon them hot, lingering kisses. "into these hands," he said, "i commit my destiny and my honor." chapter ix armitage changes his vocation half an hour after the incident at trinity, armitage hurried from the little ferry boat which had just landed him at the torpedo station and made his way to the house of the storekeeper, who was out, of course. he had gone to providence, his wife said, and would return about four o'clock. armitage took the key to the shops, only to find when he entered that the storekeeper's books were in the safe, the combination to which he did not know. this by no means improved his temper and he began to blunder about the office in a dragnet search. finally, when he found himself kicking over chairs which were in his way in his aimless course, the humor of the situation came to him. he sat down upon a tool chest and laughed aloud. clearly, there was nothing for him to do in the absence of jackson--except go to his dinner; which he did. a few minutes before three o'clock, he went to the office again and sat down to wait for yeasky. he gave the man half an hour overtime and then nodded grimly and dismissed any lingering notion he might have entertained concerning his honesty. when the storekeeper appeared some time later, armitage was still at his desk idly drawing diagrams on a pad. "mr. jackson," he said, "i hate to bother you to-day, but things have happened which seem to make it necessary to check those parts now--" armitage arose briskly. the storekeeper waved his hands. "oh, i checked them up this morning," he said. "everything straight?" snapped armitage. "why--yes," jackson fumbled in his desk. "here is the sheet." armitage seized it and glanced up and down the various items. "bully work, mr. jackson!" he looked up with a sigh of relief. "everything seems correct. george! that takes a load off my mind. let's see." he went down the list with his finger. "i understand you, don't i?" he said, handing the sheet to the storekeeper. "understand?" "i mean, this is a list taken from the tally sheet of parts, all of which you have found to be in the office? in other words," he added rapidly, "everything that appears on this sheet is now, at the present time, inside this office?" "yes--everything, except--" the storekeeper paused an instant, looking at armitage with sudden doubt. "except what?" cried the officer impatiently. "why, that special core of the magnetic control. you have that, haven't you? it is n't in the shop." "is n't in the shop! well, where the devil is it then?" "why," exclaimed the storekeeper, "no one ever handled that but you. not even yeasky. you never let any one even see it. i remember how careful you have been about that." "i know," armitage rose from his chair. "but it was never out of the shop. it was always in the big safe. have you looked there?" he turned to jackson hopefully. but the storekeeper shook his head. "are you sure you have looked everywhere?" "it is not in the shop--i thought sure you must have it. does it--was it vitally important?" "important!" armitage threw himself into a chair and put his feet on the desk. "well, jackson, i fancy you might call it so. damn!" the storekeeper whistled. "i shall have the rooms of the workmen searched." "just one room, please; and quickly, will you?" rejoined armitage, "yeasky's. he is the only man who would have known its value. give my compliments to the superintendent and ask him for some one to help you." as the storekeeper departed, joe thornton entered the office. "any luck, jack?" "rotten! the magnetic control of the model is gone. i was right this morning and you were wrong, joe. yeasky got it. why did n't i keep my hands on him, when i had him! something told me to." "the deuce!" thornton regarded his friend with a grave face. "is it very serious? does it give the whole snap away?" "it gives about ninety per cent more away than pleases me. it would take some genius long nights of labor to supply the other ten per cent even with the aid of the plans which no doubt yeasky has copied. that is, there are one or two things that i kept off the paper--kept in my head." he paced up and down the floor. "but other men have heads, too. that thing has got to be returned, the quicker the better." "well," thornton smiled encouragingly. "yeasky can't get out of the country--and he 'll be caught before he dopes the thing out. even if he has mailed or expressed it, it can be held up before it leaves this country. you had the control in the model torpedo last night. have you wired?" "i 've sent a general call to the secret service for him, to boston, new york, and washington. they are holding the telegrams, as long as letters, at the telegraph office for release. i 've also a wire to the department on file, telling what has happened. i wrote before i knew what was gone, so i would n't have to lie in case he took what he did take." "yes," agreed thornton, "there is no use in letting on how bad it really is." thornton was growing quite optimistic. "yeasky can't get away; you 'll have the thing back here within three days." armitage smiled. "not through capturing yeasky. he hasn't it now. you don't suppose he is enough of a fool to risk being caught with the goods, do you? he got that thing off his hands, quick." "transferred it! who to?" armitage shrugged his shoulders. "to prince koltsoff." "koltsoff! how do you know?" "how do i know anything that isn't as plain as a pikestaff? common sense! prince koltsoff has that thing right now." armitage grinned. "the noble guest of the house of ronald wellington playing the spy--and rather successfully. quite an interesting society item, eh?" thornton did not smile. "look here, old man, what is your drift? prince koltsoff! old boy, this is serious! it is nothing to smile about. say, do you know what this means?" "oh, no!" said armitage sarcastically. "oh, i don't mean the loss to yourself and the government, i mean the politics of it. jack, every nation knows about that torpedo. you know the _attachã©s_ that have been snooping round here on one pretence or another since you have been working. japan knows about it; you know her situation with russia. russia gets your torpedo--what's japan going to do? what will england say? how can the government prove it was stolen? oh, we can say so but we 'd say so anyway, would n't we? how will you look?" thornton threw up his hands and confronted armitage. "i tell you, jack, it's a nasty mess. your status in the matter will size up about like a pin point at washington. you 've got to catch yeasky, somehow." "fine, bright boy!" armitage twisted a newspaper in his hands, broke it, and tossed the two ends away. "i don't want yeasky, i tell you. you 're off the track. i want koltsoff. the secret service fellows can go after yeasky. it's perfectly certain he turned that control over to koltsoff, after, if not before, i held him up. he knew he was suspected. anyway, the russian was undoubtedly here to receive it. why else would he be here?" "anne wellington, so the _saunterer_ says." armitage turned quickly upon his friend and brother officer. "anne, nothing!" he fairly snarled. "i remember about koltsoff now. worcester was once _attachã©_ at st. petersburg and told me all about him last summer. he 's just a plain, ordinary, piking crook. but he 's up against the wrong kind of diplomacy this time. i 'll get him before he leaves newport and choke that magnetic control out of him. come over to the _d'estang_ a minute, joe; i want to show you something. . . . well, mr. jackson, cleaned out? i thought so. thank you, i am going to be away for a few days. don't let anything be touched, please. let the work stop until i return. come on, joe." in his cabin on the _d'estang_, armitage pointed to several more or less disreputable garments lying on his berth. "say," he said, "would a candidate for physical instructor for the wellington boys wear such clothes?" thornton looked hard at his friend for a minute and then his face broadened into a huge smile of understanding. "not if he wanted the job," he said. "you 'll make more of a hit as you are." "all right, and now, joe, go into the yeoman's office like a good chap, pick out a time-stained sheet of paper and typewrite a letter, signing your name as captain of the 19-football eleven at annapolis, saying that the bearer, jack--jack--who?" "mccall," suggested thornton. "yes, mccall--saying that jack mccall had given great satisfaction as trainer for the eleven and was honest and god-fearing; you know how to do it." "all right," said thornton, starting for the door. he paused in the corridor. "say, jack, do you know you're taking all this mighty light?" he frowned. "this is serious." armitage frowned too. "i know, but i 'll be serious enough before it's over, i reckon." "you will," said thornton dryly. "how do you expect to get the job anyway?" armitage shrugged his shoulders. "leave that to me," he said. "oh, joe, are you going to be on the island for supper?" "no--not for supper," he said. "i 'll be over from newport about eleven o'clock though." "all right, drop aboard then, will you? i want to see you." "right-o," said thornton. for some time after his departure armitage sat writing a document, covering the case to date, outlining his plans, his suspicions and the like. it turned out to be lengthy. he sealed it in an envelope, labelled it, "armitage vs. koltsoff," and locked it in a small safe in the yeoman's room. one of the engineer's force came in to say that they had made progress in repairing the boiler baffle plates, designed to keep the funnels from torching when under high speed, but that they were at the point where advice was needed. armitage arose, put on a suit of greasy overalls, and went into the grimy vitals of the destroyer, a wrench in one hand, a chisel in the other. in about ten minutes he had solved the problem, explained it to the mechanics gathered about him, and then demonstrated just how simple the remedial measures were. all torpedo boat officers do this more often than not. it explains the blind fidelity with which the crews of craft of this sort accompany their officers without a murmur under the bows of swiftly moving battleships or through crowded ocean lanes at night without lights, with life boats aboard having aggregate capacity for about half the crew. armitage was alone at supper, his junior taking tea aboard a german cruiser in the harbor. with the coffee he lighted a cigar and half closed his eyes. he marvelled at the strange thrill which had possessed him since thornton had gone. the loss of that control was something which justified the gravest fears and deepest gloom. and yet--and yet--whenever he thought about it he saw, not yeasky, nor koltsoff, nor the torpedo--just a tall, flexible girl, with wonderful hair and eyes and lips. he puffed impatiently at his cigar. hang it all, he had gone to church that morning because he felt he had to see her, and the morrow had been a blank because he knew he should not be able to see her again. but now, well, it looked as though he should see her; swift blood tingled in his cheeks. precisely at eleven thornton looked in. armitage gave him the combination of the safe, told him about the letter, and explained how he expected to obtain employment. they parted at midnight. "good-night, jack," said thornton, placing his hand affectionately on his brother officer's shoulder. "now don't forget to dodge the interference and tackle low. and if you want me, 'phone. consider me a minute man until you return." "thanks," replied armitage. "oh, joe, will you mail this letter to the department?" his voice lowered as he added half humorously, "it seems almost a shame to set the dogs on a man who may prove to be a benefactor." "what?" asked thornton. "nothing; good-night, joe." chapter x jack mccall, at your service armitage landed in newport by the eight o'clock boat and calling a hack drove out to the house of the chief of police. the chief was at breakfast and came to the door with his napkin in his hand. he greeted his visitor with a broad smile of welcome. "hello, lieutenant," he said. "what's doing? another of your boys you want turned loose?" "good-morning, chief. no, not exactly. may i talk to you a minute?" "sure." the chief glanced about the dining room and closed the door with his foot. "talk as much as you like." armitage glanced at the chief with an admiring smile. he had never ceased to wonder at the multifarious qualities which enabled the man to remain indispensable to native and cottager alike. courteous, handsome, urbane, diplomatic, debonair, when a matron of the very highest caste sent for him to enlist his efforts in the regaining of some jewel, tiara, or piece of _vertu_, missing after a weekend, he never for a moment forgot that it was all a bit of carelessness, which the gentlest sort of reminder would correct. this is to say that he usually brought about the return of the missing article and neither of the parties between which he served as intermediary ever felt the slightest embarrassment or annoyance. no wedding was ever given without consulting him as to the proper means to be employed in guarding the presents. he was at once a social register, containing the most minute and extensive data, and an _index criminis_, unabridged. as armitage talked, the chief's eyes lighted and he nodded his head approvingly from time to time. "i see," he said. "it's rather clever of you. i 'll hold myself for any word. i can do more: i know mrs. wellington quite well. you can ask her to call me for reference if you wish. i 'll make you out a fine thug." "that 'll be fine, although i may not need you. in the meantime have your men keep an eye out for yeasky. and," armitage paused, "if koltsoff--never mind; we 've first to prove our case." "yes, that would be about the wisest thing you could do," observed the chief. "good luck." an hour later armitage stood in the servants' sitting-room confronting miss hatch, mrs. wellington's secretary, who was viewing him, not without interest. "mrs. wellington will see you, i think," she said. "she usually breakfasts early and should be in her office now." armitage had an engaging grin which invariably brought answering smiles even from the veriest strangers. so now the crisp, bespectacled young woman was smiling broadly when armitage shrugged his shoulders. "mrs. wellington?" he said. "i had an idea i should have to see mr. wellington." "by no means," asserted the secretary. "wait a moment, please." in a few minutes the young woman returned and nodded. "will you come with me, please?" she led the way up a winding pair of stairs and down a long hall with heavy crimson carpet, turning into a room near the rear of the house. mrs. wellington was at her desk looking over a menu which the housekeeper had just submitted. she glanced up as the two entered, her face unchanging in expression. "this is mr. mccall," said the secretary, who without further words went to her desk and unlimbered the typewriter. as mrs. wellington brought armitage under her scrutiny, which was long, silent, and searching, he felt as he did upon his first interview with the secretary of the navy. however, no one had ever accused him of lack of nerve. "you apply for the position of physical instructor to my sons," she said at length. "how did you know we wanted one?" armitage, caught for the instant off his guard, stammered. "i--at least miss--i mean i read it in one of the papers." "hum," replied mrs. wellington, "a rather misleading medium. correct in this instance, though." "i believe it was an advertisement," said armitage. "what qualifications have you?" armitage smiled easily. "i have taught boxing, wrestling, and jiu-jitsu in southern athletic clubs," he said, "and i trained the 19-navy team at annapolis." he submitted thornton's eloquent testimonial. mrs. wellington laid it aside after a glance. "where is your home?" "louisville, kentucky, ma'm." "what have you been doing in newport? i remember having seen you at church yesterday morning." "i came up to see winthrop of the harvard graduate advisory committee on athletics about getting the job as trainer for the football team next month. he is away." "were you ever in college?" asked mrs. wellington. armitage assumed a look of embarrassment. "yes," he said, "but unless you insist i had rather not say where or why i left." mrs. wellington sniffed. "i thought so," she observed drily. "what would you do for my sons?" armitage was on his favorite topic now. "i 'd try to convince them that it pays to be strong and clean in mind and body--" he began earnestly, when a rustle of skirts and the click of footsteps at the threshold caused him to turn. anne wellington, in an embroidered white linen frock, stood framed in the doorway, smiling at them. "pardon me, mother," she said, "but i am in a dreadful fix." she glanced toward armitage. "this is our new physical instructor, is it not?" "he has applied for the position," said mrs. wellington, not altogether blithely. "how fortunate--" began the girl and then stopped abruptly. "that is," she added, "if he can drive a car." "i helped make automobiles in chicago," armitage ventured. "good!" exclaimed anne. "you know, mother, rimini has gone to new york to receive that tancredi, and benoir, the second chauffeur, is in the hospital. i must have a driver for a day or so. he may for a while, may he not, mother?" she nodded to armitage. "if you will go out to the garage, please, i shall have mr. dawson give you some clothing. i think he can fit you. i--" "one moment, anne," interrupted her mother. "you do run on so. just wait one moment. you seem to forget i am, or at least was, about to engage mccall as a physical instructor, not a _mã©canicien_." mrs. wellington was fundamentally opposed to being manoeuvred, and her daughter's apparent attempt at _finesse_ in this matter irritated her. she was fully bent now upon declining to employ armitage in any capacity and was on the point of saying so, when anne, who had diagnosed her trend of mind, broke in. "really, mother, i am perfectly sincere. but this situation, you must admit, was totally unexpected--and i must have a driver, don't you know. why, i 've planned to take prince koltsoff, oh, everywhere." this won for her. mrs. wellington even when irritated was altogether capable of viewing all sides of a matter. "very well," she said. "i shall consider the other matter. when you are through with mccall, let me know." anne's eyes sparkled with relief. "mother, you are a dear." she walked over and touched her affectionately on her arm. "mccall, if you will go out to the garage, mr. dawson will show you your room and give you some clothes. i may want you any time, so please don't go far from the garage." as armitage passed out, guided by miss hatch, mrs. wellington turned to her daughter. "well, anne," she said, "he lied and lied and lied. but i do believe some of the things he said and some he did n't. i believe him to be honest and i believe he will be good for the boys. he himself is a magnificent specimen, certainly. but i don't reconcile one thing." "what is that, mother?" "he is a gentleman and has been bred as one; that is perfectly evident." "oh, no doubt," replied her daughter with apparent indifference. "one of the younger son variety you meet in and out of england, i fancy." "i suppose so," said mrs. wellington. "is that why you invited him to sit with us in church? why you spoke to him on the _general_? why you wanted me to employ him?" "i don't know," replied anne frankly. "he interested me. he does yet. he is a mystery and i want to solve him." "may an old woman give you a bit of advice, anne? thank you," as her daughter bowed. "remember he is an employee of this house. he sought the position; he must be down to it. keep that in your mind--and don't let him drive fast. in the meantime, how about his license?" anne stamped her foot. "oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "i forgot all about that beastly license. what can we do?" she faced her mother. "mother, can't you think of something? i know you can arrange it if you will." "well," said her mother thoughtfully. suddenly she looked at her secretary who entered at the moment. "miss hatch, you might get chief roberts on the 'phone--right away, please. now, anne, i am getting nervous; you had better go." "yes, mother." anne dropped a playful curtsey and left the room, smiling. half an hour later, armitage, squeezed into a beautifully made suit of tan whipcord, his calves swathed in putees, and a little cap with vizor pressing flat against his brows, was loitering about the garage with ryan, a footman, and absorbing the gossip of the family. prince koltsoff was still there and intended, evidently, to remain for some time. this information, gained from what anne wellington had said to her mother, had relieved his mind of fears that his quarry had already gone, and he would have been quite at his ease had not the thought that the fact of koltsoff's presence here rather argued against his having the control in his possession, occurred to him. still, if the russian had any of the instincts of a gentleman he could hardly break away from the wellingtons at such short notice, and certainly not if he was, as thornton surmised, interested in the daughter. talk about the garage left him in no doubt of this. if the prince had the missing part he would do one of three things: hold onto it until he left; mail it; or express it to st. petersburg. benoir, he had learned, carried the wellington mail as well as express matter to the city, mornings and afternoons. in his absence, armitage was, he felt, the logical man for this duty. so he did not worry about these contingencies. he had knowledge that up to eight o'clock that morning no package for foreign countries had been either mailed or expressed; this eliminated the fear, which might otherwise have been warrantable, that the package had already been sent on its way to europe. besides, no man of koltsoff's experience would be likely to trust the delivery of so important an object to any but his own hands. thus the probabilities were that the thing was at this minute in the prince's room. if all these suppositions were wrong, then yeasky had it. armitage knew enough of the workings of the secret service bureau to know that if the man got out of the country he would be an elusive person indeed, especially as he had a long, livid scar across his left cheek which could not be concealed with any natural effect. but, somehow, the conviction persisted in armitage's mind that the prince had the control. in the short time he had spent at the crags this impression had not diminished; it had increased, without definite reason, to be sure; and yet, the fact remained. he would find out one way or another shortly. his room, not in the servants' wing, was on the third floor, right over the apartments of the wellington boys, which in turn were not far from koltsoff's suite. it would not be long before a burglary would be committed in the wellington house. at this thought, armitage thrilled with delightful emotions. in the meantime he addressed himself to the task of gleaning further information concerning the family into whose employ he had entered. he learned that while mr. wellington and his daughter were devoted to motoring, mrs. wellington would have none of it, and that the boys were inclined to horses also. ronald wellington left things pretty much to his wife and she was a "hellian," as ryan put it, to those about her who were not efficient and faithful. but otherwise, she was a pretty decent sort and willing to pay well. "what sort are the boys?" asked armitage, recalling that his duties with them might begin at any time. "master ronald, the oldest, is stuck on himself," replied ryan. "he ain't easy to get along with. master royal, the youngster, is as fine a little chap as ever lived. ronald is learning himself the cigarette habit; which is all right--the quicker he smokes himself to death the better, if he was n't after learnin' young muck, as every one calls him, to smoke, too. they do it on the quiet here in the garage, although it's against the rules." "why don't you stop them then?" asked armitage. ryan shrugged and laughed. "if we stopped them we 'd be fired for committin' insult and if they 're caught here we 'll be fired for lettin' 'em smoke. that's the way with those who work for people like the wellingtons--always between the devil and the deep sea." "oh, i don't know," said armitage, whose combative instincts were now somewhat aroused, "i don't think people get into great trouble for doing their duty, whoever they work for." the footman grinned. "well," he said, "you 'll know more about that the longer you 're here." as he spoke, the boys under discussion entered the doorway and seating themselves upon the running board of a touring car, helped themselves to cigarettes from a silver case which the elder took from his pocket. they lighted them without a glance at the two men and had soon filled the atmosphere with pungent smoke. "do they do this often?" asked armitage at length, turning to ryan and speaking in a voice not intended to be hidden. the footman grinned and nodded. "against the rules, isn't it?" persisted armitage, much to ryan's evident embarrassment, who, however, nodded again. the older boy took his cigarette from his mouth and rising, walked a few steps toward the new chauffeur. he was a slender stripling with high forehead, long, straight nose, and a face chiefly marked by an imperious expression. in his flannels and flapping panama hat he was a reduced copy of such englishmen as armitage had seen lounging in the boxes at ascot or about the paddock at auteuil. "were you speaking of us, my man?" he said. a gleam of amusement crossed armitage's face. "i--i believe i was, my boy. why?" a corner of the youth's upper lip curled and snapping the half-burnt cigarette into a corner he took another from the case and lighted it. "oh," he said nodding, "you are the new man. impertinence is not a good beginning. i 'm afraid you won't last." armitage crossed quickly to the discarded cigarette which was smouldering near a little pool of gasoline under a large can of that dangerous fluid, and rubbed the fire out with his foot. returning, he confronted the boy, standing very close to him. "look here, son," he said quietly, "that won't do a bit, you know. it's against the rules, and besides," jerking his head in the direction of the gasoline can, "you have n't any sense." ronald's emotions were beyond the power of words to relieve. as he stood glaring at armitage, his face devoid of color, his eyes green with anger, the chauffeur placed his hand gently upon his arm. "you can't smoke here, i tell you. there 's a notice over there to that effect signed by your father. now throw that cigarette away; or go out of here with it, as you like." by way of reply, ronald jerked his arm from armitage's grasp and swung at his face with open hand. it was a venomous slap, but it did not come within a foot of the mark for the reason that jack deftly caught the flailing arm by the wrist and with a powerful twist brought young wellington almost to his knees through sheer pain of the straining tendons. as this happened, the younger brother with a shrill cry of rage launched himself at armitage, who caught him by the waist and swung him easily up into the tonneau of the touring car. ronald had risen to his feet and in cold passion was casting his eye about the garage. a heavy wrench lay on the floor; he stepped towards it, but not too quickly for armitage to interpose. slowly the latter raised his finger until it was on a level with the boy's face. "now, stop just a minute and think," he said. "i like your spirit, and yours, too, kid," he added, gazing up at the tonneau from which the younger wellington was glaring down like a bellicose young tiger, "but this won't go at all. now wait," as ronald tried to brush past. "in the first place, if your mother hears you have been smoking in the garage--or anywhere else--you 'll get into trouble with her, so ryan has told me. and i don't believe that's any fun. . . . now--listen, will you? i am employed here as physical instructor for you chaps, not as a chauffeur--although your sister has been good enough to press me into service for a day or two--and i imagine i 'm going to draw pay for making you into something else than thin-chested cigarette fiends. i can do it, if you 'll help. how about it?" he said, smiling at ronald. "will you be friends?" ronald, who had worked out of his passion, sniffed. "thank you, i had rather not, if you don't mind. i think you will find that you don't like your place." "well," said armitage affably, "then i can leave, you know." "yes, you can, all right; it 'll be sooner than you think. come on, muck," and the older brother turned and left the garage. muck, who for the past few seconds had been gazing at armitage with wide eyes, slipped down from the car and stood in front of him. "say," he exclaimed, "you 're the fellow i gave that note to in church--the one from my sister--are n't you?" he grinned as armitage looked at him dumbly. "don't be afraid," he said. "i shan't tell. sister gave me a five-dollar gold piece. i thought you did n't act like a chauffeur. say, show me that grip you got on ronie, will you? he has been too fresh lately,--i want to spring it on him. can i learn it?" "not that one." armitage took the boy's hand, his thumb pressing back of the second knuckle, his fingers on the palm. he twisted backward and upward gently. "there 's one that's better, though, and easier. see? not that way," as the boy seized his hand. "press here. that's right. now you 've got it. you can make your brother eat out of your hand." "thanks!" muck left beaming, searching for his disgruntled brother--and armitage had made a friend. a minute later royal, or muck, as his nickname seemed to be, thrust his head into the garage. "you 're not going to say anything to mother about the cigarettes, are you?" "that's the best guess you ever made," smiled armitage. "you and i 'll settle that, won't we?" "rather," replied the boy, who departed with a nod. "well, you 've done it," said ryan, gazing at armitage admiringly. "master ronald will raise hell!" armitage shook his head. "i don't care, i just had to devil that rooster. he was insufferable. i--" the telephone bell rang, and ryan, with a significant i-told-you-so grimace took up the receiver. a second later a smile of relief lighted his face. "very well. thank you, sir," he said, and turned to armitage. "the butler, mr. buchan, says that miss wellington would have you bring out her car at once. she don't want any footman." armitage arose with a thrill which set his ears tingling, cranked the motor, and within a minute was rolling out of the garage. chapter xi the dying gladiator she was waiting, when armitage, who was leaning back in his seat in the most professional manner, shut off power under the _porte cochã¨re_ and glanced at her for directions. "to mrs. van valkenberg's," she said. "do you know where she lives?" "no, i don't, miss wellington." "no matter, i 'll direct you." as they entered the ocean drive through an archway of privet, miss wellington indicated a road which dived among the hills and disappeared. "drive quite slowly," she said. it was a beautiful road, dipping and rising, but hidden at all times by hills, resplendent with black and yellow and purple gorse, or great gray bowlders, so that impressions of scotch moorlands alternated with those of an arizona desert. the tang of september was in the breeze; from the moorlands which overlooked the jagged brenton reefs came the faint aroma of burning sedge; from the wet distant cliff a saline exhalation was wafted. it was such a morning as one can see and feel only on the island of newport. as an additional charm to anne wellington, there was the tone of time about it all. from childhood she had absorbed all these impressions of late summer in newport; they had grown, so to speak, into her life, had become a part of her nature. she drew a deep breath and leaned forward. "stop here a moment, will you please." they were at the bottom of a hollow with no sign of habitation about, save the roof of a villa which perched upon a rocky eminence, half a mile to one side. "will you get out and lift the radiator cover and pretend to be fixing something, mccall? i want to talk to you." without a word, jack left his seat, went to the tool box and was soon viewing the internal economy of the car, simulating search for an electrical hiatus with some fair degree of accuracy. the girl bent forward, her cheek suffused but a humorous smile playing about her face. "mccall," she said, "i feel i should assure you at the outset that i am quite aware of certain things." armitage glanced at her and then quickly lowered his eyes. she gazed admiringly at his strong, clean face and the figure sharply defined by the close-fitting livery. "your name is not mccall and i have not the slightest idea that you are by profession a physical instructor, or a driver either." armitage unscrewed a wrench and then screwed the jaws back into their place. "we are what conditions make us, miss wellington," he said. "yes, that is true," she replied, "but tell me truthfully. did you seek employment here only because of my--of my interest in--i mean, because of the note i wrote, or did you come because my note put you in the way of obtaining a needed position?" armitage started to speak and then stopped short. "oh," he said finally, "i really needed the position." the girl gazed at him a moment. armitage, bending low, could see a patent leather pump protruding from the scalloped edge of her skirt, tapping the half-opened door of the tonneau. "you will then pardon me," she said, "if i call to your mind the fact that you are now employed as driver of my car: i feel i have the right to ask you who you really are." "your mother--mrs. wellington, catechised me quite fully and i don't think i could add anything to what i told her." "and what was that? i was not present during the inquisition," said the girl. armitage laughed. "why, i told her i was jack mccall, that i came from louisville, that i had trained the navy eleven of 19--." an exclamation from the girl interrupted him and he looked up. she was staring at him vacantly, as though ransacking the depths of memory. "the navy eleven of 19--," she said thoughtfully. then she smiled. "mccall, you are so clever, really." armitage's eyes fell and he fumbled with the wrench. "thank you," he said, dubiously. "not at all, mccall," she said sweetly. "listen," speaking rapidly, "i have always been crazy over football. father was at yale, '79, you know." she studied his face again, and then nodded. "when i was a girl, still in short dresses, father took a party of girls in miss ellis's school to annapolis in his private car to see a harvard-navy game. a cousin of mine, phil disosway, was on the harvard team. they were much heavier than annapolis; but the score was very close, particularly because of the fine work of one of the navy players who seemed to be in all parts of the field at once. i have forgotten his name,"--miss wellington gazed dreamily over the hills,--"but i can see him now, diving time after time into the interference and bringing down his man; catching punts and running--it was all such a hopeless fight, but such a brave, determined one." she shrugged her shoulders. "really, i was quite carried away. as girls will, i--we, all of us--wove all sort of romantic theories concerning him. toward the end of the game we could see him giving in under the strain and at last some coaches took him out. he walked tottering down the side lines past our stand, his face drawn and streaked with blood and dirt. i snapshotted that player. it was a good picture. i had it enlarged and have always kept it in my room. 'the dying gladiator,' i have called it. i wonder if you have any idea who that girlhood hero of mine was?" "was he a hero?" armitage was bending over the carburetor. he waited a moment and then as miss wellington did not reply he added; "now that you have placed me, i trust i shan't lose my position." "i always knew i should see you again," said the girl as though she had not heard armitage's banality. "i know now why i spoke to you on the _general_ and why i wrote you that note in church." her slipper beat an impatient tattoo on the door. "but why," she began, "why are you willing to enter service as a physical instructor, or motor car driver? i don't un--" armitage interrupted. "your mother asked me if i had been in college. i told her i had, but that i preferred not to say where, or why i left." "oh!" she said, and her eyes suffused with pity. "i am so sorry. but you _must_ tell me one thing now. was your leaving because of--of anything--that would make me sorry i had found--" she smiled, but looked at him eagerly--"the subject of the dying gladiator?" "i hope not." "you are not certain?" "miss wellington, there are certain reasons why the position you helped me to obtain was vitally necessary. i am a dependant in your house. i can assure you that you will never find anything half so grievous against me as that which you have already found--your 'dying gladiator' a servant. you must think of that." "but i am not so deluded as to think you cannot explain that" cried the girl. "how foolish! you are not a servant, never were, and i am sure never will be one. and i know you have n't sneaked in as a yellow newspaper reporter, or magazine writer," tentatively. "you are not a sneak." "no, i have not the intention, nor the ability, to make copy of my experiences," said armitage. "intention!" echoed the girl. "well, since you suggest the word, just what was, or is, your intention then?--if i may ask." armitage straightened and looked full at the girl. "suppose i should say that ever since that morning on the _general_ i had--" armitage hesitated. "i reckon i 'd rather not say that," he added. "no, i reckon you had better not," she said placidly. "in the meantime, how long do you intend staying with us before giving notice?" armitage did not reply immediately. he stood for a moment in deep thought. when he looked up his face was serious. "miss wellington, i have neither done nor said anything that would lead you to believe that, whatever i may have been, i am now in any way above what i appear to be, with the wellington livery on my back. i say this in justice to you. i say it because i am grateful to you. you may regard it as a warning, if you will." for a moment she did not reply, sitting rigidly thoughtful, while armitage, abandoning all pretence at work, stood watching her. "very well," she said at length, and her voice was coldly conventional. "if you have finished your repairs, will you drive me to mrs. van valkenberg's? follow this road through; turn to your left, and i 'll tell you when to stop." sara van valkenberg was one of the most popular of the younger matrons of newport and new york. as sara malalieu, daughter of a prime old family, billy van valkenberg had discovered her, and their wedding had been an event from which many good people in her native city dated things. van valkenberg was immensely wealthy and immensely wicked. sara had not sounded the black depths of his character when he was killed in a drunken automobile ride two years before, but she had learned enough to appreciate the kindness of an intervening fate. now she lived in an elizabethan cottage sequestered among the rocks a short distance inland from the ocean drive. she was very good to look at, very worldly wise, and very, very popular. she was thirty years old, an age not to be despised in a woman. when miss wellington's car arrived at the cottage, tommy osgood's motor was in front of the door, which was but a few feet from the road. with an expression of annoyance, anne ran up the steps and rang the bell. the footman was about to take her card when mrs. van valkenberg's voice sounded from the library. "come in, anne, we saw you coming." anne entered the apartment and found her friend reclining in all her supple ease, watching flushed-face tommy, who had been attempting to summon his nerve to tell her how little he cared to continue his course through the world without her, which was just what she did not wish to have him do, because tommy was a manly, likable, unassuming chap and had much yet to learn, being several years her junior. "oh, tommy," said anne, "i wanted to speak to sara alone for a moment." "tommy was on his way to the polo field," said mrs. van valkenberg, suggestively. "now he need have no further excuse for being civil to an old lady." "by george," said tommy, "that's so, i must be on my way." and he went, not without some confusion. sara watched him through the window as he walked to his car. "poor, dear boy," she said. she turned to anne with a bright smile. "what is it, dear?" "prince koltsoff is with us, as you know. i think mother would be pleased if i married him. i don't know that i am not inclined to gratify her. i have n't talked to father yet." "then he has not told you about the russian railroad thingamajigs he is gunning for?" asked mrs. van valkenberg. "really!" anne's eyes were very wide. "oh, i don't know anything about it," said sara hastily. "only--the men were speaking of it at the van antwerps', the other night. and how about koltsoff?" "his intentions are distressingly clear," said anne. mrs. van valkenberg whistled. "congratulations," she said with an upward inflection. "you 've no idea--" "oh, sh's'sh!" exclaimed anne. "don't try to be enthusiastic if you find it so difficult. anyway, there will be nothing to justify enthusiasm if i can help it." "really!" sara regarded the girl narrowly. "if you can help it! what do you mean?" "i don't know exactly what i do mean," anne laughed nervously. "he is so thrillingly dominant. he had not been in the house much more than thirty hours before he had lectured me on the narrowness of my life, indicated a more alluring future, kissed my hand, and reposed in me a trust upon which he said his future depended. and through all i have been as a school girl. he 's fascinating, sara." she leaned forward and placed her hand upon her friend's knee. "sara--now don't laugh, i 'm serious--" "i'm not going to laugh, dear; go on." "sara, you know the world. . . . i thought i did, don't you know. but i 'm a child, a perfect simpleton. i said prince koltsoff was fascinating; i meant he fascinates me. he does really. some time when he gets under full headway he is going to take me in his arms--that's the feeling; also that i shall let him, although the idea now fills me with dread." "why, anne!" "i know," continued the girl, "isn't it too absurd for words! but i am baring my soul. do you marry a man because his eyes seem to draw you into them?--whose hand pressure seems to melt your will? is that love?" sara regarded the girl for a few minutes without speaking. then she lifted her brows. "_is_ it love?" she said. "ask yourself." anne shrugged her shoulders and grimaced helplessly. "it might be, after all," she said. "i am sure i don't know." "yes, it might be," smiled sara; "it's a question in which you must consider the personal equation. i am rather finicky about men who exude what seems to pass for love. they don't make good husbands. the best husband is the one who wins you, not takes you. for heaven's sake, anne, when you marry, let your romance be clean, wholesome, natural; not a demonstration in psychic phenomena, to use a polite term." anne smiled. "oh, it is n't as bad as that. i--i--oh, i don't know what to say, sara. his family, don't you know, are really high in russia, and koltsoff himself is close to the reigning family, as his father and grandfather were before him. it is rather exciting to think of the opportunity--" anne paused and gazed at the older woman with feverish eyes. "and yet," she added, "i never before thought of things in this way. i have always been quite content that coronets and jewelled court gowns and kings and emperors and dukes and," she smiled, "princes, should fall to the lot of other women. i am afraid i have been too much of an american--in spite of mother--" "who really underneath is a better american than any of us," said mrs. van valkenberg. she had arisen and was standing looking out of the window, toying with the silken fringe of the curtain. "there's hope for you, anne. . . . of course i shan't advise you. i could n't, don't you know, not knowing prince koltsoff." she paused and gazed eagerly in the direction of anne's car. her lips framed an exclamation, but she checked it. "by-the-bye, anne," she said, "i see you have a new driver." anne nodded absently. "yes. mother employed him this morning as physical instructor to the boys and i commandeered him--i believe that's the word--because rimini is in new york and benoir tried to knock down a telegraph pole and is in the hospital." "what a find!" observed mrs. van valkenberg. "and yet how curious!" suddenly she turned to the girl. "anne, i am going to be dreadful and you must be honest with me. you know you asked me to go to you the middle of the week to stay over the _fãªte_. may i come now--today? i cannot tell you why i ask now, but when i do you will be interested. may i? i know i am preposterous." "preposterous! how absurd! certainly, you may. you will do nicely as a chaperon. mother, i am afraid, is going to insist upon all the conventions. you must know how delighted i am." she kissed her enthusiastically. "we will expect you at dinner?" she said tentatively. "or will you come with me now?" she thought a second. "i don't know whether i told you i was to take prince koltsoff motoring this afternoon--unchaperoned." "why, anne, if you are going to bother about me that way, i 'll withdraw my request. please don't let me interfere in any way. i couldn't possibly go before late in the afternoon, in any event." "that will be fine then," said anne, holding out her hand. "_au revoir_. i 'll send the car for you after we return." after she had gone, mrs. van valkenberg stood watching the car until it disappeared, and then snatching her bright-eyed pomeranian, she ran her fingers absently through his soft hair. "how ridiculous," she said, "how absolutely ridiculous!" chapter xii miss hatch shows she loves a lover when armitage entered the servants' dining-room he found the head footman, who presided, in something of a quandary as to where he should place him. emilia, miss wellington's maid, had of course lost no time in imparting to all with whom she was on terms of confidence, that the new chauffeur was the same with whom her mistress had flirted on the _general_. consequently, armitage was at once the object of interest, suspicion, respect, and jealousy. but the head footman greeted him cordially enough and after shifting and rearranging seats, indicated a chair near the lower end of the table, which armitage accepted with a nod. he was immensely interested. the talk was of cricket. some of the cottagers whose main object in life was aping the ways of the english, had organized a cricket team, and as there were not enough of them for an opposing eight, they had been compelled to resort to the grooms. there were weekly matches in which the hirelings invariably triumphed. one of the wellington grooms, an alert young cockney, was the bowler, and his success, as well as the distinguished social station of his opponents, appeared to armitage to have quite turned his pert little head. there was a pretty irish chambermaid at jack's elbow whose eyes were as gray as the stones in the giants' causeway, but glittering now with scorn. for heretofore, henry phipps had been an humble worshipper. she permitted several of his condescending remarks to pass without notice, but finally when he answered a question put by another groom with a bored monosyllable, the girl flew to the latter's defence. "'yes' and 'no,' is it?" she blazed. "henry phipps, ye 're like the ass in the colored skin--not half as proud as ye 're painted. a bowler, ye are! but ye take yer hat off after the game, just the same, and bowl out yer masters with a 'thank ye, sur; my misthake!' ye grovellin' thing, ya!" "really," yawned henry in his rich dialect. "really!" mocked the girl. "i could give ye talk about a real prince--none of yer rensselaers or van antwerps and the like--had i--" armitage leaned forward, but anything more the maid might have been tempted to say was interrupted by a footman from the superintendent's table. "mr. dawson says you 're to come to his table," he said nodding to armitage, who arose with real reluctance, not because of any desire for intimate knowledge of the servants' hall, but because he had decided he could use the irish maid to the ends he had in view. now that lead was closed for the time at least and he took his place at the side of the decorous butler, uncheered by mr. dawson's announcement that miss wellington had ordered his promotion. "it was very good of miss wellington," he said in a perfunctory manner. "oh, not at all," replied the butler. "frequently the chauffeur sits at our table." he shrugged his shoulders. "it depends upon the manner of men. they are of all sorts and constantly changing." armitage glanced at buchan and grinned. "thanks," he said. the butler nodded and then _apropos_ of some thought passing through his mind he glanced tentatively at the housekeeper. "we 'll wake up, i suppose, with the prince here. i hope so. i have never seen everybody in newport so quiet." "yes, i imagine so," replied mrs. stetson. "several are coming the middle of the week and of course you know of the flower ball for friday night." "of course," said the butler, who a second later belied his assumption of knowledge by muttering, "flower ball, eh! gracious, i wonder what won't mrs. wellington be up to next!" "i don't think i like prince koltsoff," said miss hatch. "well," agreed the superintendent, "he's a russian." "oh, i don't care about _that_," replied the young woman. "he is going to marry miss wellington--and he 's not the man for her. he 's not the man for any girl as nice as anne wellington. think of it. ugh!" "so!" interjected the tutor, dumois, who had turned many a dollar supplying the newspapers with information, for which they had been willing to pay liberally. "international alliance! how interesting. the latest, eh?" "no, it's not the latest," replied the secretary. "if it were, i should have said nothing. it's only a baseless fear; but a potent one." "oh," dumois turned ruefully to his plate. "he attracts her," resumed the secretary. "that is to be seen plainly--and she attracts him. that is as far as it has gone." "that is quite far," observed the tutor, glancing up hopefully. "oh, no," said armitage warmly. he paused, and then finding every one looking at him he applied himself to his luncheon not without confusion. "i wish i could agree with you," sighed miss hatch. "she is a dear girl. but you don't understand girls of her class. they have the queerest ideas." "oh, i don't think they differ from other girls," said mrs. stetson. "it is merely that they have the actual opportunity for realizing what to other girls are mere dreams. i can imagine what my daughter would have done if a foreign nobleman had paid court to her. i will say this for miss wellington though; she would marry her chauffeur if she took the whim." armitage, caught off his guard, looked up quickly. "you don't say!" he exclaimed, whereat every one laughed and dawson shook his head in mock seriousness at him. "see here, young man, if you make an attempt to demonstrate mrs. stetson's theory, ronald wellington will drive you out of the country." armitage laughed. "well," he said, "i 'll pick vienna." as they were leaving the table, miss hatch caught armitage's eye. she had lingered behind the rest, bending over some ferns which showed signs of languishing. her eyeglasses glittered humorously at armitage as he sauntered carelessly to her side. "it is all right, mr. mccall," she said. "all right?" "i mean the incident in the garage. master ronald applied vigorously for your discharge." armitage smiled. "i imagined he would. the application was not sustained?" "hardly. at first, of course, mrs. wellington was quite indignant. then miss wellington came in and really she was a perfect fury in your behalf. she made master ronald confess he had been smoking and showed quite clearly that you were right." "bully for her! as a matter of fact, i don't think it was any of my business. but that chap got on my nerves." "he gets on all our nerves. but i 'm quite sure he 's all right at heart. it's a disagreeable age in a boy." she paused and gazed steadily at armitage for a second. "i cannot imagine why you are here, mr. mccall. and yet--and yet, i wonder." she shrugged her shoulders. "pray don't think me rude," she said and smiled, "but i really am--hoping. i can read anne wellington at times, and you--oh, i _am_ rude--but i seem to read you like an open book." armitage was looking at her curiously, but obviously he was not offended. she stepped towards him impulsively. "oh, mr. arm--mccall---" she stopped, blushing confusedly. the break was too much even for armitage's presence of mind. he jerked his head upward, then collecting himself resumed his expression of amused interest. the secretary made no attempt to dissemble her agitation. "i am so sorry," she said, "but you must know now that i know whom you are." never in his life had jack felt quite so ill at ease, or so utterly foolish. "who else knows?" he asked lamely. "only one, beside myself--mrs. wellington." "mrs. wellington!" "naturally," said miss hatch placidly. "did you suppose for a moment you could successfully hide anything from her? chief roberts was in the house an hour after you were employed." "oh!" a great white light illumined jack's mind. he turned to the woman eagerly. "do you know what roberts told her?" "why, everything, i imagine," said miss hatch, laughing. "everything! but what?" armitage gestured impatiently. "please don't think me inquisitive, but i must know--it will depend upon what our loquacious chief said, whether i stay here one more minute." "the chief was not loquacious," smiled miss hatch. "he was quite the reverse. you would have enjoyed the grilling mrs. wellington gave him. he was no willing witness, but finally admitted you were a naval officer, a son of senator armitage, and that you were here to observe the actions of one of the grooms, formerly in the navy, whom the government thought needed watching." inwardly relieved, armitage grinned broadly. "i like that chief," he said. "he is so secretive. but mrs. wellington can't be pleased at having a navy man masquerading about. why hasn't she discharged me?" "i can't imagine," said miss hatch frankly, "unless--yes, i think she has taken a liking to you. then, for a woman of her mental processes, discharging you off-hand, come to think of it, would be the one thing she would not do. i think she is interested in awaiting developments. i am sure of it, for she commanded me to speak to no one concerning your identity." "miss wellington?" armitage looked at the woman quickly. "her daughter was very particularly included in the orders mrs. wellington gave." armitage made no attempt to conceal the pleasure this statement gave him. then a thought occurred to him. "by the way," he said, looking at miss hatch keenly, "if i recall, you said you could not imagine why i am here. in view of all you have told me, why could n't you?" miss hatch turned and walked toward the door. at the sill she glanced back over her shoulder and smiled significantly. "oh, that was an introductory figure of speech," she said. "i think, i think i can--imagine." then she turned and walking along the hall, with armitage following, she sang as though to herself: "in days of old when knights were bold and barons held their sway, a warrior bold with spurs of gold sang merrily his lay. 'oh, what care i though death be nigh, for love--'" but armitage had disappeared. "oh, the little more and how much it is, and the little less and what worlds away." chapter xiii anne exhibits the prince prince koltsoff had enjoyed his luncheon, as only an exacting gourmet whose every canon of taste has been satisfied, can. his appetite was a many-stringed instrument upon which only the most gifted culinary artist could play. now as he sat dallying daintily with his _compote_ of pears it was patent that rambon, the wellington chef, had achieved a dietary symphony. "mrs. wellington," he said at length, "you have a _saucier par excellence_. that _sauce de cavitar_! if i may say so, it lingers. who is he? it seems almost--yet it cannot be true--that i recognize the genius of jules rambon." "very well done, prince koltsoff," replied mrs. wellington, employing phraseology more noncommittal than koltsoff realized. anne, who had been gazing languidly out a window giving on brenton's reef lightship, where several black torpedo boats and destroyers were manoeuvring, smiled and glanced at the prince. "you have the instincts of a virtuoso. that was really clever of you. the duchess d'izes sent him to mother two years ago. you must speak to him. i 'm afraid he feels he is not altogether appreciated here." the prince raised his hands. "what a fate!" he exclaimed. "when rambon was _chef_ for president carnot, kings and emperors bestowed upon him decorations. i recall that when he created the _parfait rambon_--ah!--the governor of his province set aside a day of celebration. rambon unappreciated--it is to say that genius is unappreciated!" he turned apologetically to mrs. wellington. "america--what would you?" mrs. wellington sniffed ever so slightly. she had become a bit weary of the russian's assumption of european superiority. she recognized that in prince koltsoff she had a guest, her possession of whom had excited among the cottage colony the envy of all those whose envy she desired. so far as she was concerned, that was all she wanted. now that anne and the prince appeared to be hitting it off, she was content to let that matter take its course as might be, with, however, a pretty well defined conviction that her daughter was thoroughly alive to the desirability, not to say convenience, of such an alliance. in her secret heart, however, she rather marvelled at anne's open interest in the koltsoff. to be frank, the prince was boring her and she had come to admit that she, personally, had far rather contemplate the noble guest as a far-distant son-in-law, than as a husband, assuming that her age and position were eligible. so--she sniffed. "my dear prince," she said, "i will take you to a hundred tables in newport and--i was going to say ten thousand--a thousand in new york, where the food is better cooked than in any private house in europe." touched upon a spot peculiarly tender, koltsoff all but exploded. "_pouf_!" he cried. then he laughed heartily. "you jest, surely, my dear madame." "no, i fancy not," replied mrs. wellington placidly. "oh, but how can you know! where is it that the writings of careme are studied and known? where is it that the memory of beauvilliers and the reputations of ranhofer and casimir and mollard are preserved? in europe--" "in paris," corrected mrs. wellington. "well. and from paris disseminated glowingly throughout europe--'" "and the united states." koltsoff struggled with himself for a moment. "pardon," he said, "but, bah! it cannot be." "naturally, you are at the disadvantage of not having had the experience at american tables that i have had abroad," observed mrs. wellington rising. "but we shall hope to correct that while you are here. . . . as for the sauce you praised, it was not by rambon--who is out to-day--but by takakika, his assistant, a japanese whom mr. wellington brought on from the bohemian club, i think, in san francisco." if koltsoff did not catch mrs. wellington's intimation that he must have learned of the presence of rambon in her kitchen,--which might have been more accurately described as a laboratory,--anne wellington did, and she hastened to intervene. "oh, prince koltsoff," she said, "i have been so interested in those torpedo boats out there. they 've been dashing about the lightship all through lunch. what is the idea, do you know?" the prince glanced out of the window. "i cannot imagine." he gazed over the ocean in silence for several minutes. "have you a telescope?" he said at length. anne nodded. "the large glass is on that veranda. and you 'll excuse me until half after three, won't you?" "until half after three," said the prince, still rather ruffled as the result of his duel with the mother. then he went out on the porch and for an hour had the torpedo boats under his almost continuous gaze. "nothing but hide and seek," he muttered as he finally snapped the shutter of the glass and went to his room to dress. he had quite recovered his spirits when he handed anne wellington into the motor car. armitage had half turned and she caught his eyes. just the faintest suspicion of a smile appeared on her face as she leaned forward. "along the ocean drive, mccall, down bellevue avenue, past easton's beach, and out through paradise. drive slowly, please." armitage touched his cap and the car was soon rolling along the ocean drive. they had not turned bateman's point when anne had proof of the interest which the advent of the prince had excited among her set. the wadsworth girls with young pembroke, delaney drew on horseback, and several others were gathered on the grass of the point, watching the finish of the race for the astor cups off brenton's reef. as the wellington car rolled slowly by, every one withdrew attention from the exciting finish which three of the yachts were making, and gazed so hard at the prince that some of them forgot to return anne's nod. but the girl understood and smiled inwardly, not altogether without pride. on bellevue avenue old mrs. cunningham-jones all but fell out of her carriage, while minnie rensselaer, who had been cool lately, was all smiles. and the entrance to the casino, as miss wellington afterward described it, might have been pictured as one great staring eye. she did not attempt to deny to herself that she was enjoying all this. she was a normal girl with a normal girl's love of distinction and of things that thrill pleasurably. she left nothing undone to heighten the effect she and the prince, or the prince and she, were creating. mrs. rensselaer saw her gazing into the face of her guest with kindling eyes. "old lady" cunningham-jones saw her touch his arm to emphasize a remark. whatever may have been the exact degree of koltsoff's attractions for anne, it was certain that in the course of the drive, thus far, the situation and not the russian's personality constituted the strong appeal. the girl was far from a snob and yet this--yes, public parading--of a man whose prospective sojourn in newport had excited so many tea tables for the past fortnight, had furnished so much pabulum for the digestion of society journalists, involved many elements that appealed to her. chiefly, it must be confessed, she saw the humor of it; otherwise pride might have obtained mastery--there was pride, of course. there was a whirl of things, in fact, and all enjoyable; also, perhaps, a trifle upsetting, inasmuch as her assumption of more than friendly interest in her guest was not altogether the part of wisdom. the prince was elated, exalted. it would not have taken a close observer to decide that in his devotion there was no element of the spurious and in his happiness, no flaw. as for armitage, unseeing, but sensing clearly the drift of things, his eyes were grimly fixed ahead, the muscles of his jaws bulging in knots on either side. this chauffeur business, he felt, was fast becoming a bore. as he started to turn the corner of the casino block, anne, seized by a sudden inspiration, ordered him to back around to the entrance. "would n't you like to stop in the casino for a few minutes and meet a few people?" she asked, smiling at koltsoff. the prince would be only too happy to do anything that miss wellington suggested, and so with a warning _honk! honk!_ armitage ran his car up to the curb. at their side the tide of motor cars, broughams, victorias, coaches, jaunting cars and what not swept unceasingly by. three sight-seeing barges had paused in their "twelve miles for fifty cents" journey around the island. as the prince and anne alighted, a small body of curious loiterers moved forward, among them several photographers, seeing which, anne lowered an opaque veil over her face, a precaution which the beautiful or famous or notorious of the newport colony invariably find necessary when abroad. the sight-seeing drivers, with whips poised eagerly, viewed the alighting couple and then turning to their convoy, announced in voices not too subdued: "miss anne wellington, daughter of ronald wellington, the great railroad magnate, and the prince of rooshia are just gettin' out," indicating the car with their whips. "they say they 're engaged to be married--so far only a rumor. miss wellington is the one who put little pinchin' crabs in mrs. minnie rensselaer's finger bowls last year and made a coolness between these two great families." miss wellington, whose cheeks felt as though they would burn her veil, saw armitage's shoulders quivering with some emotion, as she hurried from the sidewalk into the doorway of the low, dark-shingled building and out into the circle of trim lawn and garden. there were groups around a few of the tables in the two tiers of the encircling promenade, but anne did not know any of them. they strolled on to a passageway under the structure leading to several acres of impeccable lawn, with seats under spreading trees and tennis courts on all sides. an orchestra was playing handel's "largo." the low hanging branches sheltered many groups, dotting the green with vivid color notes. a woman with gray veil thrown back and with a wonderful white gown held court under a spreading maple, half a dozen gallants in white flannels paying homage. all about were gowns of white, of pink, of blue, of light green, dresden colors, tones of rare delicacy mingling with the emerald turf and the deeper green of the foliage. the spell of mid-summer was everywhere present. to anne it seemed as if the summer would last for always and that the casino would never be deserted again, the grass sere and brown or piled with drifts of snow. "isn't it beautiful!" she exclaimed, as the prince shook his head negatively at a red-coated page with an armful of camp chairs. "the women," smiled the prince, "they are superb! i concede freely the supremacy of the american girl." he paused, "it _is_ beautiful. yet certainly, what place would not be beautiful where you are, miss wellington! do i say too much? ah, how can i say less!" his eyes were suffused with his emotions. "don't, please, prince koltsoff," she said, lowering her eyes to the turf. "not here--oh, i mean not--" "here! i would willingly kneel here and kiss the hem of your skirt. i should be proud that all should see, anne. . . . ah, let us not dissemble--" anne, thoroughly agitated, suddenly faced the prince. "stop! i want you to," she interrupted. "you must. you must not say such things--" she paused, conscious that the eyes of many to whom she had purposed presenting the prince were turned curiously upon them, although fortunately, from distances comparatively remote. she forced a vivacious smile for the benefit of observers and continued, "you must not say these things until i tell you you may. . . . now, please!" as the prince showed indications of disobeying her wishes. he kept silence and as some manifestations of sulkiness, not inclined to encourage anne in her intentions of introducing him generally, revealed themselves, she turned and led the way back to the car, where armitage sat hunched, in no blithe mood himself. in plying him with questions as to himself and his deeds, which developed a mood ardently vainglorious, anne skilfully led koltsoff's trend of thought from amatory channels. they stopped at paradise and anne and the prince walked from the roadside across a stretch of gorse to a great crevice in the cliffs, known as the "lover's leap." "here," said the girl, imitating the manner of a guide, "legend says an indian maiden, very beautiful, was walking with one of her suitors, when a rival accosted them. they drew their knives and were about to fight, when the girl interposed. pointing to the chasm she declared she would marry the man who first jumped across it." "ah, the time-worn lover's leap! they have them in england, russia, germany--everywhere. america not to be behind--" the prince wrinkled his brows. "let me see how closely the indians followed their european originals. did they leap?" "they did," smiled the girl. "both, i believe, were killed." she peered into the dark fissure where the waters wound among the crags fifty feet below. "ugh! what a fall! their love must have been wonderfully compelling." "so," replied the prince, gallantly, "and yet i should do it for a smile from you or at most for a--" he bowed low, seized her hand, and deftly bore it to his lips. she drew it away hastily, a wave of irritation flushing her face, and a powerful revulsion from her former mood of exaltation took possession of her whole being. "you have improved upon knights errant of old," she said slowly. "you seize your guerdon before paying your devoir." she pointed to the chasm, which was about eight feet across at the spot where they were standing. "your lady waits, sir knight." the prince pushed his hand through his hair and laughed. "miss wellington--indeed, indeed, i appreciate your humor. it is well caught. that is to say--ha, ha! your father will enjoy your wit." "i am waiting," said the girl, as though she had not heard. "knights--and gentlemen do not take from women that which they are not willing to pay for." "but--" the prince glanced at the yawning hole. "you surely jest. why, my dear lady!" the prince involuntarily stepped backward. anne smiled maliciously. her meaning was clear and the prince flushed. "what man would attempt it!" he exclaimed. "what man indeed," he added, "save one who would throw away his life to no purpose. come, miss wellington, i am sure you do not seek my life." "by no means," said the girl beginning to relent, but still enjoying the success of her _coup_. "but really that is a small leap for a man. my driver, i believe--" her face suddenly lighted with a new inspiration. hastily she walked to the top of the bluff. "mccall," she cried. "will you come here a minute?" as the two arrived at the chasm, she nodded to the opposite side. "if you cleared that would it be a remarkable leap?" armitage surveyed the gap with his eye, looked behind him and studied the ground. "not especially, miss wellington, so far as distance is concerned." he had done his nineteen feet in the running broad jump. "ah, just so," broke in the prince. "it is the condition which would follow a slip or mistake in judgment." anne shook her head impatiently at koltsoff's obvious eagerness. "i do not believe mccall thought of that; nervous systems vary in their intensity." some part of the situation armitage grasped. it was clear that for some reason she had dared the prince to make the jump and that he had declined. the ground upon which they were standing was a few feet above the rocks on the other side of the chasm and the three stood about a dozen feet from the mouth. she turned to armitage. "am i right, or do you share prince koltsoff's psychological views?" koltsoff, who from the beginning had chafed at the position in which she had placed him, pitting him against a servant, walked to one side with a low sibilant exclamation. "not at all," said armitage, and without further words he drew back a few feet and started swiftly for the fissure. anne, who had not intended that the incident should thus get away from her, acted upon flashing instinct, before the situation could formulate itself in her mind. she sprang at armitage as he passed her, her hands tightly clasping about his neck, and pulled him backward with all her strength. armitage half stumbling, stopped, and the girl, releasing her hands, stepped back with a sob of nervous anger. "you--you--oh, you idiot!" she exclaimed. "how dare you frighten me so! now--go back to the car!" "i did not mean to frighten you, miss wellington," he replied, not altogether in the mild, impersonal tone of a servant. "it was a perfectly easy jump. i thought you--" "go to your car, please," interrupted the girl sternly. as for koltsoff, rankling with the knowledge that if he had taken her at her word and essayed to make the leap, she would have prevented him as she had her chauffeur, his mood was no enviable one. lost opportunities of any sort are not conducive to mental equanimity. he maintained extreme taciturnity throughout the remainder of the drive and miss wellington, whose thoughts seemed also absorbing, made no attempt to restore his ardent spirits. when they entered the wellington driveway, she glanced at armitage's well-set back and shoulders and smiled. "mccall," she said, as she stood on the veranda, "i want you to go to mrs. van valkenberg's--where you were this morning--and bring her here. you may have to wait." chapter xiv underground wires armitage was not obliged to wait, however. a tall, well-built young woman, heavily veiled, came down the winding path as he shut off power. when he leaned around to open the door of the tonneau, she threw back her veil and he caught sight of a full, dark, handsome face and eyes filled with a curious light. he slammed the door and turned quickly to the wheel. "what is your name, my man?" the deep alto voice contained a note of mirth. "mccall," replied armitage gruffly, jerking his head a bit side-wise and then jerking it quickly back again. "you are--not a very good driver," came the voice. "but i should like to employ you. . . . would you consider leaving miss wellington?" armitage shook his head grouchily. "for a consideration? come, i won't use you as a chauffeur. i want you for a statue in my japanese garden. i--" armitage suddenly pointed the car toward the ocean and stopped. then he turned in his seat. "look here, sara," he said, "if you don't let up, i 'll run you into the ocean." mrs. van valkenberg was rocking with laughter. "oh, jack! jack!" she cried. "this is too rich. what on earth are you up to?" armitage, who had not seen her since they had attended school together in louisville, paid no attention to her question. "i had no idea you were in newport." "i suppose i should expect more of one of my very oldest and best friends," she said. "i was in the philippines when you married; faint rumors of the event penetrated even there. i was too prostrated to write; besides, i didn't receive any cards." he paused a moment. "van valkenberg--that's so; i remember now. he--" "i am a widow," said sara soberly. "oh," he was silent, not knowing what to say. she hastened to relieve his embarrassment, smiling brightly. "i was to go to see anne later in the week, but when i saw you, i simply could n't wait another minute. i wanted a front seat at this little comedy. you see," she raised her eyes knowingly, "i have n't asked you why you are here in the wellington livery and driving the wellington car because--because i rather imagine i can guess the reason." she glanced at armitage, who did not reply. "fancy my missing this romance," she went on, laughing musically. "jack, it's perfectly delightful. it's more than delightful, it's sublimely rich. you, _you_ of all men! come, won't you confide in me? ah, go on." her eyes were brimming with laughter. armitage frowned. "look here, sara, you're on the wrong tack." "oh, is it possible! all right, you need n't confide in me if you don't wish to. all i ask is permission to view events--and you can't withhold that, you know. but seriously, jack, can i be of any assistance? i approve, don't you know, awfully. and--she's worth every bit of it. but how are you going to win her in the guise of a chauffeur? i always knew you possessed a large amount of self-confidence, but allow me to inform you, sir, there are some things your natural qualifications can't overshadow. come, jack, do strip off your motley and court her as a naval officer--you see i, at least, have kept track of _you_--and a gentleman should; i don't like this way." "i tell you, you are wrong. i can't say anything now. but wait--then you 'll know. and, sara, please; not a word as to whom i am; promise me you 'll keep still until i give you the word." she smiled enigmatically. "don't you admire anne wellington?" "come, sara, promise; this is a serious matter with me." "don't you?" she persisted. "of course i do," he snapped. "she's a corker. now promise." "i promise nothing. i shall act as i think best for you." armitage gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment. "you may trust me, jack. i may be able to help you. i feel sure i shall. i want to help you--and anne." armitage raised his hand warningly. "don't, sara, please!" "very well." she smiled sweetly. "you may proceed to the crags, mccall." anne met her at the doorway and armitage took the car to the garage. "say," said ryan, "there 's some one been calling you up for the past hour." armitage looked at the man excitedly. "who was it? did he give his name?" "no, would n't give it. he said he 'd call up again, though. he--there goes the bell now." armitage took up the receiver. "is this you, jack?" came the voice. "this is thornton. say, they 've got yeasky." "where?" jack's voice was husky. "in boston." "did they find anything?" "no; they went through everything. he had n't a thing except a note signed 'vassili' something, and some austrian army data." "the family name of the man we 're gunning for," said armitage. "has he said anything?" "nothing. they have not told him what he was captured for either, although i guess he knows. they want your orders." "all right," said armitage. "tell them to let him go, provided he leaves boston by the first boat." "what!" "turn him loose. get shed of him. it 'll simplify matters. i 'm getting this thing in hand now. push the thing through for me, will you, joe? i'm busy as a pup here. get bill rawlins on the long distance at the boston navy yard, explain things to him, and get him to help. there 's nothing to do. just have him seen on board the boat. that note was all i wanted. have that sent to me. now do it all nicely for me, won't you, old chap,--and a day or two will see the finish of the whole thing. oh, say,--have them hold those papers." "all right," said thornton. "by the way, we are going to torpedo the atlantic fleet tonight. the battleships are on their way down from provincetown at last." "pshaw! the one thing i wanted to be in on!" "can't you get off and come along on the _d'estang_? we shan't leave until eight o'clock. we 're going to try and do up the fleet off point jude. come on, like a good chap." "i 'd like to. i will if i can, you bet. i think i can work it. now s'long and don't forget to have that pole shunted out of the country on the jump." "i won't. don't worry; see you later then." "right-o, good-bye." as armitage hung up the receiver the bell of the house 'phone jingled and armitage was summoned to bring out the car in a hurry. when he arrived under the _porte cochã¨re_, prince koltsoff was still talking to anne in a corner of the library. "it is very necessary," he was saying. "the summons is important. it is even possible i shall not return all night." his agitation seemed momentarily increasing. "but, prince koltsoff," said anne, "is it so very important? i hardly know what to do. i have arranged a box party for the vaudeville at freebody to-night--it's distressing." koltsoff bowed. "and i! you cannot suppose i view lightly being away from you to-night!" he shrugged his shoulders. "the rose-strewn paths are not always for diplomats. you will know that better in good time, perhaps. but they are for that all the sweeter while we tread them." he moved very close to her and she, taking fire from his mood, did not step backward, looking him in the eyes, pulling slightly at the front of her skirt. in the very web of a mood which she felt bordered on surrender to the masculine personality of the man before her, she admitted a thrill, which she never before had recognized. the blood mounted swiftly to her temples and she straightened and threw her head back with lips parted and hot. his face came so close to hers that she felt his hot breath. "are you sorry for this afternoon?" he asked caressingly. "yes," her voice was a half whisper. his arms were raising to take her, when the voice of sara van valkenberg came to their ears, with an effect very much like a cold stream upon a bar of white hot steel. "anne, oh, anne dearie, did you know the car was waiting for prince koltsoff?" she appeared in the doorway to find anne turning over a magazine and the prince adjusting his coat. "i beg pardon, but you said prince koltsoff was in a hurry. i thought you did n't know the car had arrived." "we--i didn't," anne smiled thinly. "thank you." they moved to the veranda, where anne and sara stood with arms intertwined. "i am sorry, _so_ sorry," cried koltsoff, as he climbed into the car. "as i say, i shall possibly not return all night. at all events, _au revoir_." he turned to anne and half raised his arm. "the trust," he said. she nodded and smiled. "have no fear, prince koltsoff," she said. "good!" he glared toward armitage. "to town--and fast," he said. as armitage nodded, anne, whose mood was past praying for, called mischievously: "mccall, always touch your hat when you receive an order. and come right back, please; i shall want to go to town." this time armitage made a faultless salute. when they had gone, anne walked to a settee, drawing mrs. van valkenberg by the arm, and flung herself down, laughing hysterically. "why, what _is_ the matter, anne?" sara gazed at her in amazement. "has anything--" she paused significantly--"happened?" anne drew her handkerchief across her eyes. "no," she said, "not yet. but oh, sara, if you had n't--" she stopped and gazed at her friend wide-eyed. "sara," she said, "is it possible i love prince koltsoff?" "no, it is not," replied sara, decidedly. "anne, don't be a goose. what is it, tell me?" "i cannot; but yes, i think it is--it must be. oh, i wonder!" "anne!" "sara, for goodness' sake, let me alone a moment. come," she added, throwing her arm about the young matron's waist, "let's talk about other things now. come with me while i telephone and call off that stupid theatre party. then we 'll go to town, exchange the tickets, and then--sara, let's have a regular bat--alone. you know--one of our old ones. i dare you." "done," said mrs. van valkenberg, thankful to change the girl's mood. while anne was telephoning and offering various explanations to various persons, sara sat thinking. it had not taken her ten minutes to decide that she detested koltsoff and that anne was under a spell not easily to be broken. if armitage had tried to break it, if he were there for that purpose, he had failed a long way of success. he had chosen, in any event, a poor method of campaigning. if he did not know what was good for him, so much the worse. she did and accordingly when anne had finished with the last of her list of prospective guests, she said: "anne, i have fallen quite in love with your new chauffeur." "i don't blame you one bit," said anne carelessly. "he's a stunner. but i don't believe he 's a chauffeur by profession." "i happen to know he is n't." "you--know--he is n't! how do you know? tell me what he is then. i don't believe i 'll ever have any more curiosity about anything; i 've used it all on him." "he 's a naval officer and a very promising one, i believe. he is john armitage and his father is united states senator armitage from kentucky--they 're really a very fine family--one of the best in the state." "how did--? oh, of course, you were a kentuckian. you don't mean to say you know him!" "i know all his family very well. why, i 've known jack armitage all my life," she raised her eyebrows. "but, anne, promise you won't let on." the full significance of the information imparted by her friend gradually rose to supremacy in anne's mind. her eyes turned slowly to sara's face. "well, of all idiots i am the worst! why, i even placed him at annapolis and then let him turn me off! and mother, too! that's a good one on her. well! what's his play? i confess i am stumped." "his play?" sara regarded her with a significant smile. "i wonder!" anne gazed at her a moment and then buried her face in her hands with a mock groan. "saints and ministers of grace, defend us!" she exclaimed. then girl-like, they clung to each other and laughed and laughed. "aren't you flattered?" asked sara at length. "flattered? oh, you mean about--" she grimaced. "sara! it's perfectly ridiculous! and it is n't true. the very idea! the audacity! don't tell me, sara; there 's something else." but sara caught the tentative note. "oh, naturally," she interposed, "you are far from being sufficiently attractive to draw an ardent young man into a romantic situation, especially--as you told me--after you had written him a note virtually inviting him to try his luck." "sara, you are beastly!" "forgive me, dear, but why not face facts?" "well!" anne smiled resignedly. "mother must n't know." "not until the play is over," said sara. anne gazed moodily at her friend. "it soon will be, i fear," she said. as for the unsuspecting armitage, he burned the road, smiling to think that underground wires were working for him, as well as the prince. he had no fear that if koltsoff had the control with him--which armitage did not for a moment believe--the vigilance of the express companies and of the postal authorities would be found wanting. koltsoff spent half an hour in the telegraph office and then alighting from the car in touro park, bade armitage return to the crags. "shall i call anywhere for you?" asked armitage pleasantly. "no," replied koltsoff, who stood on the sidewalk, watching until the car disappeared. chapter xv anne and sara seek adventure "anne," said mrs. wellington, as she came in from her drive a few minutes later, "your chauffeur drives too fast. the car passed me, cutting through brenton road a while ago, at a perfectly insane pace. some one--how do you do, sara, i 'm delighted to have you with us--was in the tonneau, whom i took to be koltsoff, although there was such a blur i was n't certain. was it he?" "yes, mother," anne glanced at sara. "isn't it maddening! some urgent summons, he said, made it necessary for him to go; and he may be away all night. of course that punctured the party at freebody." "it is maddening," sara hastened to observe. mrs. wellington compressed her lips. "i had told him your father would arrive this evening. but of course he must have failed to remember that. fortunately, he will not come on from new york until to-morrow--i 've had a wire. have you any idea the prince will be with us to-morrow? sir arthur baddeley will be down from bar harbor for the week; bob marie is coming with your father, and two or three of the tuxedo crowd, sallie and blanche turnure and willie whipple will be here by wednesday for the ball, certainly." "i don't know, really," said anne, "but i imagine so, of course." sara gazed at mrs. wellington curiously. it was true the woman was outwardly unperturbed, characteristically so, but sara had never before been able to read in that mask-like face so many indications of inward irritation. anne's sly glance told her that she, too, had been able to enjoy a rare opportunity of penetrating beneath the surface. mrs. wellington toyed with her lorgnette for a moment. "anne, if koltsoff returns and i don't see him, let me know the very first minute, will you, please?" she glanced at the girl with an expression best described as detached. "if it interests you any, my daughter, you succeeded in making a sensation this afternoon--you and koltsoff. i gather that everything was done but placarding him; and i have heard of at least eight persons you cut in the casino." "oh--mother, by the way, if i am not too inquisitive," said anne, hastening to change the trend of thought, "i read, or heard, somewhere that father was interested in getting hold of a russian issue of railroad bonds, or something of the sort. is prince koltsoff concerned?" "your father has no business dealings with him. dismiss that thought. railroad bonds--i believe he was looking into them. i don't know the details, or rather do not recall them. i do remember, though, his saying that he had relinquished the opportunity to the french with great pleasure." "oh," said anne, "i imagined his visit here was a mingling of business with pleasure." "i don't know what it is a mingling of, i 'm quite sure," said mrs. wellington. she turned to go. "i 'm dining out to-night, at the cunningham-jones'. i shouldn't have accepted, but you were to be at berger's with your theatre party. you won't mind, sara?" "not at all, mrs. wellington, don't bother about me. i hope i 'm not company." mrs. wellington smiled. she was very partial to the young widow. "the boys are at ochre point for the night. you might call up people if you want company for dinner, anne." "to think," cried anne, as her mother left the room, "how events have shaped themselves for us! of course we shan't dine at home; i 'll have emilia tell mrs. stetson after we have gone. now, sara, what can we do exciting?" her eyes flashed with animation as she gazed at her friend. "shall it be shop girl disguises with dinner on thames street, or what?" "i know," cried sara. "we 'll put on shirt-waist suits and plain hats, muss our hair a bit, and take a trip on a sight-seeing barge." "lovely. mc--mr. armitage can take us to the starting place at easton's beach and then pick us up there when we get back. after that--" "hoop-la," laughed sara, and the two young women--nothing but school girls now--fell into each other's arms, hugging joyously. when armitage appeared again at the _porte cochã¨re_ a few minutes before five o'clock, two very changed, but merry young women awaited him. anne flashed her eyes at armitage. "to easton's beach, mccall," she said sweetly. easton's beach was at the height of the day's exodus of excursionists to providence, fall river, taunton and elsewhere, as armitage drew alongside the sun-baked board walk in front of the main bathing pavilion. trolley cars, which had rolled empty down the long hill by the ocean side, were now ascending laden to the guards, and the ocean, relieved of its bathers, whose suits of multifarious cuts and colors had grievously marred the blue waters, had recovered its beautiful serenity. "we are going to take a barge ride, mccall," said anne, as they alighted from the car. "you might follow us at a respectful distance, though, so you can pick us up when we decide to get out." armitage touched his cap and sat watching amusedly, while anne and sara with exaggerated swinging strides walked toward a barge comfortably filled with a heterogeneous assemblage of sightseers. they paused uncertainly at the side of the clumsy vehicle and were thus espied by the driver, who was on the point of starting his horses. "whoa!" he cried, pulling at the reins. "here you are, ladies. two seats in the front for the sunset drive. last chance of the day. all the way round for fifty cents. all points pointed out, with inside information." sara glanced doubtfully at anne, but the girl already had her foot on the step. "we ain't going all the way," she said. "can we get out where we please?" "sure, the sooner the better," cried the driver cheerfully. "all right," said anne, clambering in; "come on, jane." sara followed obediently, kneeing her way along the seat to anne's side. "the cliff walk," said the driver, swinging his whip to the left as they drove up the hill. "is that where society people walk?" asked anne. "naw, only the common people," replied the oracle. "any society person found there would be ostracized." "they would!" exclaimed an elderly irishman, smoking a pipe at anne's side. "is th' ground too poor fur their phroud feet?" "only think," said a stout woman behind them, leaning forward, "the cottage owners have been tryin' to close up the walk to the public. my brother 's a grocer clerk here and he says the city would be better off without the cottagers. they 're awful! don't pay their bills and such carryin's on--you 've no idea." "use n't you to live here?" asked sara. "i thought i seen you in the city." "not me. i live over to jamestown," said the stout woman. in the meantime, anne had noted to her disgust that two men in white duck trousers and straw yachting caps were trying to catch their attention. it was not to be wondered at, for despite the broad-brimmed hats tilted well over their foreheads and hair in studied disarray, by way of disguise, no more dashing pair had ever patronized newport's sightseeing system. of course this aspect of their adventure had not occurred to anne and she was about to pull sara's skirt and suggest that they abandon the trip forthwith, when that young woman glancing about for fresh material, suddenly turned pale. "anne!" she whispered. "for heaven's sake! there 's my cook at the other end of that back seat--the fat, red-headed man. what shall i do?" anne, without replying, touched the driver and handed him a two-dollar bill. "keep that," she said, "and please let us out at once." and so, just a bit panic-stricken, but with ardor undimmed, the two awaited the motor car. "we might have known!" observed sara. "do you suppose he recognized me?" anne was laughing. "how in the world could he help it?" "of course," said sara, her face lighting with the humor of the incident. "i shan't care at all, provided he does n't give me notice." they were quite ready for armitage when he came up in the car. "where to now, sara?" anne stamped her foot. "isn't that the way! when you have the opportunity and the desire for a good time you can't imagine what to do." "well, let us get into the car, anyway," said sara, "those detestable creatures who were in the barge have actually followed us." so they entered the motor. armitage turned inquiringly, but anne shook her head. "one moment, if you please." "i wanted to ask you, miss wellington, if you thought i could get away to-night about seven o'clock?" he glared defiantly at sara, who was ostentatiously concealing her face in her hand. "i have rather an important engagement." "why--" anne glanced at sara, who seeing an opening for a new avenue of fun, was now laughing unreservedly. "you really can't think of it, you know, dear," she said. "why, at seven o'clock he will just begin to be useful." anne saw the chauffeur's shoulders shrug angrily, and it amused her. "cut through here and drive toward the training station," she commanded, "and we 'll think about seven o'clock, mccall." sara, who had been vigorously nodding and screwing up her eyes at armitage's back, laughed musically. "anne," she said, "your chauffeur is badly trained as to manners. really, he suggests a man graduated from the fifth avenue buses, don't you know." "you must make allowances, sara; he's only an improvised chauffeur." "i know; but he 's hardly of the chauffeur type. now as a detective--can't you imagine him in a pair of false whiskers?" "i 've always suspected him of a wig," anne giggled, "or reinforced putees." with a quick jerking of levers, armitage stopped the car. he turned around, looked at sara quietly for a moment and then at anne. something in her face told him what he wanted to know. "sara," he said, "for a first-class, large gauge sieve, i commend you to any one." chapter xvi the adventure materializes sara bowed with mock humility and then raising her head, looked anne straight in the eyes. "miss wellington, i present mr. armitage, an officer--a lieutenant, i think--of the united states navy." anne sat silent for a second and then stretched her hand out over the seat, laughing. "what a situation!" she exclaimed. "i am pleased to know that my 'dying gladiator'--" she paused, and looked inquiringly at armitage, who had taken and released her hand in silence. "i don't wish to be impertinent," she continued at length, flushing vividly, "but i feel it is my right to know why you posed as a physical instructor and entered service in our house. surely i--you--you must have had some good reason." "anne," sara hastened to relieve armitage of apparent confusion, or irritation, she could not tell which, "naturally his reasons for the deceit were excellent." she looked at her friend with a significant raising of the brows. "i--those reasons still exist, do they not, jack?" she scowled admonishingly at him. armitage, who plainly diagnosed sara's drift, was smiling broadly, as anne looked at him with a curious, wondering expression. "they still exist--decidedly, sara," he said. he paused for a second, and then continued in the lamest sort of way, "will you let me be a driver just a little while longer, miss wellington? it is really important. when i explain everything you 'll understand. of course, i 've been governed by the best motives." anne was somewhat more dignified. "certainly, i have not the slightest objection to having a naval officer for a driver--if you have none. i must say, though, i shall be eager to learn the reasons for your rather--rather unconventional behavior." "you shall be the first one to know," replied jack, with quite a different meaning in mind than that which sara van valkenberg read, whose eyes, by the way, were dancing with excitement. there was an awkward silence for a moment and jack was turning to the wheel when anne leaned forward. "you must tell me about the navy, sometime," she said. "i have begun to feel i am rather a poor american. where are you attached?" "i 'm with the torpedo flotilla at present," said armitage. "by the way, miss wellington, that reminds me of my request for liberty to-night. the boats are going out and--and--it's rather important i go with them. i shall be back before midnight." "oh!" sara's exclamation was so sharp and eager that both jack and anne started. "i have it!" she leaned forward eagerly as both turned to her. "i know. we 'll make him take us out with the boats to-night. can you imagine anything more thrilling? i have never been on a naval vessel in my life--and they 'll shoot torpedoes. night attack, port arthur, and all that sort of thing, don't you know." anne was quite carried away. "good! oh, that would be--" she stopped short as a sudden thought came to her. "do you suppose--" she said slowly, "that you could, mr. armitage? i should love the experience. but perhaps--" "nonsense," interrupted sara. "of course he can take us. did n't we see that crowd of women on one of the torpedo boats at the king's cup race?" "that boat was not in commission," said jack. "you might be court-martialled if the commanding officer of the flotilla saw you." he spoke lightly, but running clearly through his mind was the uncompromising phraseology of article 250 of the navy regulations: "officers commanding fleets, divisions, or ships shall not permit women to reside on board of, or take passage in, any ship of the navy in commission for sea service." violation of this meant court-martial and perhaps dismissal from the service. and yet sara's proposition thrilled him potently. he could not deny his eagerness to do as the young women wished. to have anne at his side for long hours on a footing of equality! as he looked at her now with her lips parted, her eyes blazing with interest, her cheeks flushed, the penalty of disobeying that odious article 250 seemed, at worst, slight. besides, the _d'estang_ was assigned to him for special service to do with her as he saw fit. there might be a loophole there. anne, who had been pondering his words, looked up. "if you are thinking only of us, i should n't mind one bit. i should love dearly to go. i have often seen the torpedo boats from my windows and wished to be on one of them. they look so black and venomous!" "all right. i'll take you." armitage looked at them with serious face. "there may be some danger. it is n't yachting, you know." "of course it isn't," said sara. "certainly not," echoed anne. "and besides, mr. armitage, i 've never faced real danger in my life--except once when my polo pony ran away. oh, i want to go!" "i should like to change my clothes." armitage glanced humorously at his livery. "of course," said anne. "i tell you; you leave us at berger's, drive home and change your clothes, then you can pick us up there and we 'll leave the car at o'neill's until we return. how is that? we will have a lobster ordered for you." "don't bother about that, please. i shall have to run over to the island when i come back from the crags, to prepare the way. take a taxicab and be at the navy landing--no, that would n't be wise; some one might see you. go to the new york yacht club station and i, or johnson, my second, will be there in the _d'estang_'s launch. we are the outer boat in the slips and you can come aboard over the stern without any one seeing you. don't be a minute later than seven-thirty o'clock--that is," he added, "if you are serious about making the trip." "serious!" exclaimed sara. "oh, we are serious," said anne, "and mr. armitage--you 're awfully good!" a tall, grave, young ensign met the two excited girls at the hour designated and shot them across the bay to the torpedo boat slips in silence. "he 's a nice-looking boy," whispered sara. "but i wonder,--he does n't seem altogether to approve." anne, who had been studying the officer, smiled easily. "that isn't it; he's embarrassed. for heaven's sake, sara, don't try to make me feel _de trop_ at this stage." the young man _was_ embarrassed; anne had diagnosed correctly. and it was with great relief that he turned them over to armitage, who led them to a hatch and thence down a straight iron ladder to the wardroom. anne watched the precise steward adjusting a centrepiece of flowers upon the mess table and then glanced around the apartment, which was lined with rifles, cutlasses, and revolvers in holsters. "how interesting, mr. armitage," she said. "do you recall the last time we were in a cabin together?" smiling. "how absurd it was!" "wasn't it," laughed armitage. he left the wardroom and returned in a few minutes with two officers' long, blue overcoats and caps. "these are your disguises. i 'll send an orderly down to take you up to the bridge when we get well under way--" "do we really have to wear these?" sara viewed the overcoats with mock concern. "must," laughed armitage. "it is going to be cold and it looks like rain. i 'd tuck my hair up under the caps as much as possible if i were you. damp salt air is bad for hair." "you mean you wish us to look like men," asserted sara. "i merely want you to be appropriate to the picture." sara looked at him mischievously. "why not the entire uniform, then?" "sara!" cried anne, as jack ducked out of the door. "anne," sara placed her hand on anne's arm, "are you interested in jack armitage?" the girl looked at the dark burning cheeks of the handsome full-blooming young woman in front of her. "don't be silly, sara." "i 'm not silly," said mrs. van valkenberg, half humorously. "i really want to know." "why?" "why, because if you 're not, i want you to keep in the background. for i think i 'd--rather like to--enlist in the navy." anne could not tell why, but sara had succeeded in irritating her. chapter xvii the night attack as a smart young seaman escorted the two young women to the bridge and placed them beside the six-pounder gun, the two destroyers, _jefferson_ and _d'estang_ and the torpedo boats _barclay, rogers, bagley, philip,_ and _dyer_ were sweeping between fort adams and rose island in echelon formation. long columns of gray-black smoke pouring from the funnels, mingled with the heavy haze of the august evening. there was a bobble of a sea on and as the _jefferson_ signalled for the vessels to come up into line, the scene presented by the grim, but lithe torpedo boats, each hurrying across the waves to its appointed position, rolling in the sea hollows and pitching clouds of spray over grimy bows, appealed suggestively to miss wellington, who stood with her hand tightly clenched in sara's. huge blue-black clouds, with slivery shafts showing through the rents the wind had made, banked the western horizon, and out to seaward the yellow brenton reef light vessel rolled desolate on the surge. "is n't it beautiful," murmured anne, half to herself. "it is so different from being on the _mayfair_, is n't it?" [illustration: "is n't it beautiful," murmured anne. "so different from being on the _mayfair_, is n't it?"] sara nodded. "so much more fun," she replied. "much more thrilling." as a matter of fact, the atmosphere of expectancy filled the vessel. armitage, concerned with the navigation of the ship, his cap reversed to keep the wind from getting under the peak and lifting it into the sea, had neglected them utterly, and the junior had not withdrawn his head from the chart booth for half an hour. time and again jack's face swept past, unseeing them, toward the quartermaster with hands on the wheel, at the rear of the bridge, crying crisply: "helm to port." and the quartermaster replied as he twisted the wheel: "helm to port, sir." then-"ease your helm!" "ease your helm, sir." the dark had fallen now. ahead the point judith acetylene buoy sent its rays toward them. when they came abreast of it, it was pitch black and the white light on watch hill was made out to the southeastward. suddenly from the _jefferson's_ deck a series of red and white lights began to wink and blink. answering signals twinkled over a mile of water and the boats stopped their engines, rolling like logs on the waters. armitage walked over to anne and sara, who, in their coats and caps, looked not unlike officers themselves. "how do you like it?" "oh, it is terribly interesting!" said anne. "what are you going to do now?" "wait for the battleships, i imagine," said armitage. "we don't really torpedo them," he added. "the object is to get as close as possible without being observed. they try to locate us with searchlights. as soon as they see us they put the light on us and fire a red star. after that star is fired the discovered boat must steam full speed for the quarry for one minute and then fire a green star and turn on her lights. the distance from the battleship to the boat is measured and if we are within torpedo range, two thousand yards, the torpedo boat wins. if the distance is greater, we are technically out of action--the battleship wins." "how interesting!" anne gazed at armitage admiringly. "and that is what you would do in real warfare then--rush into the very face of the battleship's firing in the effort to blow her up?" "about that," smiled armitage. "but what a risk! you must steam through a perfect hail of bullets, with chances of striking with your torpedo largely against you. and even if you do strike you are liable to pay the price with your lives. am i not right?" "these pirates of the flotilla," laughed jack, "do not think of the price. they 're in the navy to think of other things." "and is that the spirit of the american navy?" "of course," armitage looked at her curiously. "why not?" anne laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "oh, i don't know. i know something of the british and french navies, but patriotism--the sort of spirit you speak of--has always appeared to me such an abstract thing as regards america. it's because, i suppose, i have never known anything about it, because i have been more or less of an expatriate all my life." jack had been watching a display of ardois lights from the _jefferson's_ mast. he turned away, but spoke over his shoulder. "don't be that, miss wellington, for you have proved to me that a girl or a child, reared as you have been, can be american in every instinct and action. i had never believed that." he hurried away to the bridge rail and anne's arm turned red under the impress of sara's fingers. in compliance with the _jefferson's_ signals, the engines of the flotilla began to throb and the boats turned to the eastward. a cry came from the _d'estang's_ lookout. anne and sara leaned forward and saw that a blundering sailing vessel--her dark sails a blotch against the sky, her hull invisible--was careening just ahead. she had no lights, and curses on the heads of coastwise skippers who take risks and place other vessels in jeopardy merely to save oil, swept through the flotilla like ether waves. armitage let a good anglo-saxon objurgation slip from his tongue as he turned toward the yeoman. "half speed!" "half speed, sir," answered the yeoman as he tugged at the engine room telegraph. all eyes were now on the schooner. how was she heading? a group of seamen stood beside armitage and johnson on the bridge, trying to ascertain that important point. a flash of lightning gave a momentary glance of greasy sails bulged to port. "she 's on the starboard tack, crossing the flotilla!" "all right." there was relief in jack's voice as he called for full speed ahead. "it's no fun to ram a merchantman, with all the law you get into," said the signal quartermaster, standing near the young women. "and if they hit you, good-bye." but the schooner had a knowing captain. he had no intention of trying to cross all those sharp bows. he quickly tacked between the _d'estang_ and _barclay_ and passed the rest of the boats astern. slowly the boats were loafing along now. at ten-thirty the jefferson winked her signals at the rest of the flotilla. "put out all lights." as the young women glanced over the sea the truck lights died responsively. then the green and red starboard and port lamps and lights in wardroom and galley went out and men hurried along the deck placing tarpaulins over the engine room gratings. only the binnacle lights remained and these were muffled with just a crack for the helmsman to peer through. a great blackness settled over the waters. to anne, always an impressionable girl, it was as though all life had suddenly been obliterated from the face of them. her hand tightened its grasp on sara's fingers, for as the vessel plunged along there was a palpable impression that the flotilla, now hurrying forward in viewless haste, was pitched for the supreme test. off to the seaward signal lights from the parent ship _racine_, having on board the officer in charge of the navy's mobile defences--which is to say, torpedo boats--had flared and died. the battleships were approaching. anne, quivering with excitement, peered out through the night; nothing but darkness. below, lined along the rails, she caught dull outlines of the white caps of the seamen, all as eager to defeat the battleships as their officers. she saw the phosphorescent gleam from a shattered wave. but she heard nothing, not even the swish of water. johnson approached diffidently, and leaned over the rail at their side, straining his eyes into the night. "the chances of making a successful attack," he said, "are best if we approach from almost ahead, a little on the bow. then we are lessening the distance between us at the sum of the speeds of the flotilla and the battleships. we 'll hit up about twenty-five knots when we see them. of--" a low incisive voice sounded forward, a blotch of a hand and arm pointing. there was a movement on the bridge as a dark object came close. it was the _jefferson_. a dull figure leaned over her bridge with a megaphone. "we 've blown out some boiler tubes and scalded a couple of men, _d'estang_. go in ahead." "all right," jack's voice was muffled. again came the voice of the lookout and the arm pointed ahead. "oh!" anne pinched sara's arm. "i see them. see those great black shadows over there?" she stepped forward. "shall i tell them?" but armitage had seen. he turned to the yeoman. "full speed, ahead!" "full speed, ahead, sir." the slender hull throbbed with the giant pulsings of the two sets of engines. there was not another sound. it was as though the vessel were plunging through an endless void. in the darkness astern arose a spear-like puff of crimson flame. again it appeared and again, quivering, sinister. "damn the _barclay_; she's torching!" there came a shout from out of the dark and in an instant two great beams of lambent light cut wide swaths through the pall. they were too high; they missed the _d'estang_ altogether and rested on the _barclay's_ smoke, which rose and tumbled and billowed and writhed like a heavy shroud in the ghastly shafts. "they 've missed us and are trying to get the _barclay_. come on!" jack's voice was vibrant with the joy of the test. he was kneeling on the bridge, a megaphone in his hand. he turned it toward the women. "crouch down beside that gun and stay down, please, until this is over." as he spoke, the leading battleship, the dreadnaught _arizona_, was getting her searchlight beams down, and all unseen, the _d'estang_ and she were approaching each other at a total speed of thirty-seven knots. nearer they came and the destroyer was almost to the great dark blur, with the shining arms radiating from her like living tails from a dead comet, when, with terrible suddenness and intensity almost burning, the _arizona_ flashed a sixty-inch searchlight directly down on the destroyer's bridge. sara stifled a scream and anne bowed her head to the deck to shut out the fearful blaze. armitage, standing upright now and rubbing open his eyes, saw that the time had come to turn, and quickly. the _d'estang_ was approaching the battleship, pointing toward her port bow. the idea of the manoeuvre was to turn in a semicircle, passing the _arizona_ at a distance of about two hundred yards. he shouted the order. "hard--a--port." there was an instant's silence and the face of the quartermaster was seen to turn pale in the glare of the relentless searchlight. "wheel rope carried away, sir." armitage fairly threw himself across the bridge, but johnson was there first. quiet, unemotional johnson, his hat off now, his hair dishevelled, and his eyes blazing. "the helm is jambed hard a-starboard!" he cried. in an instant the situation crystallized itself into a flashing picture upon anne's mind. she had held the wheel on her father's yacht; but it was not that which made her see. it was divination, which fear or danger sometimes brings to highly sensitized minds--just as it brought the same picture to sara's mind. with helm thus jambed, it meant that the _d'estang_ would have to turn in the same direction in which the _arizona_ was ploughing along at a twelve-knot speed. in making this turn she could not possibly clear, but must strike the battleship. on the other hand she was too near to be stopped in time to avoid going across the bows of that great plunging mass of drab steel, and being cut in two. anne, crouching immovable, her eyes fixed on armitage, saw his head half turn in her direction, then with the automatic movement of a machine, he reached for the port engine room telegraph and with a jerk threw the port engine full speed astern. the bridge quivered as though it were being torn from its place; throughout the hull sounded a great metallic clanking. there came a new motion. the destroyer was spinning like a top, the bow almost at a standstill, the stem swinging in a great arc. it was like the working out of a problem in dynamics. nearer they came. anne could now make out the great shape of the battleship; the dull funnels belching black clouds of smoke, which, merging with the night, were immediately absorbed; the shadowy, basket-like masts, from which the search-light rays went forth; the long, vaguely protruding twelve-inch guns. a whistle, tremulous and piercing, shrilled along the battleship's deck; dull white figures were clambering into the port life boats. still closer now! anne could hear the heavy swish of waters under the _arizona's_ bows. her nerves were tight strung, prepared for the crash of steel against steel and the shock of the submersion. there was no sound from the _arizona_ now. her bridge had echoed with shouts of warning. the time for that had passed. armitage had not uttered a sound. straight he stood by the telegraph, tense and rigid, his hand clutching the lever. around came the stern with fearful momentum, so close--but clear of the giant hull--that the gunner's mate at the stern torpedo tube took his chew of tobacco and, as he afterwards put it, "torpedoed the battleship with his eyes shut." now the stern was pointed directly toward the _arizona_, hardly five yards away. armitage, bending over the telegraph, jerked sharply upon the lever, throwing the port engine full speed ahead again. he stood up and glanced quickly astern. like a live thing, the _d'estang_ jumped clear. sara leaned heavily on anne's shoulder with little tearless sobs. but anne, crouching in the position she had maintained since the search-light had blinded the bridge, still watched jack with eyes that seemed to transfix him. a figure leaped to the end of the battleship's bridge. "the admiral's compliments, _d'estang_!" the engines were stopped now and armitage and johnson and a group of men were working at the helm. sara raised her head. "anne," she said solemnly. "i never wanted to kiss a man until this minute." mischievously she made a move as though to arise. the girl's hand clenched upon her arm. "don't be an idiot," she said. "can't you see how busy they are? besides, sara, no man likes to be kissed by two girls--at the same time." as jack, once more a chauffeur, drove under the _porte cochã¨re_ at the crags, shortly before one o'clock, anne sat for a moment in her seat after her friend had alighted. sara looked back with a little smile and then walked toward the door, which a footman had opened. "mr. armitage," said anne in a low voice, "i want to thank you for many things to-night--for one thing above all. i cannot tell you what it is, for i hardly know myself." she paused, and jack, who was toying with the switch lever, looked at her curiously. "it's a new viewpoint, i fancy. somehow--i have a feeling that there is more to this country, my country, than fifth avenue, central park, tuxedo, long island, and newport--something bigger and finer than railroads. i am glad to feel that, and i thank you." chapter xviii anne wellington has her first test sara was waiting for anne in the hall. she had taken off her hat and stood idly swinging it. a single globe was lighted in the chandelier overhead and the extremities of the great apartment were lost in gloom. "well, dear," sara yawned broadly, "i fancy we shall sleep to-night." anne had thrown her arm over sara's shoulders and they were walking toward the stairs when koltsoff appeared from the shadow, confronting them. "oh! prince koltsoff! how you frightened me," said anne in a low voice, drawing back. "a thousand pardons. it would have grieved me had i thought of doing that." sara observed him with irritation. there was, however, so much of the exotic about the man, as to render him attractive, even to her. tall, well--if slimly--built; in manner graceful--"silken" was the designation that occurred to her--there could be no question as to the potency of his personality: a potency, by the way, from whose spell, she had learned in various ways throughout the evening, anne was not entirely aloof. it was perfectly clear to sara, that with armitage, strong and clever in a wholesome masculine way, anne was the light-hearted, mischievous, pure-minded girl--his ideal of american young womanhood. but now she caught the other note of her character--an untrue note, but none the less positive--and the other look in her eyes. her voice was deeper, more womanly, more surcharged with underlying things, as she spoke to the russian, and sara could see she was breathing more rapidly. "i have been waiting to see you, miss wellington," he was saying. "i have waited so long." there was a note of pathos in his voice. "is it important--now?" asked anne, and her friend tugged at her sleeve. "i am very tired and sleepy." "for a few moments, that is all," persisted the prince gently. "is it too much?" sara, inwardly raging, detected the subtle appeal which this man, so versed apparently in the emotions of womanhood, was making to the inherent maternal, protective, sympathetic instincts of the girl, who, now they were aroused, was smiling patiently. "very well, prince koltsoff. don't bother to wait, sara. good-night." "such a day of weariness, miss wellington,", said the prince, as he followed anne to a bench running along the foot of the staircase. "one of my men,--calf-head,--was arrested in boston." "arrested! really! what had he been doing?" "nothing, i assure you, save trying to leave this bestial country. he had been of service to me in newport and elsewhere. i was worried. i am worried. he was allowed to go. but they took valuable papers concerning austria from him. how can i get them? am i undone?" koltsoff raised his eyes. "how can i say? steinberg at boston is in maine. and so--" koltsoff tossed his hand in the air--"i have spent," he at last continued, "more than twenty thousand roubles on the matter. i have spent five thousand roubles on the dumbhead, yeasky, who has not the brains or courage of a mouse. i am discouraged." he caught her hand, pressed it to his forehead, and released it. "but i oppress you with my diplomatic cares," he murmured. "it has been the first time i ever burdened a woman with them. you--you are different, because you are of the few gifted to bear, to solve them." anne made no reply. "you hold safely that which i placed in your keeping?" he asked after a pause. his hand felt its way to hers, lying inert on the cushion, his fingers closing softly upon it. she did not withdraw it, but lowered her head. "was it in connection with that your man was arrested in boston?" koltsoff laughed. "they thought to connect him with it. but--" he pressed anne's fingers, "the connecting link happened to be in your--jewelry safe." anne, thrilled at the part she was playing in the mysterious diplomatic episode, laughed softly. somehow it all appeared bigger even than dodging under battleships' bows,--certainly more subtle. koltsoff gazed at her admiringly. "my dear miss wellington," he said, "do you realize more and more, that of which i spoke to-day--your fitness for the international sphere? your beauty--your coolness--the temper of your spirit--your ability to sway strong men, as you have swayed me--do you appreciate all? are you proud that you have swayed me?" "prince koltsoff!" anne's voice rang with doubt and anguish and yet--pride. she was tired and spent with the day and as his arm stole, almost snake-like, about her waist, she raised a nerveless hand, plucked feebly to remove the fingers pressing into her side, and then let her hand fall to the cushion. his head was bending over her, his face was very close. some vivid instinct told her that he must not kiss her. she tried to struggle but she could not. the next instant she was living that epoch which innocence may only know ere it perishes--a man's lips making free with eyes and mouth and cheeks. she lay now, half in his arms, looking at him with wide, startled eyes, her lips parched. "anne," he bent forward to kiss her again, but she turned her head away and then, again, her unchanging eyes sought his face. "what i have done--what i have meant, i shall make clear to your parents to-morrow. to you i can say nothing now. you--ah, of course know the european custom." "please let me go." there was a tired sob in anne's voice. "but i have not yet told you that which i wish to say." anne tore from his arm and started up. "you haven't! oh, very well. i am listening." "you were out with the torpedo boats tonight. you were upon the boat with lieutenant armitage." "i--" anne paused. armitage, without attempting to obtain promises of secrecy as to the mission of the flotilla, had pointed out that all information of the sort was absolutely confidential and that above all the ability of a torpedo boat destroyer to get within two hundred yards of a battleship was not news that the government would care to have disseminated, even though it were the exception rather than the rule. this thought shot through anne's mind. "you quite surprise me," she said finally. "oh, i really do not," smiled koltsoff. "as i have informed you, we diplomats are omnipresent. therefore i do not surprise you when i say that you and your friend were on the _d'estang_; that the _jefferson_ had an accident and sent two scalded men to the hospital. all that--pouf!" koltsoff snapped his fingers. "that is immaterial--who cares about such manoeuvres as the navy of the united states indulge in! but," and koltsoff bent toward her with unwinking eyes, "this is important: the _d'estang_ became separated from the rest of the fleet and there are reports that she discharged a new sort of torpedo at the battleship. that is interesting--important to me. i feared i could not ascertain until i learned that my skilled coadjutor, my fellow diplomat," he nodded at her, "was present on the _d'estang_." "why do you ask me? why don't you apply to mr. armitage?" "ah, he would tell me, of course!" laughed koltsoff sarcastically. "in any event, i have yet to know him. he was at washington when i arrived in newport, and since his return has been at the torpedo station but one night. my men have not been able to find him." anne had forgotten her weariness now. "there seems to be something, at least, in the american navy that you find worthy of close interest," she said. an expression of indifference settled upon the prince's face. "ah, if you know of the navy, you know the nations are always interested in the new devices and plans of other nations. i once paid fifteen thousand roubles for the plans of an english fort." "and so diplomacy is stealing or buying information, then?" "diplomacy is anything, anne." "you interest me, prince koltsoff." "but the _d'estang_--i imagine she was not successful with her torpedoing." inwardly he was cursing yeasky, as he had been all the evening; yeasky had never missed a trip of the _d'estang_. anne, beginning to see, had worked into her cool, malicious mood. "you must not be so imaginative," she gaped [transcriber's note: gasped?]. "and now if you 'll excuse me--it's two o'clock." "but anne--miss wellington!" the prince was at her side. "you do not really intend to deny me!" he shook his head, as though dazed. "it cannot be possible that our understanding is so incomplete. i had dared to hope, to believe that our interests were so swiftly merging. and what is it that i ask! merely a slight question about the _d'estang_. anne--is it upon so little a thing that you fail me? would that you might try _me_ with a bigger, greater test. you should see!" "do you mean that, really?" "as god is my judge!" cried the prince fervently. "then," said anne seriously, "say good-night to me. pardon me, but i am tired." "but the _d'estang_," cried koltsoff insistently. "my plans--my life--" "what!" interrupted anne, as a thought was born of his words. "i understood that this was merely a matter of routine naval intelligence." koltsoff mopped his forehead. "that is true," he hastened to say, "but matters of routine are the greater part of the lives of such as we. our success depends upon it, alone. pardon me, but i must insist that you tell me what i have asked." he had almost backed her against the wainscoting. "and i won't tell you, prince koltsoff." "why not, pray?" "i will tell you why," her voice quivered with emotion. "this morning you convinced me pretty thoroughly that i had no right to call myself an american. i still feel that way, don't you know. but to-night i 've seen brave and devoted men risking their lives and perfecting themselves in their calling not only through professional interest but through love of their country and their flag, and dare-devil enthusiasm in serving under a flag that means so much to them. the father of the junior officer on the _d'estang_ is a farmer and the captain of the _barclay_ is the son of an insurance clerk. but they're all of one cut and out of one mould--american fighting men who would shoot or knock down any one who dared utter in their presence such words as i have listened to from you--more shame to me--without a single emotion, save amusement." she ran on breathlessly, "whatever happened on the _d'estang_ to-night, important or unimportant, is the concern of the navy of my country alone. hereafter, in anything you say or do, prince koltsoff, remember i am learning to be an american--" she stopped and smiled at her own ardor, "so please don't say anything to discourage me." koltsoff, who had been listening in silence, without making a movement, suddenly bowed his head. "i am sorry, miss wellington!" his voice was broken and sincerely so. "i misunderstood!" he sank to one knee and seized the bottom of her skirt. "don't, prince koltsoff, please!" anne was swiftly relenting. she drew her skirt away and the prince arising took her hand. "ah, please!" she said. "not until i hear you are not angry." "i am not angry." he had drawn her close to him and they were looking into each other's eyes. "what is it?" she asked weakly. her very personality seemed ebbing from her. "you love me?" his voice was almost a whisper. she smiled wanly. "_is_ this love?" "is it! what is love? love is giving--yielding. love knows neither country nor patriotism nor religion!" his glittering eyes were still holding hers. "and so," his voice was low but masterful, "i ask you--not that i care vitally for the answer of itself; you must know, must understand my motives--i ask you, did the _d'estang_ discharge a torpedo to-night?" long they looked at each other and then slowly the girl shook her head. "you mean no? she did not?" koltsoff's voice was eager, his arms tightened about her. "i do not mean anything." then suddenly she twisted out of his arms and stood with white face and parted lips, pointing to the stairway. "now," she cried, "go! go, i tell you," she stamped her foot as koltsoff hesitated. "go, or i shall hate you!" chapter xix an encounter in the dark while anne was detained below by koltsoff, sara had gone to her room. she lay awake for a long time and when her maid informed her that emilia was still waiting for her mistress, she gave up the idea of seeing her and went to sleep. armitage in the meantime had placed the car in the garage, entered the house by the servants' door, and was now sitting in his stocking feet, smoking a pipe, waiting for quiet to fall upon the house. his nerves were still taut with the events of the evening; his mind very much awake and alert. he thrilled with the thought that in all probability he would have a commendatory letter from the admiral to send to his father and that a duplicate would be published to the fleet. as for his position in the house, that was hourly growing more precarious. so far as he could gather, almost every one but the prince and the wellington boys knew his identity, and it certainly could not be long before this ignorant minority would be wiped out. there must be action, and quick action. with the prince away for the night the opportunity could never be better. he was bent now on taking advantage of it. it was nearly three o'clock when he left his room, walked along the heavily carpeted hall, and descended the stairs in the front of the house to the second floor. the dim light was flowing from the hall below but no lamps were lighted above. he turned, crouching, and made his way along toward koltsoff's rooms. footsteps sounded on the stairs and as he flattened himself against the wall the skirts of a woman fluttered past him. a second later the door of miss wellington's rooms opened and in the light rushing forth, he saw anne enter. she was weeping. he heard the exclamation of the maid and anne saying something in reply. then the door closed. for five minutes armitage remained immovable. then taking from his pocket a skeleton key and a long thin roll of wire he crept to koltsoff's door, which he had marked in the afternoon. as he placed his hand on the knob it turned in his grasp and opened. there was a single electric bulb, burning in a crimson globe, and although armitage had time to jump back, the light flowing from the open door fell full upon him. he stood breathing quickly, watching the newcomer, his forearm poised along his waist, the fist doubled. without a word, the man slowly closed the door. as armitage waited an electric dark-light flashed in his face with blinding suddenness. then it went out. "not now," came a whispered voice, "prince koltsoff has returned. he has but gone into his room." jack did not reply. his hand shot into his pocket and came out with a dark-light similar to that which had been used against him. as he aimed the instrument and pressed the spring a brown seamed face with a head of heavy dark hair appeared in the centre of the illumination. "let us have done with lights; they are not necessary," said the man. the voice was cultivated, the manner gentle. "and besides, they are not safe." "what do you want?" armitage's voice rose with an impatient inflection. "i might ask that of you," was the soft reply. "but come, a fair exchange, you know, since our quarry seems to be the same. although passing as prince koltsoff's secretary, in reality i am turnecki, of the austrian state department. you are of the secret service of this country." jack was cautious. "i am a burglar, if you must know," he said. "and if you make any outcry, i 'll kill you." "oh, no you are not," smiled the man, shaking his head. without a word armitage leaned forward and seized the man by the arm. "come to my room with me," he said. there was great dignity in the man's voice as he placed his hand admonishingly upon jack's arm. "don't do that. i am quite ready to go with you." but jack's fingers closed more tightly. "i am glad you feel that way," he said grimly, "because i want to talk to you. however, i think i 'll make sure. come on." at the stairs he gently pushed the man ahead of him and followed him to his door. he switched on the light and then, mindful of the watchman on the grounds below, threw a heavy towel over the globe. "now, herr turnecki, or koltsoff's secretary, or anything you please to call yourself," he said indicating a chair,--he himself stood at the bureau filling his pipe,--"tell me what i can do for you." the man bowed, and for a moment they gazed at each other. armitage could not dismiss an impression of suspicion concerning him, but aside from something familiar in face and figure and in some of the tones of his voice, he was unable to place him. the putative austrian seemed to read jack's thoughts. "let me first prove," he said at length, "that i am friendly to you--and perhaps to your interests. i recognized you this morning as an american naval officer i had met two years ago in vienna. it is my business not to forget faces. you must be aware that i have not informed my--" he grimaced--"master of your identity." "that is true," said armitage ruefully. "as a detective i appear to be about as much of a success as a farmer at the helm of a battleship." "ah, well," observed the other, "it is a business." he looked at armitage closely. "i admire the united states. can i be of service?" "perhaps," said armitage, "but you spoke of similar interests. what can i do for you?" "nothing, i fear," said the austrian. "you must know that recently this man koltsoff purchased, in some way, the mobilization plans of our army on our northeastern, that is, the russian frontier. possession of these by russia will seriously affect the attitude of our chief, baron aehrenthal, toward the state department at st. petersburg. so close was the espionage, in which i have played no small part, that he was unable to get them out of his hands before his vessel sailed for new york from fiume. i fear now, however, that such is not the case." "you mean he has mailed or expressed them?" asked jack. the man shook his head. "such things are never transmitted in that way." jack's heart bounded with relief. "well, would n't that be a reason for attempting it?" "i should be happy to know that the plans were on their way to the post office in st. petersburg," shrugging his shoulders. "they would soon be on their return journey--and not by mail." "oh," cried armitage, suddenly remembering his conversation with thornton. "i think i can put you in the way of recovering your stolen plans." thereupon he told of the capture of yeasky and of the papers taken from him, already in the keeping of the secret service men in boston. as he spoke turnecki leaned forward, his eyes blazing, uttering subdued german exclamations. when armitage had concluded he sprang forward and seized jack by the hand and then after the manner of his country, kissed him on the cheek. "a thousand thanks!" he cried. "my servitude ends now; for when koltsoff awakens i shall be _en route_ for boston. you said that you would send on an order for their delivery." "yes, i 'll write that now--and then i 'll tell you what you can do for me. of course, you understand that the secret service chaps will require the austrian consul to vouch for you." "oh, i understand that, of course," said the man. "all right." armitage took his fountain pen from his coat lying on the bed and leaned across the bureau, about to write, when he abruptly laid the pen down and half closed his eyes. some new thought seemed filling his mind and moving him deeply. "just a second," he said at length. he walked across the room, jerked the towel from the lamp, gazed closely at the man for an instant, and then with an exclamation continued to the door, which he locked, placing the key in his pocket. returning he stood directly in front of the man, who had arisen. "well," he said, "of all fools, commend me! how do you feel, yeasky, with your beard off and wig on; your german dialect and your painted scar?" the man looked at armitage with face utterly expressionless. "you are mistaken," he said. "am i?" sneered jack. "i have been mistaken so far as you are concerned several times in the past." he laughed grimly. "but not this time, old boy. come, pass out that control." "i have n't it." "you lie. take off your coat." yeasky deliberately divested himself of his coat and threw it at jack's feet. then he slapped all his pockets. "you see," he said, "i have not got it." "who has?" "koltsoff, i suppose. he did not speak of it to me." "what did he speak of? what are you here for? you were released upon condition that you leave this country. i suppose you know i can put you in the way of spending several years in an american jail." "i had intended going, but i received his orders and had to come to him. so i escaped from the steamship, and returned to newport." "did you want to come?" "no, i am sick of the service. it is all work and danger and no credit. he receives it all." "then why did you obey his orders?" yeasky raised his shoulders and smiled significantly. "siberia," he said. "the arms of such as koltsoff are very long in cases of those who fail them." "what did koltsoff want you here for?" "to confer with me. he thought we would be safe from spies here. when i saw you i hoped to get an order for the return of the austrian plans." "ump! you nearly succeeded. did you tell koltsoff i suspected him?" "no, that would have made my work appear even more bungling. listen," added the man earnestly, "i told him i thought my capture had been due to the austrians, whose system of espionage is really wonderful. that is god's truth," raising his hand solemnly. "i should have believed it myself had i not known you knew." "if that is true you have done me rather a good turn," said armitage watching his face closely. yeasky drew from his breast a silver ichon. "it is true." he knelt. "i swear it by this." "a man's oath is no better than his deeds," replied armitage musingly. "look here, yeasky," he added presently. "i tell you what i am going to do. i am going to turn you over to chief roberts of the newport police and he will hold you for two or three days under an assumed name on the charge of burglary. no one but the watchman and the police and myself will know of your arrest. when i recover the control you will be released, free to stay in this country or go where you please. the only condition is that you attempt in no way to communicate with koltsoff." the man bowed his head thoughtfully. "besides," resumed armitage, "i don't know how the secret service people feel about the austrian plans. i imagine koltsoff has been making representations to the state department, and since this government has no business with them, they may hand them over. if i can help you there, i shall do so. now," he concluded, "there is the proposition; take it or leave it." "i'll take it!" replied yeasky. "as for the austrian plans, you need not bother about them. you have promised me freedom after two or three days if i keep silent. that is all i ask. ever since i have been in this country i have been on the point of making up my mind to become a citizen. the russian government cannot touch me here, can it?" "not unless you have committed a crime." "i have committed many crimes; none, however, against the russian government. i am weary of koltsoff, weary of this service, weary of this life. there is much money for me here in the practice of my profession." "you 've already worked in this country, have n't you. your letter of recommendation from the eastern electric--" "was forged," said yeasky quietly. "no, i have never been employed here. i came from fiume with prince koltsoff. i had some thought at the time of deserting; but i was afraid. now my mind is made up. i want to remain here; i shall remain. i have a brother in chicago." "good," said armitage. "come on, now, quickly." softly they went down the stairs, and after switching off the burglar alarm, jack escorted the man out of the servants' door, where he whistled softly. the watchman came up on the run. "here's a burglar i caught," said jack cheerfully. "he was lurking in the second floor hallway." the watchman, a former new york policeman, was not excited. "all right," he said. "we 'll take him to the gate house and telephone for the patrol." this was done and within half an hour the sidelights of the heavy vehicle plunged out of the darkness to the gate. "now, don't worry," whispered armitage, as the man was bundled into the wagon. "i 'll have the chief on the 'phone within five minutes. remember your part." yeasky nodded, and the wagon rumbled away. it was a very angry chief that jack, sitting in the butler's hallway, got on the 'phone. but within a few minutes he was laughing and promising to obey armitage's wishes in every respect. the clock was striking four when armitage arose from the telephone. he stood, stretching himself and yawning for a moment, and then stole to the stairs. "i have spent eventful days before this," he smiled, "but this one breaks all records." as he slipped past the door of anne's suite, he stopped just an instant. "good-night, anne," he said. chapter xx with reference to the dot armitage gained next morning a very perfect idea of the regard which the wellington household held for the head of it. mr. wellington had waited in new york for the _mayfair_, and not only anne, but mrs. wellington and the boys took their post on the southeastern veranda soon after nine o'clock, while ronald glued his eyes to the big telescope. after he had alternately picked up a white lackawanna tug and a maine-bound steamship as the _mayfair_, anne lost patience. "mother," she said, "why not send for mccall? he used to be a sailor, i believe, and will, no doubt, be able to pick up the yacht miles farther away than we can." something resembling a smile crossed the mother's face. "very well, anne; send for him." a footman was summoned and within a few minutes armitage was the centre of an interested group. he swept the narragansett shore for a few minutes and then turned to mrs. wellington. "there 's a large white yacht with a yellow funnel, which has a silver band on top, this side of point judith," he said. "i can see the red glint of her house flag." "why, that's the _mayfair_!" cried anne. "come on, mother, sara." "she won't be up for three-quarters of an hour, anne," said her mother. "i don't care. come, sara, we 'll raise the flags on the landing ourselves." as sara and anne and the two boys trouped down the path to the cleft in the cliffs, mrs. wellington nodded at jack. "quinn reports that you captured a burglar last night, mccall." jack smiled. "yes, mrs. wellington. i caught him in the hall on the second floor. i had him before he could lift a hand and turned him over to the watchman." "i am indebted to you. what were you doing on the second floor at that hour?" "i could n't sleep and was smoking in my room when i heard some one pass my door. i went out and saw him flashing a dark lantern below. my shoes were off and i had him before he heard me." "that was really clever of you. chief roberts has informed me that he is a professional, wanted on several other charges. when he sends word i want you to press the charge for me. of course this will not appear in the newspapers, so please say nothing to any one about it." as armitage nodded, she looked at him closely. "how long do you intend to stay with us, mccall?" armitage started. "why--i--i--" he paused. "oh, no matter. i thought, perhaps, you might be ambitious to join the police force. i think i could help you." jack, inwardly raging, flushed and glanced at her uncertainly. "thank you," he said, "i 'll consider--i--i 'll let you know." "hang her," he said to himself as he walked toward the garage. "deliver me from an old woman who thinks she has a sense of humor." ronald wellington was a man past fifty, a man whose stature was as large as his mind. he had a shock of gray hair; brilliant hazel eyes like anne's, but overshadowed by shaggy brows; high cheek bones, and straight lips hidden by a heavy gray mustache. it was said of him that his clothing was only pressed when new and that he purchased a new hat only under the combined pressure of his wife and daughter. he had an immense voice which could be gruff or pleasing, as he willed; in all, a big, strong, wholesome personality, unconventional, but in no sense unrefined. he was in striking contrast to his dapper crony, robert marie, who accompanied him from the yacht, a man whose distinction lay in his family, his courtly manners of the old school, and his connoisseurship of wines. mrs. wellington waited on the veranda, but anne, her brothers, and sara were at the landing as the gangway of the yacht was lowered. ronald wellington seized anne by the elbows, an old trick of his, and as she stiffened them he lifted her to his face and kissed her. ronald he slapped on the back, and as for the more sturdy little royal, he lifted him high in the air and placed him on his shoulder, smiling and nodding pleasantly to sara. sara waited for robert marie, and thus the party walked to the house. mrs. wellington advanced to the rail, smiling, and her husband, setting royal on the ground, reached up, seized her hands, and drew her face down to his. "well, girl," he said, "glad to see me?" she withdrew her lips and as sara looked at her, with perhaps a little pathos in her eyes, she saw, spreading over her face that expression, the beauty and charm and inspiration of which are ever the same, in youth and in age, in the countenances of those in whom love still abides unchanging. they sat on the porch for a few minutes and then, having breakfasted on the _mayfair_, mr. wellington went to his study off the library, where mrs. wellington joined him. "well, ronald," she said, "prince koltsoff is here." "yes," he said, "so you--and the newspapers have told me. what is he--another ivan?" "not in any way. he and anne seem to be getting on finely." mr. wellington looked at her. "my mind was so filled with that northern atlantic matter last month when you talked of your prince," he said, "that i don't think i did the question justice. it was too far off--and the railroad mess was so confoundedly near. now then, let's have it." "how--what do you mean?" asked mrs. wellington, a bit uneasily. "what have you been trying to do, belle?" "why, i have n't been trying to do anything. the situation has shaped itself without any effort on my part." "you mean anne loves the russian! bosh! how long has he been here--this is the third day!" the room rang with his laughter. "i did not say that she loved him. i said they seemed to be getting on." mr. wellington clasped his big hands over his knees and gazed at the floor. "belle," he said, after a few minutes, "the idea of anne living away off in a foreign country does n't swallow easily. life is too short--and, belle, i don't think you have ever loved anne quite as i have." mrs. wellington thought for a moment of the adoration which this big man had always held for their daughter--an emotion in no way conflicting with his conjugal devotion and yet equally tremendous, and smiled without a trace of jealousy. "yes, i think that is true," she said. "yet of course you cannot question my love for her. i certainly would be the last to thwart her ambitions." "nor i," returned wellington with a sigh. "and yet, belle, so far as you are concerned, you don't need such a match. your position certainly needs no assurance, either here or abroad. we are not in the business of buying foreign titles, you know. we don't have to. besides, we thrashed all that out when anne was a child. the girl must marry, of course; for years that has hung over me like a bad dream. but it's natural and right and for the best. but, belle, since she has grown up and her marriage has become a question of narrowing time--especially since that french nobleman, de joinville, was buzzing around last year--i have had an ambition for grandchildren that can say 'grandpa' in a language i understand. that is the way i feel about it." his wife laughed at this characteristic speech and reaching out, patted his hand. he, in turn, seized and held her hand, quite covering it. "naturally, ronald, i feel just as you do about having to purchase foreign titles. but it has pleased me to have the prince here, in view of the fact that several others wanted him. it's akin to the satisfaction you feel, i imagine, when you suddenly appear before the public as owner of the controlling interest in a competitor's railroad." "i understand," he replied, and gazed at his wife admiringly. "if i had been as good a railroad man as you are a social diplomat, i should be the only railroad man in the country." he laughed his hearty laugh and then glanced at her seriously. "well, what about anne?" he asked. mrs. wellington was about to reply when her secretary entered. "prince koltsoff is in the library waiting to pay his respects," said the young woman. "he seemed a little impatient and i told him i would tell you." "oh," said mr. wellington, as an expression of annoyance crossed his wife's face, "let him come right in." as he towered over the prince, seizing his hand with a grip that made the latter wince, mrs. wellington could not help noticing a veiled expression of contempt in the nobleman's face. she was aware that to him, her husband represented, of course, the highest plane of existence that americans attain to, and she could see that the things in him, the things he stood for and had done, which would impress the average american or perhaps the englishman, carried no appeal to this russian. to him, she read, ronald wellington, in his great, bagging, ill-fitting clothes, was merely an embodiment of the american pig, whose only title to consideration was the daughter he had to give, and his only warrant of respect, his wealth. "sit down, koltsoff," said her husband heartily, but studying him keenly from under his shaggy brows. "thank you," replied the prince, seating himself luxuriously in a great leather chair. "as you must know, mr. wellington," he said, at the same time inclining his head toward mrs. wellington, "time presses for men in my sphere of life--the diplomatic; that is why i felt i must speak to you at once." "certainly," said mr. wellington, glancing at his wife, "fire away." "your daughter," began the prince, "i am deeply interested in her. i--" he stopped and smiled. mr. wellington nodded. "go on," he said gruffly, now. "i--i believe i love her." "you believe?" "in fact, i do love her. it is about that i wish to speak to you--as to the dower. naturally the sum you would propose--" "wait just a second. not so fast," said mr. wellington. "does my daughter love--wish to marry you?" "i have reason to believe she loves me,"--koltsoff shrugged his shoulders,--"excellent reasons. as to marriage--of course i have no doubt as to her wishes. but first, i must, of course, reach an understanding with you." "how do you mean?" asked mr. wellington, bending forward and impaling the prince with his eyes. "did anne tell you how much she would be willing to have me pay for you?" "certainly not," snapped koltsoff. "well, then, listen, prince koltsoff. you are here now as our guest and we hope to make your sojourn quite pleasant. but," he took a cigar from a box, lighted it, and thrust the box across the table to koltsoff. "but we might as well have a clear understanding. it will be better in every way. i have felt that americans have been altogether too willing to subscribe to european customs in marrying off their daughters. i am going to establish a new precedent, if i can. am i clear?" "what do you mean?" koltsoff's voice quivered with rising indignation. mrs. wellington could not have analyzed her emotions had she tried. all she could do was to sit and watch the tottering of the structure she had reared, under the blows of one who had never before interfered in her plans, but whose word was her law. "i mean that i am unwilling to pay a single red penny for you, or any one else to marry my daughter. if she 's worth anything, she's worth everything. i 'll inform you, however, that she has some money in her own right--not enough to rehabilitate a run-down european estate, but enough to keep the wolf from the door, and, of course, when i get through with it, she 'll share in my estate, which is not inconsiderable." "but prince koltsoff is a man of wealth," said mrs. wellington quietly. "he is not of the broken-down sort." "oh, i know all about that," said her husband. "all the more reason why this precedent i am trying to establish should find favor in his eyes." the prince rose. "i understand you to say that you refuse the dower rights which any european must, of course, expect?" "you do, absolutely. if anne loves you and wants to marry you, that is her right. she is of age. but no dower. not a cent." "and you _love_ your daughter!" koltsoff's voice was withering. mr. wellington arose quickly. "that," he said, "we won't discuss." "very well," koltsoff's voice arose almost to a shriek. "but listen, i do love anne wellington and i think she loves me. and with dower or without it, i 'll marry her. and--and--" he clutched at his throat, "you have heard me. i have spoken. i say no more." and he slammed out of the room. chapter xxi plain sailor talk miss hatch had some inkling of the prince's intention when she ushered him into the wellington study, and as she met sara in the hall on the way out of the library, she held a gloomy countenance. "mrs. van valkenberg," she said in response to sara's bright smile of greeting, "please don't think me impertinent, but--will you, if possible, see that the prince is not alone with miss wellington to-day? and--cannot you prod that terribly sluggish mccall?" sara looked at the young woman wonderingly for a minute and then held out her hand, laughing. "miss hatch, you 're a jewel." sara found jack near the garage. but she did not have much success with him. he was grumpy and, replying to sara's assertion that the situation was rapidly becoming rife with disagreeable possibilities, he replied that he did not care a very little bit, and that anne could marry all the princes in christendom for all he cared. so sara, flushing with impatience, told him he was an idiot and that she would like to shake him. the only satisfaction she derived from the incident was that anne, who came upon them as they were parting, was grumpy, too. synchronous moods in the two persons whose interests she held so closely to heart was a symptom, she told herself, that gave warrant for hope. rimini had turned up with the new car and in it anne, sara, koltsoff, and robert marie went to the casino. mrs. wellington drove to market in her carriage. mr. wellington remained in his study and among other things had buffalo on the telephone for half an hour. armitage spent the morning with the boys and showed them several shifty boxing and wrestling tricks which won ronald to him quite as effectually as the jiu-jitsu grip had won his younger brother the preceding day. at luncheon, anne's peevish mood had not diminished, which, to sara, would have been a source of joy had she not feared that it was due to the fact that koltsoff had not been good company all the morning. he was, in truth, quite at his wits' end to account for the behavior of yeasky, who had been instructed to get into communication with him by ten o'clock, and had failed to do so. thus koltsoff, even when with anne, had been preoccupied and in need of a great deal of entertaining. armitage took him to the city after lunch and as usual was instructed to return to the crags. this gave jack opportunity to see chief roberts and to learn that yeasky was resting easily and cheerfully, apparently eager to live up to the very letter of his contract. anne was in her room when he returned and sara was with her. koltsoff came back in a taxicab in a frightful state of mind, bordering on mental disintegration, about four o'clock--just in time to keep an appointment with his host and marie to drive to the reading room. as he crossed the veranda, a french bull pup ran playfully between his feet and nearly tripped him. he kicked at the animal, which fled squealing down the steps. "hey, you," cried the peppery ronald, "that's my dog." the prince turned with a half snarl and flung himself into the house. "the great big turk!" said ronald, turning to armitage. "what does he want here, anyway?" it was nearly five o'clock when the telephone of the garage rang and armitage was ordered to bring anne's car to the house. her manner was quiet, her voice very low, as she gave him his orders. "to town by the back road," she said. she stopped at one or two stores along thames street and finally settling herself back in her seat, said, "now you can drive home." armitage looked at her for a second. "do you mind if i take a roundabout way? i should like to talk to you." anne returned his gaze without speaking. then she nodded slowly. "yes, if you like," she said. "thank you." he drove the car up the steep side streets, across bellevue avenue, and then headed into a little lane. here he stopped. overhead ash and beech and maple trees formed a continuous arch. gray stone walls hedged either side. beyond each line of wall, pleasant orchards stretched away. the sidewalks were velvet grass. birds of brilliant plumage flashed among the foliage and their twittering cries were the only sounds. patches of gold sunlight lay under the orchard trees, level rays flowed heavily through the branches and rested on the moss-grown stones. the pastoral beauty, the great serenity, the utter peace seemed to preclude words. and the spell was immediately upon the two. the down-turned brim of her hat shaded her eyes, but permitted sunlight to lie upon her mouth and chin and to rest where her hair rippled and flowed about her bare neck. she raised her face--and her eyes, even, level, wondering, sought his. his eyes were the first to fall, but in them she knew what she had read. now the sunlight had fallen so low that it lay on her like a garment of light--she seemed some daughter of hesperus, glorified. the waning afternoon had grown cooler and several blue-white clouds went careening overhead. she looked at them. "how beautiful!" she said. then she looked at him again with her steady eyes. "you wished to talk, you said." jack nodded. "yes, i wish to, but i--i don't know exactly how to say it." she was smiling now. "how may i help you?" he shook his head doggedly. "i am a sailor, miss wellington." "you mean i am to hear plain sailor talk?" she quoted. "good. i am ready." he began with the expression of a man taking a plunge. "miss wellington, i could say a great deal so far--so far as i am concerned, that i have no right to say, now. . . . but--are you going to marry prince koltsoff?" she started forward and then sank back. "you must not ask that," she said. "i know--i understand," he said rapidly, "but--but--you mustn't marry him, you know." "_must n't!_" "miss wellington, i know, it is none of my business. and yet--don't you know," he added fiercely, "what a girl you are? i know. i have seen! you are radiant, miss wellington, in spirit as in face. any man knowing what koltsoff is, who could sit back and let you waste yourself on him would be a pup. thornton, of the _jefferson_, has his record. write to walker, _attachã©_ at st. petersburg, or cook at paris, or miller at london--they will tell you. why, even in newport--" jack paused in his headlong outburst and then continued more deliberately. "it is not for me to indict the man. i could not help speaking because you are you. i cannot do any more than warn you. if i transgress, if i am merely a blundering fool--if you are not what i take you for--forget what i have said. send me away when we return." she had been listening to him, as in a daze. now she shook her head. "i shall not do that," she said. "did you take employment with us to say what you have said to me?" "no." she hesitated a moment. "i suppose all men of koltsoff's sort are the same," she said musingly. "i am not quite so innocent as that. we are wont to accept our european noblemen as husbands with no question as to the wild oats, immediately behind them--or without considering too closely the wild oats that are to be strewn--afterwards. ah, don't start; that is the way we expatriates are educated--no, not that; but these are the lessons we absorb. and so--" she was looking at armitage with a hard face, "so the things that impressed you so terribly--i appreciate and thank you for your motives in speaking of them--do not appear so awful to me." jack, his clean mind in a whirl, was looking at her aghast. "you--you--anne wellington! you don't mean that!" she flung her hands from her. "thank you," she said. "don't i? oh, i hate it all!" she cried wildly, "the cross purposings of life; the constant groping--being unable to see clearly--the triumph of lower over higher things--i hate them all. ah," she turned to jack pitifully, "promise me for life, in this place of peace, the rest and purity and beauty and love of all this--promise, and i shall stay here now with you, from this minute and never leave it, though pyramus or king midas, as you please, beckon from beyond this mossy wall." "are you speaking metaphorically?" jack's voice quivered. "for if you are, i--" she interrupted, laughing mirthlessly. "i do not know how i was speaking. don't bother. i am not worth it. i might have been had i met you sooner--jack armitage. for i have learned of you--some things. don't," she raised her hand as jack bent forward to speak. "you must n't bother, really. last night i lived with you a big, clean, thrilling experience and saw strong men doing men's work in the raw, cold, salt air--and i saw a new life. and then--" she was looking straight ahead--"then i was led into a morass where the air was heavy like the tropics, and things all strange, unreal. and why--why now the doubt which of the two i had rather believe to-night. you were too late. i bade you come to us. i am glad, i am proud that i did--for now i know the reason. but--" she smiled wanly at him, "it should have been sooner." "is--it--too late?" jack's mouth was shut tight, the muscles bulging on either side of his jaw. "is it? you--i must wait and see. i--i dreamed last night and it was of the sea, men rushing aboard a black battleship, rising and falling on great inky waves. it was good--so good--to dream that; not the other. wait. . . . it is to be lived out. i am weak. . . . but there is a tide in the affairs of men--and women. perhaps you--" she stopped abruptly. "let us drive out of here, mr. armitage. here, in this pure, wonderful place i feel almost like sheynstone's jessie." "what do you mean?" he asked sharply. she smiled. "not what you thought i meant," she said gently. "now, drive away, please." as they returned to the house, mr. wellington and his friend were alighting from the touring car; koltsoff was not with them. as soon as he saw his daughter, mr. wellington, whose face was flushed, called anne to him. "say, anne," he said, "is that prince of yours a lunatic? or what is he? "why, no, father. of course not. why do you ask?" "well, then, if he is n't crazy he is a plain, ordinary, damned fool. he was like a chicken with his head off all the afternoon, calling up on the telephone, sending telegrams, and then, between pauses, telling me he would have to leave right after the ball for europe and wanting us all to sail with him. then, at the last minute, some whiskered tramp came to the porch where we were sitting and the first thing i knew he had excused himself for the evening and was going off up the street with that hobo, both of them flapping their arms and exclaiming in each other's faces like a couple of candidates for a padded cell. duke ivan was a pill beside this man. and that is saying a whole lot, let me tell you." "why, father!" exclaimed the girl. "i could cry! we are having that dinner for him to-night, and--and oh--" she rushed into the house and found her mother in her room. "mother," she said, "prince koltsoff has gone off again! he was with father at the reading room and hurried away with a man, whom father describes as a tramp, saying he must be excused for the evening." "very well," said mrs. wellington placidly; "we will have to have the play--without hamlet, nevertheless." "but what shall i do?" "you might ask mccall." "mother! please! what can we do?" "frankly, i don't know, anne," said mrs. wellington. "i confess that this situation in all its ramifications has gone quite beyond me. it is altogether annoying. but let me prophesy: koltsoff will not miss your dinner. he impresses me as a young man not altogether without brains--although they are of a sort." mrs. wellington was right. koltsoff put in an appearance in time to meet anne's guests, but the russian bear at the height of his moulting season--or whatever disagreeable period he undergoes--is not more impossible than was prince koltsoff that night. chapter xxii the ball begins mrs. wellington's genius for organization was never better exemplified than next day, when preparations for the ball set for the night, began. at the outset it was perfectly apparent that she was not bent on breaking records--which feat, as a matter of fact, would merely have been overshadowing her best previous demonstrations of supremacy in things of this sort. there was to be no splurge. with a high european nobleman to introduce, she had no intention of having the protagonist in the evening's function overshadowed by his background. she was a student of social nuances--say rather, a master in this subtle art, and she proceeded with her plans with all the calm assurance of a field marshal with a dozen successful campaigns behind him. early in the day, dawson and buchan and mrs. stetson were in conference with her in her office and a bit later the servants, some thirty or forty of them, were assembled in their dining-room and assigned various duties, all of which were performed under the supervising eye of mrs. wellington, her daughter, or sara van valkenberg. no decorative specialist, or other alien appendage to social functions on a large scale, was in attendance, and, save for the caterer's men, who arranged a hundred odd small tables on the verandas, and the electricians, who hung chandeliers at intervals above them, the arrangements were carried out by the household force. under the direction of anne wellington--whose mind seemed fully occupied with the manifold details of the duties which her mother had assigned to her--armitage and a small group hung tapestries against the side of the house where the tables were, and then assisted the gardener and his staff in placing gladiolas about the globes of the chandeliers. small incandescent globes of divers colors were hidden among the flowers in the gardens and an elaborate scheme of interior floral decoration was carried out. before the afternoon was well along, all preparations had been completed and the women had gone to their rooms, where later they were served by their maids with light suppers. armitage went to town in the car to meet the prince, whom he had taken from the crags at the unusually early hour of nine o'clock, and incidentally to pick up his evening clothes, which thornton, in accordance with telephoned instructions, had left with the marine guard at the government ferry house. for mrs. wellington, whose sardonic sense of humor had not been lost in the rush of affairs, had assigned him to detective duty for the evening's function. "mccall," she had said, "i want you to disguise yourself as a gentleman to-night and assist chief roberts's man in protecting the house from gentry who at times manage to gain access to the upper floors in the course of affairs of this sort. evening dress will do--at least it is usually regarded as a good disguise, i believe." he had received his orders, despite the sarcastic verbiage in which they were couched, with glowing emotions not easily concealed; they fitted perfectly with his preconceived determination to bring to a conclusion that night, once and for all, the situation which had brought him to the crags. he had, in short, resolved, come what might, to ransack koltsoff's rooms before dawn--to dump the contents of all drawers in the middle of the floors, to cut with his knife any bags that might be locked, and in general to turn the suite inside out. for he had come to the conclusion that every one, save possibly prince koltsoff and the horses and dogs, knew whom he really was, and that being the case, further masquerading was nothing short of intolerable. then, too, yesterday's talk with anne wellington in lover's lane was running through his mind like a thread of gold, and clearly the time had come, either to meet her with identity unclouded in the minds of all, or go away and never see her again. as to the last--that depended on several things: upon second thought, upon one thing, upon anne wellington herself. throughout the day in her various meetings with him, she had been markedly impersonal, tacit intimation that from now on so long as he cared to pose as an employee of the house, he must accept all the accruing conditions. he understood her position, of course, and as for his--well, he would attend to it that very night. he found his bag waiting for him at the ferry and prince koltsoff at the designated place, the reading room. the russian had not worked out of his irritation, not to say alarm, at the unaccountable disappearance of his chief lieutenant, but found some comfort in the fact that agents of the st. petersburg state department were already buzzing about washington and boston in regard to the matter of the austrian mobilization plans. armitage found him in a dogged, determined mood. he, too, was facing a situation which he meant to end that night, and his plans were all matured. he went to his room, spent an hour or so dictating to his secretary, instructed him to call up the white star line in new york and book him for friday, and then went down to the billiard room, where the men were engrossed in a close game between marie and willie whipple. from here he wandered to the smoking apartment, which had begun to resemble the sample room of a wholesale liquor house. he had a servant pour him some scotch whiskey, over which he sat for some time with thoughtful eyes, half closed. a growing uneasiness, which he could neither define nor overcome, crept over him and at length he arose and passed through the library, the morning-room, the drawing-room, even peering into the ballroom in his search for miss wellington. miss hatch was just emerging and the prince eyed her in a peremptory way. "miss wellington is not about?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "is not about," said miss hatch, who hurried away with her short, nervous steps before koltsoff had opportunity for questioning her further. he glared at her retreating form and was about to follow her, when mr. wellington interposed. "hello, koltsoff," he said, "come and have a bite with us before you go upstairs. we missed you in the billiard room." koltsoff bowed ceremoniously. "thank you, but no," he replied. "i have eaten a sandwich or so in the smoking-room. if you will permit, i shall retire until the,--ah, ball." "all right. by the way, koltsoff, you have seemed off your feed for the past twenty-four hours. i am sorry if i upset you. you, of course, were sensible to see my position." "oh, perfectly," responded the russian with an ill-concealed sneer--in fact, it was not concealed at all--as he turned toward the stairway. when armitage took up his position near the head of the stairs about nine-thirty o'clock, the house was ablaze with lights, but the lower floors were deserted, save for the servants loitering about the hall. these men, all in the wellington livery--short jackets and trousers of navy blue, with old gold cord--impressed jack, inasmuch as they suggested in some way a sense of belonging to the household, which they did naturally, and not as servants merely engaged--or loaned--for the function. mrs. wellington and her husband came down at ten o'clock and took a position near the ballroom door, just as a group of early arrivals trouped up the stairs. armitage didn't approve of mrs. wellington. in her creamy ball gown and tiara and jewels, she was majestic and imperious to a stunning degree, but to the young naval officer--or shall we say detective--she suggested for the first time the distinction of caste. the immeasurable distance created by the millions of dollars and the social prestige of belle wellington and those like her, served to set them aloof from their countrymen and countrywomen. as she walked along at the side of her hulking husband she seemed the very embodiment of the aloofness of her caste. heretofore, jack had regarded her as a distinctly interesting, remarkably well-preserved, middle-aged gentlewoman of striking mentality, a woman whom he could like and enjoy. to-night, he admitted, she inspired in him nothing but emotions of fear. mentally, he fortified himself against the appearance of anne wellington, who, in truth, merited this precaution as she stepped past him with a slight nod and went down the stairs. she was not a bit overdone--jack admitted that at once--and yet, how different she was from the girl in the shirtwaist suit and black hat, whom he had seen entering the sight-seeing barge the previous day, or who swathed in his navy coat, his hat pushed down over her eyes, had stood with him on the bridge of the _d'estang_! she was all in white, slim, supple, without jewelry, save for a string of pearls about her neck. a light, filmy veil was thrown across her bare shoulders and the living curls and waves of her flawless coiffure gleamed as they caught the lights of the chandeliers. and yet--! the girlishness which jack had found so attractive in her, was missing, and so was the characteristic animation of her features. instead, her face was set in a formal, politely interested expression, which to armitage seemed to change her entire personality. yesterday she was radiant, light-hearted, impulsive, and thoroughly lovable. to-night, she was, so to say, a professional beauty, "rigged and trigged" for competition; one of a set whose ambitions, apparently, coveted no triumphs more exalted than those to be gained here, who rated artificiality as a fine art and appraised life upon the basis of standards which even the casual observer would hardly pronounce either moral or exalted. [illustration: to-night she was a professional beauty, "rigged and trigged" for competition.] as armitage followed her graceful course to the side of her parents, he groaned, half humorously, and then went wandering about the upper hallway, a prey to conflicting emotions, engendered by the new point of view which the girl had unconsciously presented. a couplet of browning's was running through his mind and more than once he found himself muttering the words: "oh, the little more and how much it is, and the little less and what worlds away." true! what worlds away she was to-night! not that he had any sense of social inferiority,--he was too proud of his family for that,--but utterly alien to him and his thoughts and ideals and aspirations, she seemed. he wondered at the foolhardiness which hitherto had characterized his attitude toward her, and at the same time called himself hard names for it. why, she was unapproachable with all her beauty and millions and methods of life! what had he been thinking of--dreaming of? his face hardened. it was not too late to cease playing the part of a fool and an ass. he would accomplish what he had come there to do and then clear out, which sensible act, he trusted, might at least serve to mitigate to some extent the opinion she must have formulated concerning him. she had had her fun, had studied and analyzed him as far as he intended she should. she might have her laugh and enjoy it to the full, but she was not to have the opportunity of laughing in his face. he went to his room, packed his bag, and then going down the rear stairway, took it out the servants' door and laid it under the hydrangeas near the main gate. when he returned, the guests were beginning to come down stairs. all his inward ease had departed. he was tense, cleared for action. all of which shows how far the emotions of an ardent nature are apt to lead a young man astray--as he was to learn before this ball was at an end. in the meantime he followed the sights and sounds with no great interest. he was vaguely amused at the remark of a woman beyond the first bloom of youth, who, turning to her companion and nodding toward a socially famous young matron, who preceded them down the stairs fairly jingling with jewelry, remarked: "i say, jerry, mrs. billy has put on everything but the kitchen stove." it confirmed in jack's mind an impression which had begun to form, that the smart set, so-called, is not altogether lacking in, well,--smartness. when the prince entered with a ribbon and orders across his breast, the orchestra played the russian national anthem, whereat every one arose and stood at attention. jack noticed, however, that attention ceased and almost every one sat down during the rendering of "the star spangled banner," which followed. this, he decided, might have been because no one heard it in the confusion of voices which attended the closing strains of the russian hymn and koltsoff's course about the room. armitage particularly looked for anne and located her at the prince's side, the centre of a vivacious group. evidently the orchestra might as well have been playing a selection from "madame butterfly," so far as she was concerned. this did n't help his mood and after waiting for the first dance, a quadrille in which even the elderly participated--it was given so they might--he sauntered out on the veranda and stood there gazing vacantly at the glowing _parterre_ and smoking a cigarette. chapter xxiii the ball continues groups were strolling in and out among the gardens. armitage caught the pale flashes of fans and gowns; the cigarette lights of the men glowed among the shrubbery like fireflies. the moon was full, shining through rifted clouds, and the ocean, murmuring at the foot of the cliffs, stretched away to the starry horizon. the lamps of the brenton's reef light vessel seemed close enough to touch, and farther out the lights of a deep sea tug with a string of coal barges astern moved slowly down the coast. as jack threw away his cigarette preparatory to going into the house, anne wellington stepped through the door, laughing back at koltsoff, who was following her. jack averted his head and as he did so the girl turned to her companion. "pardon me for one second," she said. "are n't you going to ask me to dance?" she said in a low voice as she confronted armitage. he smiled. "oh, certainly!" "oh, there is precedent," laughed anne. "was n't it dick turpin who danced with the duchess of--of something, once?" "but he was hanged later." "not for that." she stood for a moment regarding him and decided that no man at the ball was better to look at in any way. "i am a good american to-night," she said slowly. "i--i thought you might be interested to know." "i am interested," said jack. then his eyes lighted. "are you serious about that dance?" she returned his gaze, humorously defiant. "i don't care, if you don't," he added; "i dare you." "they say naval officers are divine dancers," she replied as though to herself. "you may have the next dance if--if you can find me out here--and--and take me away from his highness." before he could reply she had smiled and nodded and rejoined koltsoff, who was waiting, not without impatience, at the foot of the steps. he took her arm and led the way toward a small promontory overlooking the ocean. his demeanor was silent, romantic. but somehow anne was neither interested nor thrilled. as they stopped at the edge of the cliff, she released her arm which his fingers had tightly pressed. he took a cigarette from his case and then impatiently tossed it away. "i spoke to your father this afternoon," he said, "as to our understanding." "our understanding!" "about the dowry. he declined to yield to the european custom." "how like father! of course that changes your attitude toward me." her voice was cool and unwavering. he raised his hands as though despairing. "it does not." he confronted her so that they almost touched. "is it possible that you can think of that? i replied to your father that i was going to take you anyway." "you--are going--to--take me anyway! what do you mean, prince koltsoff?" "mean! what do i mean! why, no less than that dowry or no dowry, you are mine." "but you have n't asked me. i have said nothing to make you believe that." "eh?" koltsoff tossed his head dazedly. "you said nothing!" he exclaimed as she remained silent. "you said--bah! are mere words only to serve? you lay in my arms not a day since. what words could have been so eloquent? and your eyes--the look in them! words! ah, anne, could i not see? could i not read?" his hand was on her arm but she pulled sharply back. "please, prince koltsoff! listen! you--since you have been willing to recall it to me--did take me in your arms." indignation was rapidly mastering her. "i did not lead you to do it. i did not want you to. i am--not that kind. i was tired, weak in mind and body and, yes,--under your control, somehow. you took advantage of it. i didn't know then--i fancied it might be love, don't you know. i even asked you if it was--" "you asked me. i replied. you did not deny." "no, but i deny now: it was not love." "not love!" koltsoff moved close to her. "then may i ask what it was? surely you have not questioned _my_ motives?" "no. if i had, you should have known it before this. my own motives, or rather, the lack of them--but we won't talk about it any more." she made as though to step past him but he did not move. "but you must talk about it," he said. "are our relations thus to be brushed away--by misunderstanding? anne, have i been utterly misled? what is it, anne? i command you to speak." "will you please let me pass?" "no, not until you have answered me." there was crisp savagery in his voice. anne, now trembling with anger, turned quickly upon him. "very well, i shall answer you. i don't love you and i can't love you and i won't love you. i resent your actions. you have been making this house headquarters for your diplomatic schemes and when they have gone astray, you have made us all the creatures of your irritable whims. you made me a laughing stock when you backed out of the theatre party, and have done nothing but consider your own convenience irrespective of any plans i may have formed for your entertainment. you were so disagreeable last night at dinner that i wept for very shame after it. and--and--now you have your answer." for a moment koltsoff stood erect, as though frozen by her words. then he bent his head forward menacingly. anne laughed. "we are not in monaco--or russia, prince koltsoff, but in the united states." "the united states!" sneered koltsoff. the next instant he was on his knees, his lips on the lace of her skirt. "please, prince koltsoff! don't, please." she glanced aside and saw the expansive white chest of armitage bearing up the slight incline. "and now you must excuse me," she said, "my partner for the next dance claims me." she snatched away her skirt and walked rapidly to meet jack, while koltsoff gathered himself to his feet and cursed volubly in three languages. anne was silent as they walked to the house, but cheerfully so. while jack could not exactly catch her expression in the moonlight, he had a feeling she was glad to be with him. "do you want to back out?" he asked. "it is n't too late, you know. have you thought of the scandal?" "do you wish me to back out?" she smiled. "have you thought you may lose your position?" "i don't care--for you can consider that i have given notice to take effect to-morrow." "but that does not mean--" she began, then checked herself. he waited for her to continue, but she was silent. as they ascended the steps the orchestra was beginning the waltz, with its dreamy rhythm, which everybody had been humming for a month or two. she led the way through a door at the lower end of the room, where were the palms and shrubbery which concealed the musicians, gathered her gown in her right hand, and stood smilingly expectant. her cheeks were deeply flushed, her eyes sparkled, her perfectly cut lips slightly parted. for an instant his eyes rested upon her face and they glowed with open admiration. then his arm had encircled her firm, lithe waist and they whirled leisurely out upon the crowded floor. she felt his strength, but it was the strength that exalts a woman, a strength that a woman could glory in and not feel embarrassed or self-conscious; a sense of being protected, not overwhelmed, filled her. and through the rhythm of the dance and the complete sympathy which it brought, one for the other, she caught perfectly his poise--the mental suggested through the physical--strong, determined, and so utterly masculine in a big, clean way. the poetry of the waltz was well defined. the reputation of the navy was losing nothing at his hands, or rather feet, as they glided in and out among the various couples, gracefully and easily. both were exalted; it could not have been otherwise. her supple body yielded instinctively to the guidance of his arm, seemed, indeed, almost a part of it--bodies and minds one in the interpretation of the science of rhythmic motion. neither spoke until the floor had been circled. then she turned her head and looked into his face. "to-morrow?" "don't," said jack, half laughing. "i don't want to think of to-morrow." "neither do i," she grimaced, "but i can't help it. i am going to lose my driver." he smiled grimly, but did not reply. "and so," she said unconsciously allowing herself to relax in his arm, "what am i going to do?" her glance was humorously pathetic. "it has been so much fun. but it could n't last, as trilby said." "some day, soon, when i have put on my uniform, may i come here and help you decide?" "decide what, pray?" "you asked me what you were going to do." she stopped dancing and looked at him with sober face. "well, you 'd better believe you may come here, then. you are not going to escape quite so easily. as to advice--cannot you give me that now?" "i could," replied jack. "but i won't--not now." "oh, do!" her voice was teasing. "you can't imagine what straits i shall be in. not that i would promise to pronounce it wise--" they were dancing again. "well, then, i certainly shall hold my peace." "why, you 're positively bearish!" "am i?" "but then, you know, i might consider your words--well, worth following." "i 'll wait until i can find courage to take the risk." "is it so awfully important as all that?" "you may judge when i tell you." the dance had ended and as he released her she reached out and tapped him on the arm. "you do dance divinely. and now you had better play detective. mother has seen us." that was quite true. armitage, of course, had not been recognized as miss wellington's chauffeur by the people in the room, but mrs. wellington had early detected them. she said nothing until the dance ended. then she looked at her husband. "ronald," she said, "is anne too old to be spanked, do you think?" "why, rather, i should say. why?" laughed wellington. "oh, no matter. only i fancy i would relinquish my hopes for eternity if i could!" chapter xxiv the ball ends jack's mood would have defied analysis as he made his way through the crowded hall to the rear veranda. he peered into the smoking-room in passing and found several self-constituted lords of misrule holding full sway. two young scions of great new york families were fencing with billiard cues, punctuating each other's coats with blue chalk dots and dashes, while a swaying ring cheered them on. one youth emerged from the room with steps obviously unsteady and claimed one of a pair of girls on their way to the ballroom, as his partner for the dance. she rapped him playfully with her fan. "you don't really want a partner, teddy," she said. "you want a hitching post. you're spifflicated." the two moved laughingly away, leaving the young man marvelling heavily at the discernment of the girl who had cleverly discovered that which he fancied he had carefully concealed. as armitage watched him with amused interest, he sighed deeply and made his way back to the smoking-room. jack went up the rear stairs to the second floor and out on a little balcony. he had viewed miss wellington's attitude toward him from every angle and every time the result had been the same--the conviction that her interest in him was something more than friendly. he attempted no diagnosis of his own feelings. that was not necessary; they were too patent. a great wave of tenderness thrilled him. there was wonder, too. that wonder which fills a man when he begins to realize that a girl whom he has regarded as unapproachably radiant and, in sheer beauty and purity and grace, a being aloof from most of the things of this world, finds him not unworthy of her trust, her confidence, and her love. armitage felt himself ennobled, set apart from the rest of mankind, the guardian of a sacred trust. if she did love him, if she were willing to give herself to him, she would find that the giving was not to be all hers. he, too, would build his life henceforth upon the inspiration she gave him and he would hold himself worthy to receive it. anne! his arm ached to hold her as he had held her but a little while ago. anne! the strength seemed to be going out of him. ah, he wanted that girl now, right here--and nothing else in this world! anne! then his teeth clicked shut. he had work ahead of him. there were other things to think about. in his present mood, surely, he was not up to the task he had set himself. he lighted a cigarette and puffed vigorously. if he were going to succeed--and he intended to succeed--he must train his mind rigidly into channels far remote from anne. he must forget her; forget himself for the time being. long he fought with himself and won, as strong men always will, and when he left the balcony there was but one thought in his mind, the magnetic control which koltsoff had stolen from him. he had already decided to make his search when the guests were at the tables on the veranda, and the blood pulsed quickly as he peered down the front stairs and found that all, even then, were making their way out of doors. now--to find the prince safely seated and engrossed, and then action. he descended the stairs and merged with the throng on the verandas. there was a great deal of confusion. some were already seated and calling for their companions. others were blundering about searching for friends. the complement of a few tables was already filled and there was much laughter and loud talking. jack soon found the prince at a table for six, near the railing. anne was at his side and sara van valkenberg, with young osborne, was also there. anne was conversing brightly with a man across from her, but koltsoff was sombre and silent. armitage smiled and made his way into the house. he walked slowly up the stairs, went to his room, on the third floor, for a knife, skeleton keys, and a small jimmy, and then returning to the second floor he stopped at koltsoff's door, which was well back from the apartments utilized as dressing-rooms for the men and women. the light was burning brightly in a chandelier overhead and jack, stepping to a button in the wall, pressed it, shrouding that part of the hall in gloom. then he tested the knob and pushed slightly on the door. to his surprise it yielded. a thin piece of wire brushed his fingers and following it he found it led from the keyhole and outside the jamb of the door, which had been cut slightly. evidently some one was ahead of him! but he did not hesitate. softly opening the door he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. then for a moment he stood still. he felt in his pocket for his match box and had just struck a light when suddenly an arm flew around his neck from behind, the crook of the elbow pressing deeply into his throat. without a sound, jack bent forward, pulling his assailant with him, despite his efforts to get jack's head back between his shoulders. for a full minute they were poised thus. armitage knew better than to crack his neck in frantic efforts to break the strong arm grip. there were other ways. he was very cool and he had confidence in that neck of his, which set on his shoulders like the base of a marble column. the hand of the stranger was pawing for a grip on his right wrist, but jack, who knew the move and had no desire to have his elbow shattered, kept it out of the way. and all the time he kept up a slight strain upon the arm around his neck, into which, by the way, his chin was slightly buried, breaking in some degree the choking power of the hold. for two minutes they stood thus, slightly swaying, and then instinctively jack, gagging a little now, felt the minutest relaxation of the arm. quick as thought he changed the position of his right leg, bringing into play the leverage of his hip. he twisted suddenly sideways, his neck slipping around in the encircling arm. his hand closed upon the back of a thick, perspiring neck. the next instant a figure catapulted over his back, bringing up with a bone-racking crash against a piece of furniture. armitage, whose eyes were now accustomed to the dark room, ran to an electric globe at the side of a writing desk and turned on the light. by this time his assailant was rising, tottering but full of fight, a desire which jack, now all for carnage, was quite ready to satisfy. as he started for the man something in the fellow's face made him pause. he uttered a low exclamation. he was takakika, the japanese cook. but there was no time for words; the jap launched himself at him with fingers quivering in anticipation of the grip he sought. he never arrived. armitage whipped his right fist with all the power of his body behind it to a point about two inches below takakika's left ear. there was a sharp crack and the jap fell to the floor in a huddle, motionless. "now, i reckon you 'll lie still," said jack unpityingly. "you and koltsoff, too, will find that the spy game in the united states is full of travail." he glanced at the man, who was groaning now and showing signs of recovery. "i guess i 'll lash you up to be on the safe side," which he did with several of koltsoff's neckties. "now, then." he arose and looked about the room. on a table near the door were several rolls of parchment. he went over to them and lifted them. they were the plans of the torpedo. with a sigh of relief he straightened them and folding the sheets into two small but bulky packages, put them into his pockets. evidently the apartment had been thoroughly ransacked by takakika. drawers were opened, bags turned inside out, the bed torn apart, and the mattress ripped. but where was the control? armitage felt about the jap's clothing and then feverishly began going over the line of search pursued by the spy. so engrossed had he been in the struggle with takakika that he had forgotten his intention of locking the door leading from the hall. now his unsuccessful search filled his mind. at last in a dark corner of a closet he unearthed a small square bag. he had just taken it into the room and cut it when the door opened and koltsoff entered. for an instant he stood blinking and then his eyes travelled swiftly about the room, taking in armitage, the bound and half conscious japanese, and the general litter. jack watched him closely, ready for any move he might make. the russian's sudden appearance had startled him, but the first substantial thought that shot through his mind was that no one could possibly have been more welcome. he had failed to find the control: he had to have it. so he might as well have it out with the prince now as any other time. if koltsoff but knew it, he was facing a desperate man; for until he had entered and searched the rooms, jack had harbored no doubt that possession of the control was merely a matter of overhauling the prince's effects. now he knew better, and for the first time he was really alarmed as to its whereabouts. he returned koltsoff's gaze with smouldering eyes. but the russian was very much at ease. "what is it?" he asked at length. without waiting for armitage to reply he walked swiftly to the desk, jerked open a panel, and placed his hand in the opening. when he withdrew it, it was empty. jack laughed, drew from his pocket a short heavy revolver with a pearl, gold-crested handle, twirled it about by the guard, and then put it back in his pocket. "i got there first, koltsoff," he said. prince koltsoff straightened and regarded armitage warily. "what does this mean?" he nodded his head toward takakika and started forward as for the first time he noticed that the man was a japanese. "ah," he said, "i see. you have foiled a spy. ha! ha! i thank you. and now the pistol--and your manner! ha! ha! ha! your joke!" armitage saw clearly that for some reason--which he believed he recognized--koltsoff was willing that the incident, so far as jack was concerned, should end right there. the prince had given him his lead. he had but to follow it and clear out, with no questions asked. but that was farthest from his mind. "my joke is not clear to you, i see." "indeed! will you do me the honor to make it clear?" "certainly. last sunday night a tool of yours named yeasky stole a magnetic contrivance from the shops of the torpedo station. he gave it to you. i want it. i am going to get it before either you or i leave this room." koltsoff clasped his hands together. "i recognize you as a servant in the employ of this house. what right have you to address me? now, go to your quarters at once or i shall report you. you are intoxicated!" "am i!" he backed before the door as koltsoff's eyes moved toward it, covering at the same time the call buttons in the wall at the side of the jamb. the prince laughed and leaned carelessly back against a table. "very well, since you appear to deny your identity, as well as your condition--which is quite obvious, i beg you to know--i can admit only that you have the advantage of me." "oh, shut up!" said jack angrily. "are you going to give me that control? my name is armitage. i invented that device and you and your dirty band of square-heads stole it. i want it back now, quick! and if--" the prince still smiling, interrupted. "ah, armitage, i might have known. allow me to say that you wore the wellington livery with better grace than the gentleman's clothing that now adorns you--with better grace, i might even venture, than the uniform you occasionally wear." armitage, who quickly saw the advantage of koltsoff's poise, curbed his anger, at least so far as speech was concerned. "look here, koltsoff," he said, "let us understand each other. i am going to get that control or one or the other of us is going to be carried out of this room." "you have the revolver--it will probably be i," said koltsoff. with an exclamation jack reached into his pocket, drew out the revolver, and hurled it through the open window. they could hear it clatter on the cliffs below and then splash into the ocean. instinctively, koltsoff's eyes had followed the flight of the weapon. when he turned his head jack was close at his side. the russian stepped back. jack moved forward. "now," he said in a low tense voice, "that magnetic control--quick!" there was no mistaking the quiet ferocity of his manner. koltsoff had ceased to smile. "i have n't it." "are--you--going--to--give--me--that--control?" "i have n't it. i swear. look--look anywhere, everywhere. see if i do not speak the truth." "then get it." koltsoff moved to a bureau and jack followed him. "wait," said the russian. then like lightning his hand shot out to a heavy brass candlestick and the next instant had aimed a murderous blow at jack's head. armitage caught the flash of the descending weapon in time to duck his head, taking the force upon the lower muscles of his neck. the wave of pain was as the lash to a mettlesome horse. before the prince could swing the candlestick again armitage had him by the throat and bore him to the floor, half stifling his shriek for help. as armitage seized the candlestick and tossed it to one side, the knob of the door turned and the door itself partly opened. he sprang to his feet, pulled koltsoff to his knees, and as he stood thus the door was pushed wide and anne wellington stepped across the threshold. her face was pale, her eyes were blazing. one hand, holding a heavy package, she held behind her back. with the other she pointed to prince koltsoff with the imperiousness of a queen. "what does this mean?" she asked sternly. behind her in the doorway the tragic face of sara van valkenberg was framed. "this--this scoundrel was trying to murder me." armitage was looking at her over his shoulder. "please don't stay here, miss wellington. this man stole a very important part of a torpedo that i invented. i am going to make him return it before he leaves this room." "he says what is untrue," said koltsoff. "it is not his property. and at all events, as i have told him, i do not possess it." the color had returned to anne's face. she swayed slightly as a great wave of light, of knowledge, passed over her mind. "oh!" her lips moved as mechanically as those of an automaton and her face was as expressionless. "oh!" her eyes seemed burning through armitage. "and you made me believe--i mean i thought--i--i--" she bowed her head, trying to stifle tears of shame and indignation. "don't, miss wellington. don't misunderstand! wait until i can explain--then you will know. in the meantime i must have that torpedo, that part of it which this russian spy stole." "it is not yours. it is mine. and i again inform you, i have n't it." prince koltsoff's sneering smile had returned. "wait!" cried anne, breaking in upon jack's angry exclamation. she stepped into the middle of the room. "prince koltsoff is right. he has n't it. i have it." slowly she drew her hand from behind her back. "here it is." koltsoff stepped forward. "it is mine!" he said. "i gave it in trust to you. i command you to keep it until i ask for it." "he is lying, miss wellington. it is mine. i can prove it." "lying!" exclaimed anne tragically. "lying! every one has lied. where is there truth in either of you? where is there chivalry in you and you--" nodding at armitage and koltsoff--"who have ruthlessly used a household and a woman to your own ends? ugh, i detest, i hate you both! as for this," she struck the package with her hand, "i brought it here to give you, prince koltsoff. i could n't keep it longer. but now i think i can end your dispute for all time." quickly she stepped to the open window and raising the bundle high, hurled it out of the window and over the cliffs. with a dry howl of rage, koltsoff flung himself into a chair, tearing wildly at his hair and beard, while armitage, his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, stared at anne. so far as the control was concerned, while its loss would set his work back several weeks, it at least was out of koltsoff's hands and that naturally was the main thing. it would, in fact, have been a source of deepest joy to him had not the shock of anne's wholly unlooked-for attitude and subsequent wild act almost unnerved him. "a traitor! anne wellington a traitor!" he said in a quivering voice. "traitor!" anne's voice rose almost to a wail. she turned suddenly to koltsoff. "of course you understand that you must leave us as soon as possible." koltsoff, who had arisen, eyed her sullenly. she turned to jack, who met her eyes straight. "and--and you--" she paused and studied his face. "you--" she swayed and pressed her hand to her forehead. there was a flash of white and sara van valkenberg's arms were about her. and there with her head on sara's shoulders, she wept bitterly. the older woman caught armitage with her eyes as she passed out of the room. "you fool!" she said, then she bent toward him, whispering, "but don't you dare go away!" chapter xxv the expatriate in the doorway armitage paused and as sara and anne brushed silently past him, he turned back into the room. without looking at koltsoff, who was fumbling at push buttons and roaring for his valet, he walked over to takakika, took a knife from his pocket, reached down and cut his silken fetters. "there," he said with a grim smile, "i did n't leave you bound to the mercies of his highness over there. put that to my credit when you pray to the ancient samurai." the jap scrambled to his feet, rolled his eyes angrily at armitage, and then shot out of the room like a bolt from a gun. jack followed him, making his way to the rear stairway and thus out into the night. doggedly he strode to the clump of bushes where he had hidden the bag and his fingers were on the handle, when, with a quick exclamation, he released his hold and sat down on the turf, his head in his hands. so this was to be the end! how quickly his house of cards had fallen! how completely had the fabric of a wonderful dream vanished to nothing! it was all coming over him strongly now for the first time as he reacted from the absorbing incidents of the past hour! fool! sara van valkenberg had characterized him unerringly. he was all of that and worse. and yet--she had done her part to make him one. he could understand exactly how anne wellington must have felt in view of sara's representations to her, concerning his presence in the house, and certainly his own asinine attitude could have led the girl to believe nothing save that he had made his acceptance of employment at the crags the excuse for a romantic desire to be near her. yet he had not designedly deceived her. he had, of course, desired to be near her; as to that he would have been willing to attempt expedients tenfold more daring than serving as her chauffeur. that the main object of his sojourn there did not concern her was not his fault. and he had not concealed that object from her with any idea of enlisting her interest under false pretences. ah, how he should like to tell her that now--and make her believe it! but that opportunity had vanished, if indeed it had ever existed, during those trying moments in koltsoff's room. in any event there was no opportunity now. well? once more his hand sought his bag. he might as well clear out forthwith and have an end of it all. but no; he could not, somehow. sara's warning flashed through his mind. "don't you dare go away!" what had she meant? was there really some hope, which she had divined where he saw nothing but blankness? it was but a faint spark of hope but it kindled an irresistible desire to see anne wellington again--not to speak to her, but to fix his eyes upon her face and burn every detail of her features into his mind. he fought against it. he picked up his bag and walked toward the gate. but it was like trying to dam a flood. as in a daze he tossed the bag back among the hydrangeas and a few minutes later found himself in the house once more, moving slowly through the crowded halls. a few of the guests were departing. at one end his questing eyes found anne. she was shaking hands with an elderly couple and talking over her shoulder to a group of men. she was smiling but her face was feverish. for several minutes armitage stood watching her and then resolutely facing about, he went out of doors intent upon quitting the place for good and all. as he passed around the side of the house he looked up instinctively and found himself under koltsoff's window. once he saw the russian's shadow pass the illuminated square. a thought occurred to him and then somehow flashed out of his mind. it left him looking blankly up at that window, vaguely trying to traverse the mental processes which had led to the missing thought. then it came to him. quickly he stepped from the path to the edge of the cliffs, perhaps twenty feet from the side of the house and guarded by a low iron railing. the moon, now, was well down in the western sky and a level path flowed across the waters to the base of the crags. he looked over the railing and a glittering object caught his eye. the revolver, in all probability. undoubtedly the ebbing tide had left it dry. and if the weapon, thrown from koltsoff's window, was within reach, why not the control? armitage's face burned. it must be somewhere down there. if he could find it, much loss of time would be prevented. but more--if it _could_ be found, he and not koltsoff must be the one to recover it. at his feet the cliffs were precipitous. he searched for the steps which he remembered were cut in the rock somewhere in the vicinity. but it was too dark; he could not find them. he must wait until the first light of dawn showed him his ground. it would save him, perhaps, a broken neck and of course simplify his search. he sat down on the grass to wait, lighting a cigar which he had taken from the smoking-room. dancing had resumed. the measured cadence of the music flowed from the windows, and lulled by it, fatigued with all the excitement of the evening, his cigar waned and died, his head fell on the turf. he slept. he dreamed that he was dancing with anne and that koltsoff, with sara van valkenberg as a partner, persisted in stepping upon his toes. even in that ballroom with mrs. wellington's gorgon eyes upon him the situation was getting unbearable. he hated making a scene, nevertheless--he woke with a start. the sound of wheels grinding through the gravel of the driveway brought him to his feet. it was a strange sound, eerie, uncanny. the darkness had gone, and the moon. the world was all gray; objects showed dim and ghostly; the ocean was shrouded in mist, and the wind from the face of it was clammy, heavy with salt. moisture was dripping from the leaves, the trees, and shrubbery. the sound of laughter came from somewhere. for a moment armitage stood irresolute, knowing that his heart was heavy and that the new day would bring no light for him. spiritlessly he walked to the brink of the cliffs and saw the steps upon the far side of the curve. thither he slowly made his way. spirals of mist were arising from below as from a caldron--old newporters, in truth, had always known of it as the devil's caldron--hiding the wet, slippery fangs over or among which the swish of waters was unceasing. as he reached the bottom he paused for an instant and then as his eyes became accustomed to the pallid gloom, he looked across an intervening stretch of about three feet of water and saw a glow of something lighter than the murk. the package! quick as thought he stepped over to the rock and then almost stumbled over a figure in a white ball gown lying, as seemed at first impression, prone. a sickening horror passed through jack as he bent down. it was anne wellington. she lay half on her side, resting on her elbow, her skirts twining bedraggled about her ankles. with one hand she was mechanically lifting water to an ugly bruise upon her forehead. as jack appeared at her side she smiled at him dazedly. "there," she said, lifting her hand feebly and pointing toward a water-soaked package at her side. "i--i wanted to show you i was not a--traitor." she closed her eyes wearily. "i'm not, really, you know." as she opened her eyes, smiling wanly, jack with a hurt cry threw himself at her side, took her in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. "anne!" "i could n't let you think--that," she said. "it would have been all right. i bungled horribly with my feet and slipped and fell." tears were starting from jack's eyes and she saw them. "no! no! i'm all right," she said, "just a bit dizzy. i am sorry. i was going--to--bring--it back to you--so nicely and prove i was not an expatriate." she shivered slightly and jack drew her close. "don't!" he said. for a while she lay silent while the dawn whitened and gleams of steel flashed over the waters. she was smiling now, contentedly. "i looked all about for you after that--that dreadful scene. i couldn't find you anywhere. i was afraid--" she paused. as jack did not reply she looked suddenly up into his face. "then you can't forgive me?" "forgive you!" "sara told me all," she said. "she showed me how utterly outrageous i had been." "sara!" jack inwardly breathed a prayer of gratitude to that young woman. "yes, she told me. but it was all so exciting, so sudden. how could i have known?" she raised her head and looked at him, her eyes all smiles and all love. "of course it was so clear after sara explained." and even, in his ecstasy jack found himself formulating a stern determination to demand at the first moment from sara just what her explanation had been. yet at the same time he would willingly have fallen at her feet and worshipped her. anne was still looking at him. then slowly she released herself from his arms and arose to her feet. she was blushing. "haven't you anything to say to me--jack?" and now jack blushed. "anything to say?" but he smiled guiltily. "really!" she exclaimed, frowning. jack came very close to her, his hands at his side, but looking straight into her eyes. "yes, i have something to say. i have n't any right to, but i 'm going to, just the same. anne wellington, i love you! i honor you! since that night at the grand central station--hang it, anne, i can't make a speech, much as i should like to. i love you, that's all, and--and--and--" he stopped short. she laughed that quick, fluttering laugh of happiness, much more eloquent than words. "jack," she said, "that night i stood with you on the bridge of the _d'estang_--then i knew i loved you." the next instant she was crushed in his arms. "oh--jack!" there were no more words. but why words? as the tide ebbed and murmured and the birds sang in the trees above, they stood silent, immured from all the world, these two, but neither doubting nor fearing. chapter xxvi conclusion in the library of the crags, the light of dawn stole in through the windows and turned the brilliant light of the lamps into a pale glow. the odor of stale flowers was all about. mrs. wellington, with a headache, stood in the doorway. her husband sat in an armchair with legs outstretched, smoking about his fortieth cigar. sara van valkenberg stood in the middle of the floor. she had been speaking at great length and with many gestures and not once had she been interrupted. when at last she concluded, there was a long silence. "well, belle?" said ronald wellington at last, turning his head toward his wife. "oh, i am not surprised," said mrs. wellington grimly. "i always suspected koltsoff of some deviltry. i hoped only that it would remain beneath the surface until after the ball. it did. i have not the slightest complaint." "so; he used this house as a rendezvous for spies!" mr. wellington bit at his cigar savagely. "where is he now?" "he motored to town an hour or two ago," replied sara. "his secretary told miss hatch that they had booked for the _metric_ to-morrow." mr. wellington could not repress a smile. "well," he said, "and where is this armitage fellow now? where is anne?" sara laughed. "when i last saw her she was searching for lieutenant armitage." "h'mm." mr. wellington looked at his wife gravely. "what is it now, belle? have they eloped, or what?" "i am sure i haven't the slightest idea," replied that lady yawning. "not interested, eh?" there was sort of a chirrup in the man's voice. "not the slightest," was the reply with rising emphasis. "anne might as well marry--or elope with--lieutenant armitage as some one equally or more objectionable to me." "oh, mrs. wellington!" cried sara. "jack armitage is eminently eligible, really. as i told you, i know all about him." as mrs. wellington smiled her wintry smile and was about to reply, there was a flash of white in the doorway. an instant later anne had darted into the room and launched herself into her father's lap. "father!" ronald wellington studied his daughter's flushed face for a moment, the sparkling eyes, the parted lips, the disarranged hair, the wet, bedraggled gown, and the bruised forehead. "where is he? did you find him?" he asked. "you look as though you had conducted a strenuous search, anne." with a laugh, anne, radiant as a spirit, ran out into the hall and when she returned she had jack by the hand. "father, mother, here is jack armitage--lieutenant armitage of--of our navy." mr. wellington slowly arose. "say, armitage," he said, "i know your father. he has been a mighty capable enemy of mine, or, rather, to my interests. what have you to say to that?" jack met his eyes with a brave smile. "i 'm sorry to hear that, sir. but he won't be any longer. i 'll fix that." "of course we will," cried anne. "oh!" and then mr. wellington's hearty laugh shook the room. "mother!" anne turned to mrs. wellington. "aren't you going to laugh, too?" something like a look of tenderness crossed the mother's face. "i am sorry, anne, not now." she turned to leave the room. "but i am not going to cry--be assured." several hours later jack caught sara alone. "sara," he said sternly, "what did you tell anne about my being here?" sara smiled enigmatically. "really, jack, i 've forgotten. something to the effect that you could have sent government detectives, had you not wanted to come here yourself." jack thought a moment. "by george!" he said, "you were not far wrong!" "wrong!" exclaimed sara ingenuously. jack stepped toward her and as he did so anne entered the room. "come right in, anne," cried armitage, "i was just going to kiss sara van valkenberg." "well," smiled anne, "you may--just once." the end _the go-ahead series._ no moss; or, the career of a rolling stone by harry castlemon author of "the gun-boat series," "the rocky mountain series," etc. the john c. winston co. philadelphia chicago, toronto entered according to act of congress, in the year 1868, by r. w. carroll & co., in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states, for the southern district of ohio. copyright, 1896, by charles a. fosdick. contents. i. fire quarters ii. sam barton's harboring place iii. a new plan iv. tom in trouble v. atkins refuses duty vi. the governor's strategy vii. the governor storms the rebels viii. crossing the shoals ix. johnny harding's visitors x. a strange encounter xi. tom's splendid idea xii. how it resulted xiii. crusoe afloat again xiv. the phantom schooner xv. tom has another idea xvi. johnny is mistaken for an enemy xvii. the battle at the bridge xviii. the robbers are punished xix. the army and navy xx. a chapter of incidents xxi. conclusion no moss, or, the career of a rolling stone. chapter i. fire quarters. "four bells, sir!" reported the messenger-boy, to the officer who had charge of the deck of the storm king. "very good. quartermaster, make it so." the silvery tones of the little bell rang through the vessel, and immediately there began a great noise and hubbub on the berth-deck, which, but a moment before, had been so quiet and orderly. songs, shouts of laughter, and noises of every description, that can be made only by a lot of healthy boys just turned loose from their studies, arose through the hatchway, and presently the crew came tumbling up the ladder. the foremost held a guitar under his arm; the one that followed at his heels brought a checker-board; a third had a box of dominoes; and the boy who brought up the rear carried a single-stick in each hand, and went about challenging every one he met to a friendly trial of skill. some of the crew walked aft to converse with their officers; the boys with the checkers and dominoes seated themselves on deck to engage in quiet games; he of the single-sticks very soon found an antagonist; and the sailor with the guitar perched himself upon the heel of the bowsprit, and, after tuning his instrument, cleared his throat, preparatory to treating his companions to a song containing the information that he had at one time "sailed in the good ship bessie." the second dog-watch (the hours from six until eight in the evening) was a season of recreation with the students attached to the storm king, and they never failed to make the most of it. a first-class boy, or an ordinary seaman, could then walk up to the executive officer and challenge him to a contest with broadswords, without committing any breach of discipline; and the first lieutenant could talk sociably with his men, with no fear of being brought before the principal and reprimanded for unofficer-like conduct. the boys played, sang, ran races through the rigging, swung indian clubs and dumb-bells, and, of course, yelled all the while at the top of their lungs. the storm king had now been in possession of the principal of the academy about two months, and was every day growing in favor with the students. indeed, the addition of a navy to the academy bid fair to cause some radical changes in the programme of studies, for military honors were at a heavy discount, and all the students were working for positions on board the yacht. no one cared for the colonel's silver eagle now, but every body cast longing eyes toward the anchors he wore in his naval shoulder-straps. the little vessel had had at least one good effect. she had put ambition into the boys, elevated the standard of scholarship, and convinced such lazy fellows as martin, rich, and miller, that they must pay more attention to their books, or be left behind by every student in the academy. the yacht was in commission now: the stars and stripes floated from her peak, and strict naval discipline had been established. she mounted a "long tom" amid-ships, in the shape of a six-pounder pivot gun; and on the berth-deck was an ample supply of small arms, consisting of cutlasses, pikes, pistols, and muskets. the crew numbered twenty boys, including captain, lieutenants, masters, midshipmen, warrant and petty officers, and seamen. they were dressed in the uniform of the united states navy; and the first lieutenant, whose whole soul was wrapped up in his duties, had drilled them until they were as handy and expert as the crew of any man-of-war. the boys never grew tired of their work: they were passionately fond of this new branch of the service, and their efforts to perfect themselves in every department of their duties were amusing, and sometimes ridiculous. on one occasion, a frigate came into the harbor and anchored a short distance from the storm king. instantly the students were on the alert, for that was the time to learn something. captain steele ordered his executive to follow the man-of-war in striking the time of day; and this show of respect very soon attracted the attention of the commodore, who, in the afternoon, put off in his gig to visit the storm king, where he was piped over the side, and received with all the ceremony due his rank. the students obtained liberty, visited the vessel, talked with the old tars on the streets, and the result was soon apparent: the boat's crew began to pull the regular man-of-war stroke; the seamen took to wearing their caps on the back of their heads, hitched up their trowsers with their elbows, grumbled in the most approved sailor fashion when any thing went wrong with them, and, when they walked, they rolled from side to side like vessels in a gale of wind. they remembered all the sea-phrases they heard the old tars use, and never failed to bring them in on all proper occasions. it was certainly laughable to hear a fair-haired little fellow exclaim, "sink my tarry wig!" whenever he heard any thing that astonished him. the boatswain's mate of the yacht made friends with the boatswain of the frigate, put himself under instructions, and soon learned to use his whistle with wonderful skill, and to issue his commands in a voice which seemed to come all the way up from his boots. and then, when he gave an order, he would hasten obedience by such expressions as--"rouse a bit, there!" and "make a break, now, bullies!" in short, before the frigate left the harbor, the young sailors had made great improvement in all the minor branches of their profession, and often told one another that their rivals at the academy had a good deal to learn before they could make the crew of the yacht take back seats. harry green was still executive officer of the storm king. the court of inquiry, which he had requested in his report of the attack made on the yacht by the crusoe band, had been held, and the lieutenant came off with flying colors. the only particular in which he had failed to carry out the orders of his superior officer was in permitting the governor to escape: but that was something he could not prevent. sam, in his desperation, had jumped overboard before the students could get near enough to seize him; and harry had but little difficulty in proving, to the satisfaction of the court, that not only was it impossible to pick him up, but that the attempt to do so would have endangered the vessel and the lives of his crew. of course, when harry was cleared, his officers and men were cleared also, and allowed to retain their positions on board the yacht, much to the disappointment of their rivals, who wanted to man the vessel themselves. but, after all, the escape from disgrace had been a very narrow one--so much so, in fact, that the only thing that restrained the students from venting their spite upon the projector of the attack--tom newcombe--was the fear of a court-martial, and dismissal from the navy. they were all highly enraged at tom, and, one day, two of the seamen stopped him on the street, and told him that if he ever got another idea into his head about that yacht and attempted to carry it out, they would certainly duck him in the harbor. the interview took place in front of mr. newcombe's residence. tom wisely held his peace, and made no reply to the young sailors' threats until he was safe inside the gate, when he drawled out: "didn't i tell you that, if i did not own and sail that yacht, nobody should? well, i meant it. i've got another idea." the young tars, being well acquainted with tom, understood the meaning of this declaration, and hurried off to report the matter to the first lieutenant. harry listened with evident uneasiness, and, after taking a few turns across the deck, went ashore to consult captain steele. "if it was any body else in the world," said the executive, after he had told his story, "i should laugh at it; but, coming from the source it does, i know it is no laughing matter. newcombe has given us abundant proof that he is a reckless, bull-headed rascal, and, if he once gets an idea, he sticks to it, and one might as well talk to the wind as to attempt to reason with him. i can not imagine what new scheme he has got into his head, but i am satisfied that the yacht is in danger. what a pity it is that that boy does not spend the time he wastes in studying up plans for mischief, upon his books! he would soon be the best scholar of his age in the village." captain steele, as may be imagined, was not at all pleased with the information he had received. he was afraid of tom, and he did not hesitate to tell his lieutenant so. he could not, of course, determine where the threatened danger was coming from, but he was as firmly convinced as was the executive that trouble was brewing in some quarter. he could only order his subordinate to keep a bright lookout at all times, especially at night. "i'll do that," soliloquized harry, as he returned to his vessel, "and if tom newcombe comes around the upper end of this harbor with any more crusoe bands, he'll not escape as easily as he did before. i don't want to see him hurt, because his father gave us that vessel, but i'll teach him that i am tired of living in constant fear of having the yacht destroyed and my commission revoked." this incident happened about two weeks before the commencement of our story, and, during that time, an event occurred that caused considerable excitement in the village, and relieved the lieutenant of a great load of anxiety. it was the sudden and mysterious disappearance of the members of the crusoe band. tom newcombe went up to bed, one night, as usual, and, the next morning, he was gone; and so was his shot-gun, and fishing-tackle, and a good portion of his clothing. xury, jack spaniard, friday, and will atkins were also missing; and, what was more, nothing had ever been seen or heard of them since their departure. they had disappeared as completely as though they had never existed at all. the event had been a nine-days' wonder, but now nearly every one, except the students, had ceased to talk about it. their curiosity had been aroused, and they left no stone unturned in their efforts to find the means of satisfying it. they made inquiries of every body, guessed, wondered, and speculated, but all to no purpose; for even the talkative tom newcombe had left the village without giving any one so much as a hint of his intended movements. on the evening in question, some of the crew started the all-absorbing topic by saying, as they had probably done twenty times before, that they could not imagine what had become of tom, or what his object could have been in running away. as far as the object he had in view was concerned, harry also confessed ignorance; but said he believed tom had started with the crusoe band for the north pole. the boatswain was sure that he was on his way to south america; and one of the quartermasters thought his face was turned toward the rocky mountains. "now, fellows, i'll tell you all about it," said jackson, who, if he ever forgot the crusoe men, had only to look at his hand, which bore a long, ragged scar from the wound made by the bayonet that had been thrust through it: "in the first place, imagine the most impossible enterprise in the world--something that nobody but tom newcombe would ever think of attempting; in the second, make up your minds which is the most outlandish place on the globe; then put the two together, and you have the key to his last movement." "i wonder if he is the leader of the expedition!" said one of the midshipmen; "perhaps sam barton has turned up again." "impossible! he could not have lived two minutes in those waves." "well, we know one thing," said harry; "and that is, we are rid of our arch enemy, and the yacht is safe. but i would give something to know what his new idea was." "quartermaster, strike eight bells," said the officer of the deck. the movements that followed this order, showed how successful the lieutenant had been in his efforts to establish discipline among the noisy, fun-loving boys who composed his crew. scarcely had the bell been struck, when the desperate broadsword fight, that had been going on on the forecastle for the last quarter of an hour, was brought to a close; dumb-bells, indian clubs, and checkerboards quickly disappeared; the star-gazers came down out of the rigging; the quartermaster once more put his spy-glass under his arm, and began planking the deck; and quietness and order took the place of the confusion and noise that had reigned supreme a moment before. the hammocks were piped, the anchor watch set, the boatswain's whistle was heard again, followed by the injunction, "keep silence, fore and aft!" and the crew of the yacht was disposed of for the night. the officers went into the cabin, and those who were to stand watch that night soon turned in; while the others, never forgetting the rivals on shore who were working night and day to dislodge them, resumed their books. on the berth-deck the lights were turned down too low to admit of study, the rules forbade conversation, and the only thing the students could do was to tumble into their hammocks. "now, then," whispered the boatswain's mate, as he settled himself comfortably between the blankets, "i wonder if that lieutenant will allow us to sleep in peace to-night. he hasn't called us up to put out a fire for two weeks." among other things in which harry had drilled his men until they were almost perfect, was fire quarters; and he had rung so many alarms that the students began to call him the "fire lieutenant." of course he never took them away from their studies, but he had an uncomfortable habit of calling them up in the night. harry sometimes pored over his books until nearly twelve o'clock; and when every one, except himself and the officers and men on watch was asleep, he would come out of his cabin and ring the ship's bell as if his life depended upon it. the crew would tumble out of their hammocks and hurry to their stations, some manning the pump, and others getting out the hose and buckets, and all of them growling lustily to themselves, because they knew there was not a spark of fire on board the vessel. these false alarms, although annoying to the students, had the effect of making them thoroughly posted in their duties; and harry was satisfied, that if, by any accident, his little vessel should really catch on fire, the practice the crew had had would enable them to save her. he afterward had reason to congratulate himself that he had been so particular on this point. at one o'clock, every one on board the storm king, except the officers of the deck, quartermaster, and the two seamen who stood the anchor watch, was sound asleep. the night was very dark--so dark that the watch did not see a skiff which approached the vessel, propelled by slow, noiseless strokes. but the skiff was there, and, when it had been brought alongside the yacht, the bow-oarsman arose to his feet, and fastened into the fore-chains with a boat-hook, after which, a figure in the stern sheets placed his hands upon the rail, and drew himself up until he had obtained a view of the vessel's deck. he could not see much on account of the darkness, but his ears told him that the presence of himself and companions was unsuspected; and, having satisfied himself on this point, the visitor, whoever he was, clambered carefully over the rail, and a moment afterward was crouching on deck at the head of the ladder which led down into the forecastle. "what's that?" exclaimed one of the watch, suddenly interrupting the story he was relating to his companion. "i didn't hear any thing," replied the other. "well, i imagined i did. every dark night that i stand watch, i think of the crusoe band." "o, they're a hundred miles from here by this time--perhaps more. go on with your yarn." the young sailor listened a moment, but as the sound which had attracted his attention was not repeated, he resumed his story; whereupon, the figure at the hatchway arose to his feet, and stealthily descended the ladder. he was gone about five minutes, and then re-appeared, crawled noiselessly across the deck, and had just placed his hands upon the rail, when he was discovered by one of the watch. "hallo! boat--ship--i mean, man--ahoy!" shouted the young tar, evidently at a loss to determine how he ought to hail a stranger found on deck of his vessel, under such circumstances. both the watch made a rush for the mysterious visitor, who disappeared over the rail like a flash; and, by the time they reached the side, he was in his boat, which was moving off into the darkness. but he did not get away in time to escape recognition by the watch, both of whom stood for an instant as if petrified, and then called out, in amazement and alarm, "tom newcombe!" "where?" exclaimed jackson, the officer of the deck, hurrying forward. "in his boat there, sir, with half a dozen other fellows. he has been on board the vessel; we caught sight of him just as he was climbing over the rail." the officer was thunderstruck. the presence of their evil genius at that hour, and under such circumstances, boded no good to the yacht and her crew, and, for a moment, jackson stood holding fast to the rail, imagining all sorts of terrible things. he would not have been astonished if the waters of the harbor had suddenly opened to swallow up the vessel and her sleeping company. he even thought he felt the deck rise under his feet, and held his breath, expecting to hear an explosion, and to find himself struggling in the water amid the wreck of the storm king. but nothing of the kind happened: the yacht remained right side up; and if tom newcombe had placed a barrel of gunpowder in her, with a slow-match attached, intending to blow the vessel and her crew to atoms, there might yet be time to frustrate his designs. "quartermaster, spring that rattle!" shouted the officer, as if suddenly awaking out of a sound sleep--"smith and simmonds, lower away the jolly-boat." jackson ran below to report the matter to the first lieutenant; the sailors hurried off to execute their orders; and, before tom newcombe and his companions were out of sight of the yacht, they heard the rattle calling the crew to quarters. "wake up, sir," cried jackson, roughly shaking his superior officer by the shoulder--"tom newcombe!" the second lieutenant knew that the mention of that name would arouse the executive sooner than any thing else. "mercy on us!" exclaimed harry, "you don't say so! where is he?" "in his boat, now, and going down the harbor at the rate of ten knots an hour. he has been on board this yacht doing some mischief, of course, and i am expecting every instant to find myself going to the bottom. his pirate crew is with him." "the crusoe band!" harry almost gasped. "there are several fellows with him, and i don't know who else they can be." "call away the jolly-boat, and man her with an armed crew," said harry. "mr. richardson!" "here, sir," answered the midshipman, who had just come into the cabin with his boots in one hand, and his coat in the other. "take charge of the jolly-boat, pursue those fellows, and capture them, at all hazards, if they can be found. mr. jackson, stand by to get the vessel under way immediately." the second lieutenant sprang up the ladder, followed by the midshipman, and, a few moments afterward, harry heard the boat's crew scrambling over the side, and the boatswain's whistle calling the men to their stations. "am i doomed to live in constant fear of that fellow as long as i remain at the academy?" said the first lieutenant to himself. "what could he have wanted here? i'll have the yacht searched at once, and discover, if i can, what he has been up to." but the executive soon learned that it was not necessary to search the vessel to find out what tom newcombe had been doing, for, just at that moment, he was alarmed by the rapid tolling of the bell, and jackson burst into the cabin, pale and excited. "the yacht is on fire, sir!" said he. harry, too astonished to speak, hurried on deck, and, to his consternation, saw a dense smoke arising from the fore-hatchway. the students did not grumble now at being called to fire-quarters, for this was not a false alarm; the inside of the galley was a sheet of flames. chapter ii. sam barton's harboring place. tom newcombe seemed to possess, in a remarkable degree, the faculty of creating a disturbance wherever he went, and his re-appearance in the village was the signal for a general commotion. johnny harding came in for a share of the trouble, and was the hero of an adventure that gained him an enviable reputation in newport. in order that the reader may understand how it came about, we must go back and describe some events with which he is not acquainted. for two weeks after the spartan sailed with the fisher-boy on board, tom newcombe led a most miserable life. his father took especial care that every moment of his time, from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon, should be occupied with some business or another, and, in tom's estimation, this was the very worst punishment that could be inflicted upon him. in addition to that, the law against going outside the gate after dark was rigidly enforced; and thus tom was thrown upon his own resources for recreation. there were few boys in the village he cared to associate with now. he avoided the students, and johnny harding and his set, as he would a pestilence; but he was not always successful in his efforts to keep out of their way, for he had a good many errands to do about the village, and at almost every corner he met somebody he did not want to see. besides, johnny had taken up his position behind mr. henry's counter; and, although he had become a steady, well-behaved boy in other respects, he was as full of mischief as ever, and seemed to take unbounded delight in tormenting tom. mr. henry's store was but a short distance from the office; and as johnny was constantly running up and down the wharf on business, he met tom frequently, and never failed to make particular inquiries concerning the welfare of the young ruffians who had composed the crusoe band. "ah, _good_ morning, captain!" he would say, raising his hand to his cap with a military flourish, "how's the governor? and how does the society come on?" tom sometimes made an angry reply; but generally he would take to his heels, and as soon as possible get out of hearing of his tormentor. nine times in ten he did not better himself any; for, while he was running away from johnny, he would encounter some one else who had something to say about the yacht or the crusoe band. he was thus kept continually in hot water, and he knew that such would be his condition as long as he remained in the village. there was one way of escape, and that was to do as johnny harding had done, when he came home from the memorable expedition of the night-hawks. he saw his folly, acknowledged it, and resolved that his future life should make some amends for it. he held to this determination; and was now in a fair way to make a man of himself. tom, however, did not possess the moral courage to do this. he was one of those boys who are always in the right, and he did not believe that the troubles he had got into were the results of his own misdeeds. he laid the blame upon somebody else--principally upon his father, at whom he was highly enraged. he wanted to get out of the village, and he set his wits at work to conjure up some plan to induce the merchant to send him to sea, or permit him to make another contract with mr. hayes; but mr. newcombe thought the office was the best place for tom, and told him so in a manner so decided, that the boy knew that argument was useless. all this while he had been busy with his plan for the organization of a new secret society, but he was obliged to confess that, under the circumstances, it was not likely to amount to any thing. he needed the assistance of the old members of the crusoe band; but his father had ordered him to have nothing further to do with them, and, more than that, he took care to see that the order was obeyed. tom, knowing that he was closely watched, kept aloof from the ferry-boys, and when his work for the day was over, he found relief from his troubles by sailing about the bay in the mystery. one evening he extended his cruise around block island; and it was then an incident happened that brought about the events we have yet to describe. he was sailing around a high rocky promontory which formed the southern part of the island, his mind, as usual, busy with his new scheme, when he was aroused by hearing his name pronounced. he looked toward the shore, and was frightened nearly out of his senses when he discovered a boy, who bore a strong resemblance to sam barton, standing on a rock at the foot of the bluff, waving his hat to him. tom was not superstitious, but he believed, with every one else in newport, that the governor had deliberately put an end to his existence by jumping into the harbor on that stormy night, and his sudden appearance in that lonely spot was enough to startle him. "come ashore, muley; i want to talk to you." the voice certainly sounded like sam barton's, and tom, astonished and perplexed, brought the mystery up into the wind, and sat gazing at the bluffs as if he hardly knew whether or not it was safe to venture any nearer to it. "don't you know me, muley?" asked the boy on shore. "i'm sam barton." "why, you were drowned," returned tom. "drowned! not much, i wasn't. i ketched hold of a spar that happened to be in the water near me, an' here i am all right." tom, being now convinced that the boy on shore was really the long-lost governor of the crusoe band, filled away, and, when the mystery had approached within a few feet of the rock, sam said: "now, muley, you're close enough. i want to ask you one question before you come ashore. have you gone back on me?" "no, i haven't," replied tom, who had already told himself that the meeting with sam was most fortunate, and that, with his assistance, his new idea could be successfully carried out, "but i have a small account against you. you made me captain of the yacht, without my asking you for the position, and then refused to obey my orders, and broke me without one word of excuse or apology. i didn't like that very well, but as our expedition proved a failure, i don't care so much about it. what are you doing, governor? and how came you here?" "are you sure you won't tell any body in the village that you saw me?" demanded sam. "you see, i am afraid of bobby jennings and mr. grimes, an' i don't care about tellin' you too much till i know how fur you can be trusted." "i won't say a word to any body--honor bright," replied tom. "wall, then, come ashore, and let me get into your boat, an' i'll show you where i live." tom complied with the request; and the governor, after shaking him cordially by the hand, and compelling him to promise, over and over again, that he would keep every thing that passed between them a profound secret, seated himself at the helm, and turned the mystery's head down the shore. the wind was blowing briskly; and at the end of the promontory was a chain of sunken rocks, that extended a considerable distance below the foot of the island, and over which the waves dashed and foamed, throwing the spray higher than the mystery's mast-head. these rocks were quite as dangerous as they looked; for more than one vessel, in attempting to enter newport harbor during a gale, had gone to pieces there. they presented an insurmountable obstacle to the young navigators of the village, who had explored every little bay and inlet on the island, except those in the vicinity of "the shoals," as these rocks were called. the slightest breeze would there raise a sea that threatened destruction to any thing that came within its reach; and when the weather was calm, the rocks could be seen above the water in all directions, standing so close together that the bravest of the boys dared not risk their boats among them. tom knew the place well; and we can imagine his astonishment when he saw that sam was shaping his course as if he intended to pass between the rocks and the bluffs on the island. "keep out, governor!" he shouted, in alarm. "you'll smash us all to pieces if you go in there." "now, you just trust me, muley, an' i'll see that no harm don't come to you or your boat," replied sam, confidently. "i've got a safe harborin' place here, and this is the way to get to it." tom had seen the time that he would have positively refused to trust his fine boat among those rocks. he was naturally a very timid boy, and, although he had been accustomed to the water and to sail-boats from the time he was large enough to handle a tiller, a fresh breeze and a few waves always made him extremely nervous. but the events of the last few months had developed in him at least one quality which his companions had never supposed him to possess. he was getting to be a very reckless sort of fellow; and, although he clutched his seat and held his breath when the mystery dashed in among the waves off the point, he looked quite unconcerned. he was really frightened, however, and that was not to be wondered at. sam was attempting something that no one had ever had the courage to try before; and no doubt tom felt a good deal as did the mariners of old when approaching the terrible cape bojador, which they believed marked the boundaries of navigation. but the governor knew just what he was doing. he proved himself an excellent pilot, and in a few moments he rounded the point, and, entering a little bay where the water was comparatively quiet, he directed the boat's course toward what appeared to be a solid wall of rock. a nearer approach to it, revealed a narrow creek that led into the island. sam steered into it, skillfully avoiding the rocks on either side; and when the mystery's bow was run upon the sand, tom jumped ashore and looked about him. "well, muley, what do you think of me for a sailor?" asked sam, looking at his companion with a smile of triumph. "aint that something worth braggin' on? i wouldn't be afraid to take your father's biggest vessel through there." "but how would you get her out again?" asked tom. "you couldn't beat up against the wind, for the channel isn't wide enough." "of course not; i couldn't take the mystery out that way, much less a big ship. did you see them high rocks at the lower end of the shoals? well, when you want to go home, i shall take you right past them." "o, now, i won't go," drawled tom, looking at sam in great amazement. "i did notice them, and i know the waves must be ten or fifteen feet high there." "that's nothing. the channel runs close alongside them rocks, an' is wide an' deep enough to float a frigate. if you want to go home in your boat, that's your only chance." while this conversation was going on, tom had made a hurried examination of the governor's harboring-place, which was far ahead of the cave in the village, and must have been expressly intended to serve as a refuge for some person, who, like sam, thought it necessary to keep aloof from his fellow-men. the creek was simply an arm of the bay, which did not extend more than twenty yards into the land, where it formed a cove large enough to shelter half a dozen sail-boats. it was surrounded by precipitous cliffs, which hung threateningly over the water and whose sides were so thickly covered with bushes and trees that the rays of the sun could not penetrate through them. the entrance was effectually concealed by rocks which had fallen from the bluffs above, and a fleet might have coasted along the shore without discovering it. on one side of the cove was a little grass plat, which sloped gently down to the water's edge, and here sam had erected a rude cabin, which was furnished with a bed, fire-place, cooking utensils, and other articles of comfort and convenience. a skiff was drawn up on the bank in front of the cabin, a sail and a pair of oars rested against the eaves, and in a frying-pan, which stood on a bench beside the door, were several fish which sam had caught for his supper. "well, muley, what do you think of it?" asked the governor, when his visitor had examined every thing to his satisfaction. "i'm livin' crusoe life now, aint i? i'd like it a heap better than ferryin', if i only had something besides fish and water-melons to eat." "water-melons!" repeated tom: "where do you get them?" "o, i hooks 'em. there's plenty on the island, an' i was just goin' out after some when i saw you. i've got one left, an' it's in the spring, behind the cabin, coolin' off." "how did you get out without your boat?" asked tom, looking up at the overhanging cliffs. "you can't climb those rocks." "you couldn't, but i can, 'cause i know where the path is. you see, i am an old fox, an' i've got two holes to my burrow. if mr. grimes an' bobby jennings find out where i am, an' come here with a boat to ketch me, they'll see me goin' up them rocks like a goat; an' if they come down the path--which they aint no ways likely to do--i'll take to my boat. come with me now, muley, an' i'll show you something." tom followed the governor around the cabin, past the spring in which was the water-melon sam had spoken of, and which he said they would eat when they came down, and presently found himself standing at the foot of a narrow, winding fissure, that led to the top of the cliff. this was one of the holes to sam's "burrow"--the path of which he had spoken. it proved to be very steep and slippery, and, before they had accomplished half the distance to the summit, tom was obliged to sit down and recover his breath. the second time he stopped, he found before him a yawning chasm which extended across the path, and seemed to check their farther progress. "can you jump it, muley?" asked the governor. now, as the chasm was fully ten feet wide, and tom could see no chance for a running start, he thought this question entirely unnecessary. no boy who had any desire to live would have thought of attempting to jump it; for, if he missed his footing when he landed on the opposite side, he would fall about forty feet. that was what tom thought, and that was what he told the governor. "well, i have done it many a time," said sam, "an' i can do it again." as he spoke, he stepped to a tree beside the path, and began to unfasten a rope which led down from some place above--tom could not see where, for the bushes that covered the side of the cliff were too thick. grasping the rope with both hands, the governor stepped back a few feet, then ran swiftly to the brink, and, springing into the air, alighted safely on the other side of the chasm. [illustration: sam barton's harboring place.] "i don't like that way of getting over," said tom, looking down at the rocks beneath him; "that rope might break." "i'll risk that," was the reply. "it's strong enough to hold half a dozen fellers like us, an' it is made fast up there to a tree as big around as your body. ketch it, muley, an' come on." the governor let go the rope, which swung back to tom's side of the chasm, and the latter, with a good deal of trembling and hesitation, prepared to take his turn. he made two or three false starts--stepping back for a short run, as he had seen the governor do, and then suddenly stopping when he reached the brink of the chasm, and thought what would become of him if the rope should break loose from the tree above; but his fear of being laughed at was stronger than his dread of the rocks, and finally he drew in a long breath, and launched himself into the air. somewhat to his astonishment, he accomplished the feat very easily; and when he found himself safe on the opposite side, he straightened up and looked at the governor as if he had done something wonderful. sam fastened the rope to a bush, and once more led the way up the path, which grew steeper and more difficult the nearer they approached the summit. in some places the cliff was quite perpendicular, and the only way they could advance at all was by drawing themselves up by the bushes that grew out of the crevices of the rocks. they reached the top at last, however, and then sam stopped, and, pointing through the leaves, showed tom several men at work in a field, and a farm-house in the distance. "i hooks them fellers' water-melons," observed the governor. "what if they should discover us now, and come after us?" said tom. "let 'em come. they wouldn't find us, i reckon; an', even if they did, they couldn't ketch us, fur they couldn't get across that gully. but they don't dream of any body's livin' down here, in this dark hole. if they miss their water-melons, they lay the blame on some of the village boys." tom did not care to remain long on the cliff, for he was afraid that something might happen to direct the attention of the farmers toward him and his companion, and he had no desire to run a race with any body down that steep path. he might make a misstep, and that would be a calamity, for he would bring up among the rocks at the bottom of the chasm, and there would not be enough left of him to carry out his new idea by the time he got there. but, although it was quite as difficult and tedious a task to go down the cliff as to ascend it, no accident happened to them. they reached the chasm in safety, crossed it with the aid of the rope--this time without any hesitation on tom's part--and were soon stretched on the grass in front of the cabin, refreshing themselves with the water-melon. chapter iii. a new plan. tom was no less delighted than astonished at what he had seen in the governor's harboring place. the cove was so romantic, and it was so cool and pleasant down there among the rocks and trees! it was a famous place for reflection, and, as tom stretched himself out on the grass, and looked up at the bluffs above him, he told himself that he would be perfectly willing to pass the remainder of his existence there. what could be more glorious than the life of ease sam was leading? he had no business to bother him, no father to keep an eye on all his movements, and no merciless village boys to torment him; but he was free from all care and trouble, was his own master, and passed his time serenely in doing nothing. that was just the life that suited tom. if other boys were foolish enough to allow themselves to be shut up in an academy for ten months in the year, or were willing to drag out a miserable existence within the dingy walls of a store or office, that was their lookout, and not his. he would not do it for any body. he would leave the village before he was twenty-four hours older; and if he ever placed his foot inside its limits again, it would be because he could not help himself. "governor," said he, "you always were a lucky fellow. here you have been during the last two weeks, enjoying yourself to the utmost, and free to go and come when you please, while i have been cooped up in the village, scarcely daring to stir out of my father's sight, compelled to work like a slave for eight hours in the day, and have been badgered and tormented until i have sometimes wished that the earth would open and swallow up newport and everybody in it, myself included. you must be happy here." "well, i should be," replied the governor, "if i only had something good to eat, an' was sartin that bobby jennings an' mr. grimes would never trouble me." "you may make yourself easy on that score," said tom. "bob jennings is a thousand miles from here by this time. he has gone to china, and will not be back for three years." as tom said this he settled back on his elbow, and proceeded to give the governor a history of all that had happened in the village since the night the crusoe men made the attack on the storm king. he told how harry green had taken him and the rest of the band to the academy as prisoners of war; repeated what the principal had said to them; explained how bob had lost his boat, and found a friend in the man who had paid him the forty dollars in gold by mistake; and how he had obtained a berth on board the spartan, and gone to sea, leaving his mother well provided for. he wound up by dwelling with a good deal of emphasis upon the resolve he had made to pay off harry green for what he had done, and hinted, mysteriously, that the first lieutenant would live to regret that he had ever presumed to act contrary to the wishes of tom newcombe. sam could scarcely believe some portions of the story that related to bob jennings. he was sure that the fisher-boy had given one of the gold pieces for the go ahead no. 2; and, even if he had not, the governor could not understand how a boy so hard pressed as bob had been--who had more than once been at a loss to know where his next meal was coming from--could resist the temptation to use a portion of the money, especially when he knew that the man who had paid it to him would never be the wiser for it. sam acknowledged to himself that the truth of the old adage he had so often heard bob repeat--that "honesty is the best policy"--had been fully exemplified. "now, that's what comes of bein' born lucky," said he, after he had thought the matter over. "that ar' bobby jennings is a gentleman, now, an' goes about holden' up his head like he was somebody; while i am a rascal an' an outlaw, not darin' to show my face outside this yere cove, an' livin' in constant fear of mr. grimes, an' the state's prison. this is a hard world, tommy." "o, now, have you just found it out?" drawled tom. "if you had seen as much trouble as i have, you would have come to that conclusion long ago. i heard harry green say, one day, that it was the very best world he ever saw, and that it could not possibly be any better. if i was as lucky as he is, i would say so too. he holds high positions among those spooneys at the academy, every body in the village speaks well of him, and he gets along through the world without the least difficulty; while i--just look at me! i won't stand it; now, that's all about it! i'll raise a breeze in that village one of these fine days, that will make the people there think they have never known any thing about tom newcombe." tom always worked himself into a passion when he talked about the wrongs he imagined the world had done him; and as he dwelt upon harry green's success--which he foolishly attributed to luck, instead of downright earnest labor--and drew a contrast between their stations in life, he got angrier with every sentence he uttered; and when he declared that he "wouldn't stand it," he jumped up and stamped his foot furiously upon the ground, to emphasize his words. "well, now, muley, i can't see the use of talkin' on that ar' way," said the governor. "the world has been mighty mean to us, but it might have used us a heap worse." "o, now, i can't see it!" drawled tom. "i'd like to know if i wasn't used just as badly as i could be when i lost that yacht?" "of course not. you might have been put in jail, like the rest of the fellers." "what fellows?" "why, friday, will atkins, an' all our crowd." "they are not in jail. they are ferrying on the harbor every day, and nobody troubles them. if you were to go back to the village, no one would say a word to you." the governor shut one eye, and looked at tom through, the half-closed lids of the other. "do you see any thing green about me?" he asked. "we stole the skiff--every body knows that--an' it wasn't no fault of our'n that bobby jennings got her agin. that's contrary to law, an' mr. grimes, bein' an officer, is bound to put us through for it. he thinks that by lettin' them fellers alone he will get me to go back to the village, and then he'll arrest the whole of us, an' pack us off to jail. but i'm too sharp fur him. he said i couldn't pull no wool over his eyes, an' he'll find that he can't pull none over mine, neither." "but i tell you that every body thinks you are drowned," said tom. "that's all mighty nice, but it don't fool governor barton. i just aint going back to newport, 'cause i know it aint safe. i jumped overboard from the yacht 'cause i didn't want to let mr. grimes get his hands on me, an' i'd be the biggest kind of a dunce to put myself in his way ag'in. but i say, muley, don't it beat all the world how them 'cademy swells got out of the hold that night?" "it doesn't beat me; i know all about it. you broke me, didn't you?" "i did; but i am sorry fur it now." "it is rather late in the day to make apologies, governor. if you had treated me like a gentleman, those students wouldn't have got out." "i don't understand you, muley." "well, i let them out. you understand me now, don't you?" sam, upon hearing this, started up from the ground and glared at tom so savagely that the latter began to be alarmed. "i couldn't help it, governor," said he. "it's my plan to get even with any fellow who imposes upon me. you played me a mean trick, and i paid you off in your own coin." "well, the thing is done now," said sam, settling back on his elbow, "an' it can't be undone. perhaps it was the best thing that could have happened to us, fur, since i have had time to think the matter over, i have come to the conclusion that our cruise would not have been a long one. that was a terrible storm, muley, an' the waves were uncommon high. i found that out the minute i got into 'em. i never expected to come out alive, an' i hadn't any more than touched the water, till i'd been willin' to give something nice to get back on board the yacht. but luck was on my side for once, an' throwed a spar in my way. where it come from i don't know; but it was there, an' it saved me. it drifted into the harbor, carryin' me with it; an' when i come to a place where i thought i could swim, i struck out for the wharf. it was then almost daylight, an', as i didn't care about bein' seen, i found a safe hidin'-place an' stayed there durin' the day, thinkin' an' layin' my plans. when night come, i stole this skiff an' started for the island. the next day i found this cove; an', seein' in a minute that it was just the place for me, i brought my boat around, an' i've been here ever since. i've made three visits to the village--that's the way i come to learn the channels--and i've got my bed, all my clothes, an' several other handy little articles i found layin' around. i wanted to see you an' find out what was goin' on, but i didn't dare to show myself, fur i didn't know but you had gone back on me. rats desert a sinkin' ship, you know, an' when a feller's in disgrace, everybody gets down on him. i'm glad to hear that the other fellers are all right, 'cause i've done a heap of thinkin' since i've been here. have you given up all idea of findin' crusoe's island?" "no, i haven't," replied tom. "i'd start to-morrow, if i could find any one to go with me. what have you been thinking about, governor?" "about gettin' away from here. i can't stay on this island much longer, 'cause it's too near the village; an' another thing, grub's scarce. i'm going over to newport this very night to see them fellers; an' if they'll stick to us, we'll see some fun yet. will you go?" "i will," answered tom, readily; "that is, if you will help me square yards with the principal of the academy." "i'll do it; there's my hand on it. i always knowed you were a brick, muley, an' now i'll tell you what i have been thinkin' about since we've been sittin' here. in the first place," continued the governor, helping himself to another slice of the water-melon, "i take it fur granted that friday, will atkins, xury, an' jack spaniard will go with us, an' help us carry out our idea. i know them fellers, an' i am sure they can be depended on. we'll start the crusoe band ag'in. i will be the head man, as i was before; an' if you'll promise, honor bright, not to try any tricks on us, we'll call you cap'n, an' we'll give you command of the vessel, when we get her." "all right," said tom, "i'll not play any tricks on you as long as you obey orders and behave yourselves; but if you get up a mutiny, and try to make me a foremast hand, as you did before, i'll knock the whole thing higher than a kite. you must bear two things in mind, governor: i know more about managing these matters than you do, and i am a better sailor. i was president of the gentlemen's club, and grand commander of the night-hawks. that runaway expedition from the academy, that made such a stir in the village, originated with me, and i carried it out successfully; and that's more than any other boy in newport could have done. i was second in command of the swallow during that cruise, and, if i had had one or two more friends, i would have been made master of her when the fellows put rich out. if i go with you, i must be captain of the vessel; and, more than that, you must promise, in the presence of the band, to stand by me, and see that my orders are obeyed to the very letter." "i'll agree to that, muley," said sam. "call me captain," interrupted tom; "i never did like that other name. the second thing you must remember is, that, if you and i are friends, the expedition will be successful; but, if you make an enemy of me, i'll ruin it in some way or another. let's hear the rest of your plan." "i can tell it in few words," replied sam: "if the fellers promise to go with us, we must find a vessel somewhere. we want a good one, fur there's no knowin' how many storms we may get into before we reach our island. i'd like to have that yacht, 'cause she's a good sea-boat, an' sails like lightnin'; but them 'cademy swells will always be on the watch now, an' when you see governor barton within reach of them bayonets ag'in, you'll see a weasel asleep. our best plan would be to take the sweepstakes. 'squire thompson leaves her in the harbor, with no one to watch her, an' it'll be the easiest thing in the world to board her, some dark night, an' make off with her. that part of the business don't trouble me none, but the grub does. i s'pose the few crackers we had on hand when we made the attack on the yacht are lost, or eat up; an' atkins said there was not much more'n twenty dollars in the treasury. that wouldn't be enough to buy grub fur us six fellers, even if we had it; but i know it's been fooled away fur peanuts an' candy long before this time. of course, we can't go to sea without something to eat, an' the only way we can get it is to hook it." "steal it!" drawled tom. "o, now, if that's the way you are going to get your supplies, you needn't ask me to help, for i won't do it." "mebbe you'll be willin' enough to eat the grub when we get it," returned sam. "that's a different matter. of course, i'll not starve if there's is any thing on board the vessel to eat, but i won't steal. where are you going to get your provisions?" "at mr. henry's store." "o, now, suppose you should be caught? that would kill the expedition at once. johnny harding sleeps in the store every night." "does he?" exclaimed the governor. "that's something i didn't calculate on; but i guess we aint much afraid of him. if we can only get inside the store without awaking him, we can manage him easy enough. i'll have a club, or something, an' the sight of it will keep him quiet while the other fellers are securin' the provisions." tom was amazed at the coolness with which the governor discussed this villainous plan for supplying the commissary of the crusoe band. he was hardly prepared for so desperate an undertaking, and yet, at the same time, he had determined upon the perpetration of an offense which was even more atrocious in the eyes of the law than the one sam had proposed. when it first entered his mind, he had been terrified at the bare thought of it; but he had pondered upon it so often, and had weighed so many schemes for its accomplishment, that the enormity of the crime had finally dwindled into insignificance. perhaps, if he had spent as much time in thinking about robbing mr. henry's store as he had about destroying the storm king, sam's proposition would not have startled him in the least. the fact was, tom had long been going down hill, in a moral point of view. like every one else who does not advance, he was retrograding. there is no such thing as standing still in this world. a boy grows better or worse every day of his life. the change may be so gradual as to escape the notice of those around him, but it is, nevertheless, surely going on. the truth of this had been fully illustrated in tom's case. from studying up schemes for mischief, which were simply intended to amuse himself and companions, he had come, by easy steps, to think seriously of attempting a crime, to revenge himself upon his father, the students, and the principal of the academy. he did not expect to accomplish it without being discovered; and he knew that, if he was captured, his punishment would be something more terrible than any thing he had yet experienced. but this thought did not deter him. he was resolved to carry out his new idea, if within the bounds of possibility, and to escape the consequences by running away from the village. "well, cap'n, what do you say?" asked the governor, after tom had sat gazing thoughtfully at the ground for several minutes. "we must have something to eat, an that's the only way i know of to get it." "you can do as you please," was the answer. "i shall not take any part in robbing the store; there is too much danger in it." "well, we can get along without your help. you can stand by and look on. you said something about gettin' even with them 'cademy swells, didn't you?" "yes, i did. i am going to burn that yacht." it was now sam's turn to be astonished. he started up and looked at his companion as if he hardly believed that he could be in earnest. "o, i mean it, governor," said tom, with a decided shake of his head. "now, if you will listen to me, cap'n', you will keep away from them 'cademy fellers. they think a heap of that little vessel, an' if they ketch you tryin' to burn her, they won't be no ways backward about givin' you a good drubbin'. besides, you'll have mr. grimes after you." "i have thought the matter over thoroughly, sam, and nothing you can say will turn me from my purpose. do you suppose that, after all that has happened, i am going to let those fellows enjoy quiet possession of the storm king? no, sir; i won't do it. she rightfully belongs to me, and if i can't have her, nobody shall. when i meet those sailors strutting about the village, showing off their new uniforms, and see harry green planking his quarter-deck with all the dignity of an admiral, i feel as if i'd like to sink the vessel and her crew in the deepest part of the ocean. if my father had given her to me, as he ought to have done, i should now be the happiest boy in the world; as it is, i am the most miserable. i don't expect you and the band to run any risks, governor. all i ask of you is to pull me alongside the yacht, and i'll do the rest. i'll slip on board with a bottle of coal-oil in my pocket, and if i can once get into the galley without being discovered, i'll finish her." the governor gazed at tom in silent wonder and admiration. the latter's plan for "squaring yards" with the principal was likely to involve him in considerable danger, and sam could not help acknowledging to himself that it was something he would not dare undertake. he had great respect for courage, and he believed that he had been sadly mistaken in tom. he began to stand in awe of him, too; for a boy who could conceive of such an exploit, and talk so calmly about it, after the experience he had already had with the students, might indeed prove a dangerous person to make an enemy of. the governor secretly determined to keep on the right side of tom. "well," said he, at length, "i promised that i would help you, an' i'll stick to it." "if you don't, i'll do the job alone," declared tom. "i'll board the yacht some night, and set fire to her, even if i know that the students will catch me in the very act. but it is getting dark, and i must go home." "come ag'in to-morrow afternoon, cap'n," said the governor. "i'll have the other fellers here then, an' we can talk the matter over." tom promised to be on hand; and after sam had piloted his boat out of the cove into still water, he filled away for home, feeling happier than he had done for many a day. we are so well acquainted with him, that it is scarcely necessary to say that he passed a sleepless night, and that during the following day he lived in a state of constant excitement. of course he was certain of success--he always was, in spite of his former experience--and of course he gave full sway to his imagination, and indulged in pleasing anticipations of the life of glorious ease upon which he was soon to enter. there would be no johnny harding to bother him (tom spent a good deal of time in trying to decide upon some plan to punish johnny before he left the village); no stern, unreasonable father to interfere with his grand ideas; no care or trouble of any description to mar his happiness; but his days would be passed in one continual round of enjoyment. every one who came in contact with him noticed that he was in wonderful spirits--not morose and sullen as he had lately been, but gay and active, and, for a wonder, industrious. this was enough to excite the suspicions of his father, who watched him more closely than ever, but could discover nothing wrong. tom remained at the office until four o'clock, and then went home. he kept the back streets, to avoid meeting any of his acquaintances, but, to his intense disgust, he ran against two of the crew of the storm king, in front of his father's house. they were the ones who threatened him with a bath in the harbor if he attempted to carry out any more of his plans against the yacht, and whom tom alarmed by declaring that he had another idea already. "o, now, i'd like to see you duck me in the harbor," drawled tom. "if you think you can scare me, you are very much mistaken. i'll astonish you, one of these days." "you had better be careful how you talk, captain," said one of the young tars, placing his hand on the gate as if he had half a mind to follow tom into the yard; "we are in no humor to listen to any threats." "now, haven't i told you a dozen times that i want you to quit calling me captain?" whined tom. "i've stood your insults just as long as i am going to. i've got a splendid idea." tom turned on his heel, and walked down the lawn toward the wharf where the mystery lay; and when he had hoisted the sails, he started for the island, to keep his appointment with sam barton. on the way he overtook and passed a yawl, in which were seated the four members of the crusoe band; and the significant manner in which they shook their heads at tom, satisfied him that the governor had talked the matter over with them, and that they were ready to join the expedition. he found sam on the rock where he had met him the day before; and when he had piloted the mystery into the cove, he conducted tom up the path that led to the summit of the bluff, and together they returned to the rock, to await the arrival of the other members of the band. they came at length, and in a few minutes the yawl was lying in the cove beside the mystery, and the crusoe men were seated on the grass in front of the cabin, talking over their plans. the arrangements for the cruise were speedily completed. it was unanimously agreed by the band that the only way to get their provisions was to rob mr. henry's store (to tom's great surprise, not the slightest objection was made to this proposition); that they should capture the sweepstakes, and assist tom in destroying the yacht; that sam should be chief of the band, tom captain of the vessel, and xury, in view of the skill he had exhibited in navigating the yacht down the harbor on that stormy night, should be first mate. it was further agreed that the members of the band should go back to the village, collect all the articles of the outfit, and, as soon as it grew dark, return to the island, where they would remain concealed until they were ready to start on their cruise. "you see," explained the governor, "when you five fellers run away, it'll be sure to raise a big fuss, and mebbe tommy's father will try to find him. but he'll never think of lookin' fur him so near the village; an' here we'll stay, as snug an' comfortable as bugs in a rug. the fuss will die out after awhile, an' then, some dark night, we'll pay our last visit to newport." this programme was duly carried out; and, while every body was wondering what had become of the runaways, and mr. newcombe was sending his tugs up and down the bay, in all directions, in the hope of hearing some tidings of the missing tom, he was safely sheltered in sam barton's retreat, enjoying a foretaste of crusoe life, happy in the society of the young vagabonds he had chosen for his companions, and never wasting a thought upon the home and friends he had deserted. chapter iv. tom in trouble. for the first time in a good many months, tom was willing to acknowledge that he was a happy boy. the life he led in sam barton's harboring-place exactly suited him. he had plenty to eat, no work to do, and nothing to trouble him. by virtue of his rank, he was exempt from all camp duty; and the only labor he had to perform during the day-time was to dispose of his meals when friday said they were ready. when he felt so inclined, he took part in the conversation, and discussed with the others the best methods of carrying out the plans they had determined upon; but he believed the position he held warranted the display of a little dignity on his part, and he generally kept aloof from all his companions, except the governor, and spent the most of his time in dozing and building air-castles. if the storm king had been destroyed, he would have been willing to pass the remainder of his days in the cove. that would save him the trouble and inconvenience of a long voyage at sea, which, reckless as he was, he was in no hurry to undertake. what if the sweepstakes should be caught out in a storm, like the one they had experienced the night they made the attack on the yacht? the captain did not like to think about this; but the question would now and then force itself upon him, and he finally determined that, if he found himself likely to get into trouble, he would shirk the responsibility by turning the command of the vessel over to his mate. on the evening of the fourteenth day after the crusoe men had taken up their abode in the cove, tom lay upon the grass, gazing into the water, and lazily fanning himself with his hat. the band had been employed, during the day, in enlarging the cabin, and tom had condescended to lend a very little assistance, and was now resting after his labors. a fire was burning brightly under the bluff, and, before it, supported upon sticks driven into the ground, were half a dozen fine fish, which, under the influence of the heat, were emitting an odor that would have tempted an epicure. a coffee-pot simmered and sputtered on a bed of coals that had been raked out on one side of the fire, and on the other stood friday, the cook, watching some potatoes that were roasting in the ashes. a short distance from the fire was the table, laid for supper. it was a little knoll, thickly covered with grass, which answered the purpose of a tablecloth. the most prominent object upon it was a huge piece of beech bark, which did duty as a bread-plate--only it was filled with crackers, instead of bread; and, judging by the quantity it contained, friday must have thought his companions would be very hungry after their day's work. around it were arranged the dishes with which each member of the band had been required to provide himself--a tin plate and cup, and also a spoon, knife, and fork. two more pieces of bark lay near the fire, waiting to receive the fish and potatoes. the outfit provided by the band for their former expedition, and which fell into the hands of the students when they recaptured their vessel, had been restored to the owners by the principal, and they had brought it to the island with them. will atkins was now engaged in stowing it away in the cabin, xury was arranging the beds, and jack spaniard was fixing up some brackets to receive the guns. the governor was off reconnoitering. he had issued orders prohibiting his men from going outside the cove in the day-time, but he himself ascended to the upper world at least once in every two or three hours, to see what was going on, and to satisfy himself that the farmer on whose land the cove was situated had seen nothing to arouse his suspicions. "now, then," said friday, "supper's ready. will atkins, go after the governor." "who made you an officer?" replied atkins. "go yourself." "now, look here," exclaimed tom, raising himself on his elbow, and looking indignantly at the cook, "by whose authority do you issue commands here? there are a captain and mate in this society now, and all orders must pass through them." "i forgot," said friday. "cap'n, will you tell somebody to call the governor?" "mr. mate," drawled tom, "be kind enough to send a man after the governor." "will atkins," said xury, "go up an' tell the governor that if he wants any grub he'd best be gettin' down here." the order came from the proper authority this time, and through the proper channels, and atkins could not refuse to obey. this style of passing orders had been introduced by tom, and was what he called the "man of war routine." he insisted that it was no more than right that all the officers should have something to do with whatever was going on; and, after a few objections from sam, who did not like to surrender any of his authority, he had carried his point. the governor was sharp enough to see, after a little reflection, that this rule, if strictly carried out, would establish him more firmly in his position than ever before. by allowing his officers to show their authority on all occasions, they would be kept good natured; and if any trouble arose in the band, he could depend upon their assistance and support. there were two among the crusoe men, however, who were not at all pleased with this state of affairs, and they were will atkins and jack spaniard. by carrying out tom's system they were made hewers of wood and drawers of water to their companions; and will atkins, who was a turbulent fellow, declared that he wouldn't stand it--that there would be a big fuss in the society some day, if the officers persisted in making a servant of him. he always obeyed orders, because he was afraid to refuse; but he growled about it like any old sailor. "i think this is a purty how-de-do," said he, sullenly, as he started off to obey the mate's command. "it's 'will atkins, do this!' 'will atkins, do that!' that lazy governor, an' muley, an' xury can set around an' do nothin'; but atkins can't have a minute's peace." "go on, and obey the order," said tom, sternly. "if i hear another word out of you, i'll report you to the governor." this thread silenced the dissatisfied member of the crusoe band. he knew, by experience, that the chief had a very unpleasant way of dealing with rebellious spirits, and fear of bodily harm kept him quiet. by the time friday had dished up his supper, atkins returned with the governor, who threw himself upon the grass at the head of the table, while his officers seated themselves on each side of him. he passed his cup to the cook to be filled with coffee, and, as he did so, he ran his eye over the table, and smiled with great satisfaction. "this is a heap better grub than i had while i lived here alone," said he. "friday, you know i am heavy on taters; why didn't you cook more of 'em?" "them's the last," was the answer. "then we must lay in a new supply," said sam. "we'll go up after dark, an' hook a bushel or so. i've been watchin' them fellers up there, fur the last half hour; an' i notice they have left a good many piles of taters in the field. it'll be the easiest thing in the world fur us to get as many as we want." the matter was settled without any further remarks. the governor's orders had thus far been received and obeyed without comment; and so small and uninteresting an enterprise as robbing a potato-patch was not worth talking about. the crusoe men had done such things so often that they thought no more of them than they did of going fishing. but this expedition was destined to be rather more exciting than any of a similar kind in which they had ever engaged; and if they had only known what was to happen before morning, and could have looked far enough into the future to see the long string of events that was to result from the governor's order, it is probable that they would one and all have refused duty. supper over, the crusoe men lounged on the grass, in front of the cabin, and talked of what they had done, and what they intended to do--all except friday, who busied himself in clearing the table, and washing the dishes. at sunset it was quite dark in the cove; but the governor knew there was still plenty of light on the cliffs above, and he waited nearly two hours more before he gave the signal for action. "i reckon we can be movin' now," said he, at length. "i don't s'pose there is any danger, but, of course, it will be well for us to keep our eyes an' ears open. if them fellers up there havn't found out by this time that there's something goin' on, it aint no fault of our'n; fur we've made mighty free with their fruit an' vegetables durin' the last few nights. cap'n, see that each man is provided with a sack to put the taters in." tom repeated the order to his mate, who went into the cabin, and presently returned with an armful of bags, which he distributed among the band. the chief then lighted his lantern, and, every thing being ready for the start, led the way toward the cliff, the ascent of which was regarded by the members of the band as the worst part of the undertaking. the fissure along which the path ran, was as dark as midnight; and the faint light which the governor's lantern threw out, afforded them but little assistance in finding their way. they had made the ascent so often, however, that they had become quite familiar with the path, and there was no danger of losing their way, or of falling over the rocks. they crossed the chasm by the rope bridge in safety, and finally reached the summit, where the governor extinguished his light, and stopped to reconnoiter. every thing was still, and sam was satisfied that the coast was clear, although he thought it best to give his men a few final instructions. "there don't seem to be nothin' wrong," said he, "but, bein' an old fox, i know it aint always best to put too much faith in appearances. we won't go straight to the field, 'cause there may be somebody on the watch, you know; an' if they see where we come from, they'll discover our hidin'-place, an' then we can bid good-by to all hopes of ever seein' our island. if they get after us, we'll scatter out an' hide from 'em--we can easy do that in the dark--an' when they're gone, we'll meet here. but remember, fellers, we aint comin' back without them taters." sam, who had by this time become well acquainted with the country about his hiding-place, once more placed himself at the head of his men, and led them down the shore for a quarter of a mile; and after passing through two or three fields, came up on the other side of the potato-patch. if the farmer was on the watch, this maneuver would lead him to believe that sam and his band had come from the village. the governor had no difficulty in finding the place where the farmer had left his potatoes, and after he had ordered two of the band to act as sentries, he set to work with the others to fill the bags. for a wonder tom labored as hard as the rest, and without once noticing how sadly he was soiling his hands and clothes. he was rendered extremely uneasy by the precautions the governor had taken to avoid capture, and he was anxious to get the work done as soon as possible. when his bag was filled, he tied it with a string he had brought with him for the purpose, and was making some desperate efforts to raise it to his shoulder, when an exclamation from one of the sentinels caused him to drop his burden as if it had been a coal of fire. "see there, fellers!" whispered xury. "look out, men!" chimed in will atkins. "i hear something." tom looked, but could see nothing. he knew there was danger near, however, and without waiting to see what quarter it was coming from, he jumped over his bag of potatoes, and drew a bee-line for the beach at a rate of speed that astonished himself. he had not made more than half a dozen steps, when an appalling yell rang out on the air, followed by the roar of a gun which sounded so loud that tom, in his terror, thought it must have been fired close to his ear. "halt there, you villain!" shouted a voice close behind the flying captain of the crusoe band. tom heard the order, and knew it was addressed to him, but he did not heed it. he ran faster than ever, the sound of rapidly pursuing footsteps lending him wings. but all his efforts were in vain. the footsteps grew louder, and presently tom felt a strong hand grasp his collar. a moment afterward he found himself lying flat on his back, with a heavy weight on his breast holding him down. chapter v. atkins refuses duty. tom newcombe had his first fight that night. he resisted the active young farmer who had seized him, to the best of his ability, although, for all the good it did him, he might as well have surrendered himself a prisoner at once. but the captain of the crusoe band had a great many reasons for not wishing to be taken prisoner. in the first place, he was pretty well known in that country, and he was afraid that the farmer might recognize in him the son of the richest man in newport; and, even if he did not, he would know that tom had come from the village, and he would, of course, take him back there in the morning. then what would become of him? what would his father do? and what would johnny harding, and the rest of the fellows, have to say about it? above all, what would become of the expedition, and the plan he had laid for destroying the storm king? his capture would put an end to all the bright dreams in which he had indulged during the past two weeks, and he would once more find himself an errand-boy in his father's office, deprived of every privilege, watched more closely than ever, and teased and tormented by his thoughtless acquaintances, who would never allow him a moment's peace. tom thought of all these things, and he was surprised at himself when he found that he was fighting for his liberty with a courage and determination he had never supposed himself to possess. he kicked and thrashed about at an astonishing rate, and finding that his efforts were wholly in vain, he tried to frighten his captor by threatening him with a terrible vengeance if he did not immediately release him. "what do you mean?" roared tom, striving desperately to unclasp the strong fingers that were holding fast to his collar. "let me up, or i'll give you cause to remember this night's work as long as you live. let me up, i say." "well, i swan!" exclaimed the farmer, peering down into tom's face, "i thought you made a poor fight for a man." then hearing footsteps behind him, he looked up, and called out to some one who was approaching--"i say, josh, they're only little brats of boys; they aint men at all. i wish i had a good apple-tree switch." "o, now, you wouldn't use it on me if you had one," drawled tom. "wouldn't! i'd like to know what's the reason?" "because you wouldn't dare do it. i always get even with any one who imposes on me, so you had better mind what you are about." "i don't want any insolence now, for i aint in just the mood to stand it. if you and your crowd are the same fellows who have been prowling around here for the last week, you have stolen more than twenty dollars worth of garden truck. get up here, you young robber!" the farmer jerked his prisoner roughly to his feet, and by this time josh came up. the arrival of re-enforcements, and the ease with which he was handled, convinced tom that further resistance was useless, and he began to beg lustily. "o, now, if you will let me go i'll never do it again," he pleaded. "o yes, we'll let you go," was the encouraging reply. "we'll lock you up till morning, and then take you over to the 'squire; that's what we'll do with you. catch hold of him, josh." his captor held fast to one arm, josh took hold of the other, and tom was marched off between them. of course he pulled back, and tried hard to escape; but the stalwart young farmers walked him along without the least difficulty. when they reached the house, they pulled him up the steps that led to the porch, and opening a door, ushered him into the kitchen, where tom found himself in the presence of the female portion of the farmer's family. "here's one of the rogues, mother," exclaimed josh. "sit down, and let's have a good look at you." if tom at that moment could have purchased his freedom by promising that he would give up his new idea, and leave the students in quiet possession of the storm king, he would have done it, gladly. he sank into the chair josh pointed out to him, and sat with his chin resting on his breast, and his eyes fastened on the floor, not daring to look up long enough to ascertain whether or not there was any one in the room with whom he was acquainted. he knew that half a dozen pairs of eyes were looking at him with curiosity; and he felt that if he had never before been utterly disgraced, he was now. no one spoke to him, and in a few minutes the silence became so oppressive that tom would have welcomed a thunderstorm, or an earthquake. he twisted about in his chair, whirled his cap in his hand, and gazed steadily at a crack in the floor, until he was relieved by the noise of feet on the porch, which was followed by the entrance of the farmer, with the rest of the party who had been guarding the potato-patch. then, for the first time, he mustered up courage enough to look around him. he noted two things--one was, that every person in the room was a stranger to him; and the other, that he had a companion in his misery, in the shape of his mate, who, unlike his superior officer, did not seem to be at all abashed at finding himself the center of so many eyes. he held his head up, and looked about him as if he felt quite at his ease. "well, we've got two of them," said the farmer, in a tone of great satisfaction, "and i guess we've frightened the others so badly that they'll let us alone in future. but how is this?" he added, glancing first at the rich man's son, and than at the ragged, bare-footed ferry-boy. "there must have been two parties of them." "no, there wasn't," said xury. "we all belong to one crowd." "what's your name?" continued the farmer, addressing himself to the captain of the crusoe band. "o, now, i'm tom--" "avast, there!" cried xury, so suddenly that he startled every one in the room. "his name is muley, mister--that's his name." "muley? muley what?" "muley nothin'--just muley. that's all the name he's got. my name is xury, an' that's all the name i've got." tom was astonished at the impudence of his mate. he had been on the point of revealing every thing, for, now that he was a prisoner, he could not see the use of further concealment. according to his way of thinking, the expedition had been nipped in the bud, his splendid idea could not be carried out, and if the farmer had questioned him closely, he would have told him all about the crusoe men and their hiding-place. it made no difference to tom that he had promised to keep these things secret. he was in trouble, and all he cared for was to get out of it. xury, however, was a very different sort of boy. he had promised never to reveal any of the secrets intrusted to his keeping, he had sealed the compact by shaking hands with his chief, and he would have endured almost any punishment before proving himself unworthy of the confidence of his fellows. besides, he did not believe that the affairs of the band were so very desperate. he knew that the governor would never desert him, and as long as he and tom remained on the island, there were some hopes that those of the band who had escaped would find means to effect their release. "of course i know that those are not your right names," said the farmer, at length, "but i am not particular about that, for when i take you to the village to-morrow, i can find out all about you. what did you intend to do with those potatoes?" "eat 'em," answered xury. "what else does a feller do with taters?" "have you eaten all the fruit and vegetables you have stolen during the last week?" "sartin." "well, i'll put you where you won't steal any more to-night. josh, you and bill take them down cellar and leave them there with the rats." "that don't scare me none," said xury. "i never saw no rats yet i was afraid of. what will you do with us in the mornin', mister?" "i intend to break up these midnight plundering expeditions, by making an example of you. i shall take you before 'squire thompson." "what do you reckon he'll do with us?" "he will put you in the house of refuge for three or four years, most likely, and i think that would be a good place for you. take them away, boys." josh lighted a candle and led the way into the cellar, followed by tom and his mate, bill bringing up the rear. while the young farmers were examining the windows and door, to make sure that their prisoners could not escape, tom took a hurried survey of his quarters, which he found to be cheerless in the extreme. three sides of the cellar were supplied with windows--narrow apertures, placed about as high as his head from the floor, and protected by stout iron bars which were set into the walls. on the fourth side was a heavy door, secured by a padlock. tom took these things in at a glance, and quite agreed with josh, when he said, "now, then, you young robbers, you are secure for the night." "and i would advise you to keep quiet, and not go to kicking up any fuss down here," chimed in bill. "if you feel like going to sleep, you can lie down on those boxes." josh and bill took their departure, and the crusoe men were left to their meditations, and to the companionship of the rats. tom heard them close and lock the door at the head of the stairs, and, groping his way to a box in one corner of the cellar, he sat down to think over his situation; while xury, whistling softly to himself, began an examination of the windows. this coolness and indifference amazed tom, who could not understand how a boy, with the prospect before him of serving out a term of years in the house of refuge, could take matters so easily. "o, now, quit that whistling," drawled tom, who found it hard work to keep back his tears. "what fur?" demanded xury. "there's no use of bein' down in the mouth, cap'n. scoldin' an' frettin' won't help us none." "did any body ever see so unlucky a boy as i am? other fellows get along through the world without any trouble, but something is always happening to bother me. to-morrow morning i shall be taken back to the village." "well, i sha'n't. i aint goin' back to newport till the governor says the word." "but those men up stairs will make you go," drawled tom. "they'll have to find me first, won't they? if they think they can keep a crusoe man in this cellar all night, they'll find out their mistake in the mornin'. they'll go to bed before long, an' then we'll see what we can do." as xury said this, he stretched himself out on the box beside his captain, and settling into a comfortable position, waited patiently for the farmer and his family to retire to rest. he expected to be free before morning; and, as his examination had satisfied him that he could not effect his escape without assistance, he was depending entirely upon the governor. had he known what was going on at that moment, a short distance from the house, he might not have had so much faith in the chief's ability to release him. sam, jack spaniard, friday, and will atkins, more fortunate than their fellows, succeeded in eluding their pursuers, and met on the bluff, above the cove, and sat down to rest after their long run, and to talk over the events of the night. the governor reported the capture of tom and his mate. he was but a short distance from them when they were overtaken, although he did not know who the unlucky ones were, until he met the band on the cliff. the crusoe men were dismayed when they learned the extent of their loss, and some of them were strongly in favor of abandoning their enterprise. will atkins, especially, was very much disheartened, and urged his companions to return to the village at once. "the jig is up now, fellers," said he, "an' i, fur one, am goin' home. tommy an' xury are captured, an' the first thing we know, we may be gobbled up, too. an' even if we aint, we four fellers can't rob mr. henry's store, an' take the sweepstakes besides." "now, atkins, who asked you fur any advice?" demanded the governor, angrily. "the expedition aint dead yet, even if two of us have fallen into the hands of the enemy. as soon as we get rested we'll go up to the house, an' if we can find out where the cap'n an' xury are, we'll help 'em." "i've run risks enough," returned the discontented member. "i just aint a goin' up to the house." "what's that you say?" exclaimed the chief, astonished and enraged to hear his authority thus set at defiance. "i say i sha'n't go up to the house," repeated atkins, decidedly; "an' i mean it." "why, you wouldn't have us to leave them two fellers without once tryin' to help 'em, would you?" "i don't care what you do. you can do as you please, an' so will i." "now, atkins, have you forgot them lessons i have given you? if you don't look out i'll have to larn you a few more. you're gettin' to be mighty sassy, lately." "you can't scare me none, governor, fur i aint alone like i used to be. i've got at least one good friend in the band. jack, you'll stand by me." "i will," replied jack spaniard, who arose from the rock where he had been sitting, and walked over to the side of the mutineer. "you see, governor," he added, "me an' atkins have got tired of doin' all the work. you never let us have things our way at all, an' we aint a goin' to stand it no longer. if you want to help the cap'n an' xury you can do it yourself." the governor listened to this speech in silence. he had been expecting a demonstration of this kind from atkins, but he was not prepared for so decided an opposition to his authority. atkins had long shown a disposition to make trouble in the band, and during the last three days he had been more disorderly than ever. the governor had often heard him grumbling to himself, and he had made up his mind to whip all the rebellious spirit out of him at the first good opportunity. that opportunity was now presented; but sam did not think it safe to attempt to carry out his resolve. atkins was backed up by jack spaniard, and with his aid, he was likely to prove more than a match for the redoubtable bully. if tom and his mate had been there to assist him, he could have crushed the rebellion in short order. "of all the mean things that have happened in the band since i got to be governor, this yere is the beat," said sam, after a moment's pause. "you two fellers promised, not more'n two weeks ago, to obey all orders, an' to stand by your friends, if they got into trouble; an' now you are goin' back on your word. there aint no honor about such fellers as you be. friday, whose side are you on?" "on your'n, governor; i don't think we shall ever see our island now, but i'll stick to you as long as any body does." "all right!" exclaimed the chief, immensely relieved. "jack spaniard, you're always been a good, law-abidin' man, an' if you'll come away from that feller, i won't say nothin' to you; i'll let you off easy. an' you, atkins, you've been spilin' fur a good drubbin', an' the only way you can escape it, is by sayin' that you'll tend to your duty, an' obey orders like a man had oughter do. let's hear from you." "i won't do duty," replied atkins, sullenly. jack spaniard hesitated a moment before he answered. he knew that those who had dared to oppose the governor, had thus far been brought to grief, and he was almost inclined to take him at his word, and leave atkins to fight his own battles. but he had been highly incensed by the new rules tom had introduced into the society, and, believing that he was as good as any body, he did not like to be obliged to act the part of a servant. more than that, the events of the night had dampened his ardor. he began to see that there were a multitude of risks to be run, and a good many obstacles to be overcome, before they could begin their intended cruise, and he thought it policy to abandon the enterprise before he found himself in serious trouble. "me an' atkins will stick together," said he. "very good," replied the chief; "an' you an' atkins may make up your minds to sup sorrow with the same spoon. i am governor of this band, an' i'll come out at the top of the heap yet; now you mark what i say. what are you goin' to do?" "we're goin' into the cove after our share of the outfit," replied will atkins. "when we get it, we're goin back to the village. come on, jack; we've wasted time enough in talkin'." the two mutineers began to descend the cliff, keeping their eyes fastened on the governor, and holding themselves in readiness to resist any attack; but, to friday's surprise, sam made no attempt to detain them. chapter vi. the governor's strategy. when atkins and his companion had disappeared down the path that led to the cove, sam placed his hands behind his back, and began pacing thoughtfully to and fro, while friday, dismayed and perplexed by this unlooked-for event, and utterly unable to discover any way out of the difficulty, stretched himself on the ground and waited for the chief to speak. the affairs of the band were certainly beginning to look desperate. with two of his best men in the hands of the enemy, two more setting his authority at defiance, and with only one companion upon whom to depend, what could the governor do? a less determined and persevering boy would have given up in despair; but sam, who, since the idea of leading crusoe life had been suggested to him, had thought and dreamed about nothing else, was not easily discouraged. he was resolved that he would not abandon the course of action which had been determined on by the band a few days before; but he could not carry it out unless assisted by the two mutineers, and, as they could not be coaxed to listen to reason, they must be compelled. he would punish them for their disobedience, and show them, once for all, that his authority could not be resisted with impunity. "friday," said he, "i'll never forget you fur this night's work. you've got the best name of any of us, an' so has will atkins. the friday the book tells about stuck to crusoe like a brother, an' atkins done nothin' but study up meanness an' mischief. our atkins is doin' the same thing; but he won't make nothin', no more'n the one he's named after did. he'll be glad enough to come to terms by mornin', now you see if he aint. we don't intend to let him an' jack spaniard go back to the village to blow on us, an' the first thing to be done is to fasten 'em in the cove, so that we can find 'em when we want 'em." "how are we goin' to do it?" asked friday. "we'll take down the bridge," replied the governor, with a chuckle, "an' then let's see 'em get out. they don't know the channels across the shoals, so, of course, they won't dare to try to sail out; an' after the bridge is gone, there's only one way they can get across the gully. i'll larn 'em how to get up a mutiny." the chief, after lighting his lantern, led the way down the path, and presently came to a halt on the brink of the chasm. atkins and jack spaniard having crossed it a few minutes before, the rope was on the opposite side, and friday could see no way to obtain possession of it. "i'll tell you how i am goin' to manage it," said the governor, in answer to an inquiring glance from his companion. "i told you there is one way to get across, even after the bridge is gone, didn't i? well, do you see this tree here? it leans over the gully, an' one of its limbs runs into the tree on the opposite side that the rope is made fast to." friday elevated his lantern and gazed up into the darkness, but could see nothing more than a dense canopy of leaves and branches hanging over the chasm. he shuddered at the thought of attempting to cross on so frail a bridge. "i wouldn't go up there fur nothin'," said he, "an' i wouldn't advise you to try it, either." "well, it aint the pleasantest job in the world," replied sam, carelessly, "but i know just where the limb is, an' i am sure i can cross on it. howsomever, i am free to confess, that if i could think of any other way to get the rope, i wouldn't try it." "if you can cross that way, what's the reason that will atkins an' jack spaniard can't do it too?" inquired friday. "'cause, after i get over an' come back, nobody will ever cross the gully that way again. we'll pull the limb down. now, you hold the lantern up high an' give me all the light you can. it's mighty dark up there, an' i don't care about missin' my hold an' fallin down on them rocks." the chief scrambled up the cliff to the tree of which he had spoken, and began to ascend it. he worked his way up with the agility of a squirrel, and presently disappeared from the view of his man below. when he came in sight again, he was on the limb that stretched out over the chasm, and which was bending and cracking beneath his weight in a manner that made friday extremely nervous. but sam resolutely held on his way, and finally swung himself safely into the branches of the tree on the opposite side. after securing the rope, he threw one end of it to friday, made the other fast to the limb on which he had crossed the gully, and a few moments afterward he slid down the bluff and seated himself on the ground beside his companion, to recover his breath. "i'll show them fellers what they are about," said he, wiping the big drops of perspiration from his face. "i'll larn 'em how to get up a mutiny, after promisin', honor bright, to obey all orders. now, if we've got muscle enough to break that limb, we are all right." "couldn't atkins make a bridge, by cuttin' down one of them trees?" asked friday. "no, he couldn't. the trees on that side won't fall across the gully, 'cause they all lean the other way. ketch hold, now, an' pull fur life." the governor and his man grasped the ropes, and, exerting all their strength, suddenly found themselves lying flat in the path. the limb, unable to resist the strain brought to bear upon it, parted with a noise like the report of a cannon, and fell crashing into the gully, carrying with it a perfect avalanche of rocks and earth which it detached from the opposite bluff. that bridge was destroyed, and there was no way of escape for the mutineers. the next thing was to untie the rope from the limb which lay at the bottom of the chasm. the only way it could be accomplished was for one of the crusoe men to go down into the gully, and this friday volunteered to do. accordingly, the end of the rope which they held in their hands was made fast to the nearest tree, and friday, after tying the lantern around his waist, descended out of sight. in a few minutes he re-appeared, climbing the rope, which was pulled up and hidden away in the bushes. "that job is done," said the chief, with a long breath of relief, "an' them two fellers are fastened up as tight as if they were in jail. i'll larn 'em how to get up a mutiny!" "but, governor, how will we get across?" asked friday. "easy enough. one of us will climb up an' make one end of the rope fast to this tree that leans over the gully, an' we'll swing back an' forth just as we did before. the next job we've got to do aint so easy. it's one i don't like; but, if i was a prisoner, i'd think it mighty mean of my men if they deserted me, an' i'm goin' to do to the cap'n an' xury just as i'd like to be done by." the governor and his man ascended to the top of the bluff, and bent their steps toward the farm-house, which was now shrouded in total darkness. the inmates had all retired to rest, happy in the belief that those of the band who had escaped had made the best of their way to the village, and that their potato-patch was safe for the rest of the night. but the crusoe men, apprehensive that the farmer might still be on the watch, were at first very cautious in their movements. they walked around the house several times without seeing any signs of the enemy, and, growing bolder by degrees, began to search the out-buildings, hoping that tom and his mate might be confined in one of them. but their efforts to ascertain the whereabouts of their unlucky companions were unrewarded, and, after half an hour's fruitless search, even sam began to get discouraged. "mebbe they have taken them to the village already," he whispered, leaning disconsolately against a corner of the house. "if they have, the expedition is up stump, easy enough, an' we can bid good-by to all hopes of ever seein' our island. what's that? didn't you hear some one call?" "i thought i did," replied friday, "but i wasn't sartin'." "i say, governor, are you deaf? look this way. here we are." the words seemed to come from the ground at their very feet; and the governor and friday heard them plainly enough this time. their attention was drawn to one of the cellar windows, and there they saw the two prisoners, with their faces pressed close against the bars. "what are you doin' down there?" asked friday, in an excited whisper. "are you locked up?" "i reckon," replied xury. "we wouldn't stay here if we wasn't, would we?" "o, now, yes, we're locked up," drawled tom, who, delighted as he was at seeing the chief, could not forget his lazy way of talking. "but you are going to let us out, are you not?" "sartin. that's what we come here fur, an' we'll do it if we have to burn the shantee." "you needn't go to all that trouble, governor," said xury. "do you see that door around there on the other side of the house?" sam walked around the building, and when he came back, he said that he had seen the door. "well," continued xury, "all you have got to do is to raise a rumpus out there, an' awaken the people up stairs." "humph!" sneered sam. "hold on till i get through, governor. of course, when they hear you, they'll come out an' foller you; an' when the men have all left the house, one of you can slip back an' cut down that door an' let us out. here's an ax to do it with," he added, passing the implement through the window to the chief. "that's a good idea, after all," said sam. "friday, you take the ax, an' i'll do the runnin'. i'll lead the fellers toward the beach, an' you stay here an' watch your chance to beat down that door. how many folks are there in the house, xury?" "ten altogether--six men an' boys, an' four women," was the reply. "i know, 'cause i counted 'em." "of course, the women will stay in the house," continued the governor, addressing himself to friday; "an' when they hear you cuttin' at the door, they'll be sartin to come out an' holler at you; but that needn't scare you. now, then, how shall we awaken the folks?" the chief had scarcely propounded this question, when it was answered in way he had not expected. a window above him was thrown open, a head appeared, and a voice called out, "well, i swan!" the governor and his man did not wait to hear what the farmer had to say next. the enemy were aroused, and an opportunity was given them to try the plan xury had suggested. friday, who well understood the part he was expected to perform, sprang around the house out of sight; while sam started across the field toward the beach. "stop there, you young rascal!" shouted the man in the window. "josh! bill! wake up, an' get out there! those robbers have come back again!" the window came down with a crush, and friday, who had by this time concealed himself behind a corn-crib, a short distance from the cellar door, heard a great commotion in the house. lights flashed from the windows, men and women run about calling to each other, and presently the door opened and josh and bill appeared. "there they are!" exclaimed one discovering sam, who was by this time well on his way across the field; "hurry up there, boys. he's got a long start, and is running like a scared turkey." these last words were addressed to the men in the house, who came out one after another, some without their hats, some bare-footed, others pulling on their coats as they ran, and all following after bill and josh, who were flying across the field in hot pursuit of the governor. friday, from his hiding-place, counted them as they sprang down the steps, and when the sixth man had left the house, and was out of sight in the darkness, he straightened up and prepared for action. he listened a moment to the shrill, excited voices of the women, and clutching his ax with a firm hold, he came out from behind the corn-crib and ran toward the house. a few rapid steps brought him to the cellar door, which he attacked furiously. the first blow he struck echoed through the cellar like a peal of thunder, alarming the women up stairs; and the second brought them to the porch, where they stood watching friday's operations in speechless amazement. the crusoe man, intent on releasing his companions, gave no heed to what was going on around him, until a chorus of angry screams arose from the porch; then he started and trembled a little, but was not frightened from his work. he redoubled his efforts, the door began to bend and groan, and was finally forced from its fastenings, and tom and his mate sprang out. then the screams arose in greater volume than before, and reached the ears of the farmer and his men, who abandoned the pursuit of the governor, and returned to the house with all possible speed. but they were too late; for, long before they arrived, tom and his companions had made good their escape. the shattered door, and the ax lying where friday had thrown it after effecting the release of the prisoners, were all that were left to remind the farmer of the crusoe band. chapter vii. the governor storms the rebels. "hip! hip! hurrah!" exclaimed tom newcombe, in an excited whisper, "i am free once more, and i'll have a chance yet to destroy that yacht. if the crew of the storm king only knew what is going to happen, they would be sorry that i escaped." "you can thank me for it," said sam. "an' me, too," chimed in xury. "i was the one who found the ax in the cellar an' studied up the plan the governor carried out." "i guess i had oughter have a little of the praise," observed friday. "it aint every feller who would have stood there an' cut down that door with all them women hollerin' at him." "we've all done well," said the chief, "all except will atkins an' jack spaniard, an' they are cowards an' traitors." the crusoe men were gathered on the bluff at the head of the path, sweating and panting, and congratulating themselves on the success of their undertaking. the governor, especially, regarded it as something well worth boasting of, and he was in excellent spirits. his society, although it had thus far failed to accomplish the object for which it was organized, had already made for itself a brilliant record. it had performed an exploit in the village that would be talked about and wondered at as long as the military academy should stand, or the present generation of boys exist. its members, acting under his instructions, had overpowered three times their number of students, captured their vessel, and would certainly have got out to sea with her but for the treachery of tom newcombe. but, great as was this achievement, it sank into insignificance when compared with the one they had just performed. the chief had succeeded in releasing the prisoners confined in the farm-house, and that, too, with the assistance of only one companion, and in the face of a mutiny that had, at one time, bid fair to break up the crusoe band. the governor assumed the lion's share of the honor of this exploit, and, as he thought, with good reason, for he had run all the risk. he had led the men away from the house, and given friday a chance to cut down the door. his affairs had looked desperate a little while before, but by his skill and determination he had succeeded in bringing some order out of the confusion, and the only thing that remained to be done was to punish the traitors, which was a matter he could attend to at his leisure. he believed that the rebellion had already died out, and that, when he descended into the cove, he would find the mutineers ready to accept any terms he might see fit to offer them. "what's become of atkins and jack spaniard?" asked tom, who seemed, for the first time, to notice the absence of those worthies. "i don't see them anywhere." "didn't i say that they were traitors and cowards?" replied the governor. "listen, now, an' i'll tell you all about it." sam then proceeded to give tom and his mate a glowing description of the mutiny, and, during the course of his narration, he artfully aroused their indignation by dwelling upon the meanness and cowardice displayed by atkins and jack spaniard in deserting the band at the very time their services were most needed, to assist in releasing the prisoners, and wound up by telling how he had secured possession of the rope and pulled down the limb, thus cutting off all chance of escape for the mutineers. tom and xury were highly enraged, especially the former, who denounced the faithless crusoe men in the strongest terms. he also took occasion to impress his auditors with the fact that the society could not long exist without the hearty co-operation of all its members, and that no punishment was too severe for one who could refuse to hasten to the relief of a comrade in distress. tom made a long speech on this subject, emphasizing his remarks by shaking his fists in the air, and stamping his feet on the ground, and all the while forgetting that, when questioned by the farmer in the house, he had been on the point of committing the very sin he was so loudly condemning. xury remembered the circumstance, but he did not think it worth speaking about. "i 'spose that, bein' an officer, i have a right to say something, haint i?" asked the mate, when tom had finished his speech. "well, i just want to tell you how i think them two fellers can be made to listen to reason. that farmer said he was goin' to take us over to the village in the mornin' an' have us put in--what kind of a house did he say that was, cap'n?" "the house of refuge," replied tom. "yes, that's it. he said he was goin' to put us in that house fur three or four years, an' that it would be the best place in the world fur us. now, can't we scare them two mutineers by tellin' 'em that if they don't do what's right we will give 'em up to the farmer, an' let him take 'em before the 'squire? that will bring 'em to terms, if any thing will." "but how can we give 'em up to the farmer without bein' ketched ourselves?" asked sam. "we can tie 'em hand an' foot, an' take 'em up to the house some night an' leave 'em on the porch, can't we? but, of course, we don't want to do it, governor, 'cause we can't get along without 'em. we only want to make them behave themselves like men had oughter do." "mebbe it would be well to have a hold of some kind on 'em," said the chief, after thinking the matter over, "'cause they're spunky fellers, an' can't be easy scared. but, after all, i aint afraid to say that they've come to their senses before this time. let's go down and see 'em." the governor once more lighted his lantern, and, after shouldering a bag of potatoes, which he had found as he came through the field, and which had doubtless been overlooked by the farmer, he led the way down the cliff to the chasm, where he stopped, astonished at the scene presented to his view. it was evident, from the appearance of things, that atkins and jack spainard were very far from being the humble, penitent fellows the governor had hoped to find them. they had discovered the trick that had been played upon them, and, being resolved that, if they could not get out of the cove, the governor should not come into it, they had fortified their side of the chasm by erecting a breastwork of bushes across the path. a fire burned brightly behind the breastwork, and beside it stood the two mutineers, engaged in stripping the branches from a couple of small trees they had just cut down. they ceased their work when they heard the chief and his men approaching, and, taking up their positions behind the breastwork, looked across the chasm at them as if waiting to hear what they had to say. "well, if there aint the cap'n an' xury!" exclaimed jack spaniard, who seemed greatly astonished to see the governor thus re-enforced. "how did you get away?" "me an' friday helped 'em, no thanks to you two cowards an' traitors," replied sam, angrily. "what's the meanin' of all this yere?" he added, surveying the war-like preparations with some uneasiness. "it means just this, governor," replied atkins; "we know what you are up to, an' we aint goin' to stand no more nonsense. we're goin' to fight it out." "then you haven't made up your minds to do duty, an' behave yourselves?" "no, we haint. we've got our share of the outfit, an' we're goin' home. we aint goin' to be servants fur nobody." "i reckon you won't go home in a hurry. we have got you fastened up in there, an' we can starve you to death if we feel like it." "you'll have a nice time doin' it, seein' that all the grub is on our side of the gully," said jack spaniard, with a laugh. "but you haint got us fastened up so tight as you think fur. do you see these poles?" he added, lifting the sapling upon which he had been at work when the governor came in sight; "well, when we get the branches all off, we're goin' to make a bridge with 'em." "not much you aint; we've got something to say about that. now, i'll give you five minutes to make up your minds whether or not you will come back into the band, an' behave yourselves like men had oughter do, or be delivered up to that farmer, who will take you before 'squire thompson, an' have you put in jail fur robbin' his potato-patch. let's hear from you. i am listenin' with all the ears i've got." the actions of the two mutineers afforded abundant proof that xury knew their weak side when he suggested that the chief should threaten them with the law. the name of 'squire thompson was a terror to evil-doers about the village, and atkins and his companion were very much afraid of him. they looked at each other, doubtfully, and held a council of war; while sam employed the interval in consulting with his men, and trying to decide upon some plan to capture the mutineers, should the result of their consultation be unfavorable to him. "we aint comin' back into the band," said atkins, at length, "an' we aint goin' to the village as prisoners, neither. we're goin' to fight it out." "all right," replied the governor, indifferently. "if you remember what the book says, you know that will atkins never made any thing by kicking up a fuss on robinson's island, an' you will come out of the little end of the horn, just as he did. look out for yourselves over there, now. come with me, fellers." the governor and his men moved up the cliffs, until a bend in the path concealed them from the view of the mutineers. they were gone so long that atkins and his companion began to wonder what had become of them; but at the end of a quarter of an hour, sam had completed his arrangements for an attack upon the stronghold of the rebels, and presently friday appeared with a rope tied around his waist, and began to ascend a tree that leaned over the chasm. "hold on, there!" exclaimed atkins, suddenly starting up from behind the breastwork. "you think you're smart, an' mebbe you are; but you can't put that bridge up under our very eyes. we've got a whole pile of rocks here, an' if you don't come down out of that tree to onct, we'll fire on you. jerusalem! what's that?" just as the mutineer had finished threatening friday, something whizzed through the air in unpleasant proximity to his head. it was a potato, thrown by the dextrous hand of the chief, and was followed by more missiles of the same sort, which whistled over the breastwork in a continuous shower. atkins dropped like a flash, and picking up a stone in each hand, cautiously raised his head to look for the enemy; but the instant the crown of his hat appeared above the breastwork, it became a mark for the watchful crusoe men, who sent the potatoes about his ears so thick and fast that atkins was glad to drop down again. "keep your eyes open, men," cried the governor, "an' fire at the first one who dares to show himself. atkins, when you get ready to surrender, just sing out. that's all you've got to do." the mutineers were as fairly captured as if they had been bound hand and foot. they could neither retreat nor defend themselves. a cracking and rustling among the branches above, told them that friday was engaged in putting up the bridge; and they knew that unless they could dislodge him they would soon be at closer quarters with the enemy. "i'll give you just a half a minute to get down out of that tree," exclaimed atkins. "we don't want to hurt you, but we aint goin' to let you put up that bridge," said jack spaniard. the rustling among the branches ceased for a moment, and friday peeped through the leaves at the mutineers, both of whom were lying flat on their backs behind the breastwork. seeing at a glance that he had nothing to fear from them, he went on with his work. atkins and his companion, finding that threats were unavailing, began to bestir themselves. they made loop-holes through the breastwork, but could not see their besiegers. sam had posted his men on the cliff, outside the circle of light made by the fire, and consequently they were invisible to the mutineers; while the latter had built their fort in the full glare of the fire-light, and every move they made could be distinctly seen. they could not even use the loop-holes after they made them; for the governor and his men were always on the watch, and threw their potatoes so swiftly and accurately that the rebels were obliged to keep themselves well sheltered. friday was still busy among the branches of the tree, and, when he had finished the work of putting up the bridge, he also opened fire. his shot was followed by another shower from the men posted on the cliff, who expended their ammunition without stint, sending the potatoes over and around the breastwork so thickly, that atkins and his companion were once more obliged to throw themselves flat upon the ground to escape being hit. suddenly the firing ceased, and a dark object came flying over the chasm into the fort. it was the governor, who, the moment he landed on his feet, began operations by pouncing upon the mutineers, throwing an arm around the neck of each, and holding them fast. how much he could have done toward conquering them it is hard to tell. the rebels were both determined fellows, and when they had sufficiently recovered from their astonishment to see that sam was alone, they began to struggle furiously. but help for the governor was near. when he let go the rope it swung back into the hands of xury, who was waiting to receive it, and he, too, came sailing over the breastwork, and dropped down upon jack spaniard, who had succeeded in freeing himself from the chief's grasp, and was rising to his feet. tom newcombe followed close behind, and friday brought up the rear. they came, one after the other, as rapidly as the rope could swing back and forth; and the rebels, finding themselves overpowered, began to beg for quarter. "avast, there!" cried sam, and friday's uplifted hand sank harmlessly to his side, instead of falling upon the unprotected face of the chief mutineer. "let 'em up. i'll answer for their good behavior now." the rebels were quite as much astonished at the governor's clemency as were the other members of the band. they arose slowly to their feet, and gazed about them with a bewildered, suspicious air, as if half expecting to receive a kick or blow from some unlooked-for source. atkins, in particular, scarcely knew what to make of it. he surveyed the chief from head to foot, as if he were hardly prepared to believe that he was the same old ruler of the crusoe band who had taught him so many lessons of obedience at their cave in the village. sam stood for a few moments enjoying his surprise, when he suddenly became aware that atkins's eyes were not fastened upon him, but that they appeared to be looking through him, at something on the other side of the chasm. a feeling of uneasiness crept over the chief, for he saw that the expression on the face of his man was changing from astonishment to alarm. "what is it?" he whispered, not daring to look around. atkins, in reply, slowly raised his hand until it was on a level with his shoulder, and pointed toward the bluff across the gully; and, at the same instant, the governor nearly jumped from the ground when he heard an ejaculation that had become familiar to him that night-"well, i swan!" he faced about quickly, and caught just one glimpse of a dark figure which was gliding swiftly and noiselessly up the path. all the crusoe men saw it, and they were so astonished and dismayed by the unlooked-for interruption, that, for a moment, none of them could speak. tom newcombe was the first to recover the use of his tongue. "o, now, we're caught, easy enough," he drawled. "this kills the expedition, and we might as well surrender ourselves prisoners at once. i always was the unluckiest boy in the whole world." just at that moment sam barton was of the same opinion regarding himself. his exultation at the victory he had gained over the rebels, gave way to a feeling of intense excitement and alarm. his under jaw dropped down, and he stood looking across the chasm toward the place where the spy had disappeared, as if he had suddenly been deprived of the power of action. it was no wonder that he was alarmed. his hiding-place had been discovered, and, of course, that ruined everything. "jerusalem!" ejaculated will atkins, who, now that his mutiny had been brought to an end, was quite willing to swear allegiance to the crusoe band once more. "did you see him, governor?" "well, i swan!" exclaimed sam, unconsciously repeating the words the spy had used. "did i see him? have i got a pair of eyes? we're in a fix now, fellers. that ar' chap is another bobby jennings, an' if he gets away he'll ruin us, sure an' sartin." as the governor uttered these words they seemed to suggest a plan of operations. "foller him up, lads," he exclaimed, excitedly. "foller him up!" "o, now, how do we know that he is alone?" drawled tom. "perhaps the farmer and all his men are with him." "we've got to run that risk," replied xury, seizing the rope and jumping over the chasm. "we must ketch him if we can. it's our only chance." tom could not help acknowledging this, and, although he trembled a little when he thought of the danger he might be about to run into, he crossed the gully with the others, and followed close behind the governor as he dashed up the path in pursuit of the spy. chapter viii. crossing the shoals. "o now, i've seen some stirring times in my life, but i never before had so many adventures crowded into the short space of one night!" panted the captain of the crusoe band, as he followed the chief up the cliff. "i would give something handsome to know what is going to happen next!" tom had indeed enjoyed his full share of excitement since the sun went down. he had been captured by the philistines, and confined as a prisoner of war in the farm-house; he had taken an active part in storming the stronghold of the rebels; and was now toiling up the path in pursuit of a spy, who, if he escaped, would return with a force sufficient to surround and capture the crusoe band. nothing in his experience with the night-hawks could equal the adventures of this night, and they were by no means ended. he would have been astonished had he known that they were only just begun. if the events that were to happen during the next few hours could have been revealed to him, he might have been tempted to desert the band and return to his home. the derision of his acquaintances, and the extra office duties that would, no doubt, have been imposed upon him, would have been light punishment indeed, compared with what was in store for him. the race up the cliff was a short one. the crusoe men had a decided advantage of the fugitive, for they had traveled the path so often that they had but little difficulty in following it; while the spy's progress was delayed by the rocks and bushes, over which he stumbled in the dark, making noise sufficient to guide his enemies in the pursuit. "he aint fur off," whispered the governor, "an' he's alone, too. if there were any fellers with him we could hear 'em. hold on, up there! you can't escape, an' you'll fare a heap better if you surrender to onct." but the spy was evidently not one of the kind who surrender upon demand. he held steadily on his way, although his pursuers gained at every step, and when they had accomplished about half the distance to the summit, sam was near enough to the fugitive to seize him by the collar. "surrender now--no foolin'!" said he, in a very savage tone of voice. "we'll treat you like a man if you behave yourself." somewhat to the governor's surprise, the spy offered no resistance. the darkness was so intense that he could not see how many enemies he had to deal with, but, knowing that they were much too strong for him, he suffered himself to be led down the path to the chasm. the fire kindled by the mutineers was still burning brightly and by the aid of its light, the crusoe men were enabled to take a good survey of their prisoner. he was a sturdy, bare-footed boy, about tom's age, and might have been a second xury, so self-possessed was he. he looked at his captors, one after the other, as if taking their exact measure, and finally said: "well, i swan! if i had known that you were boys like myself, i wouldn't have been caught so easy. i'd like to know what you are doing down here?" "fellers, his name is jed," said xury, by way of introduction. "i know, 'cause i saw him up to the house, an' i heard his dad call him jed. he looked at me an' the cap'n mighty sassy then, but now he'll find out how it seems to be a prisoner." "is there any one with you?" asked tom. "no, i came alone," replied jed. "how did you find us?" "i saw the light of that fire shining above the cliff". upon hearing this the governor glared so savagely at the mutineers, that those worthies, fearing that he was about to abandon his pacific policy, retreated a step or two and began to look around for something with which to defend themselves. but the wound caused by the mutiny was nearly healed, and sam, after a moment's reflection, concluded that he could not afford to reopen it, or to stir up any new quarrels. he believed that he would soon have need of the services of all his men, and it was necessary to keep on good terms with them. "i have lived on this farm all my life," continued jed, "but i never knew before that there was a way to get down here." "well, there is," said xury; "an' some day, when you are a free man, you can go down by this path to the rocks below, an' find the best fishing grounds in newport harbor." "who's talkin' about fishin'?" interrupted the governor, whose brain was busy with more important matters. "what do you reckon your ole man will do with us if he ketches us?" "_if!_" repeated jed. "he is bound to ketch you. when i go home i shall bring him right down here." "but mebbe you won't go back to the house in a hurry," said sam. "well, then, father will know that something has happened to me, and he will begin searching the island. he'll find you, you may depend upon that; and, when he gets hold of you, he'll put you where you won't rob any more potato-patches. where do you fellows belong, anyhow? what are you staying here for, and what are you going to do with me?" the governor made no reply to these questions, for something his prisoner had said excited a serious train of reflections in his mind. the events of the last five minutes had sadly interfered with his arrangements. his harboring place was broken up now, and by daylight the island would be too hot to hold him. what should he do? that was a question he could not answer at once; he must have time to think it over. at a sign from him atkins and friday crossed the chasm; but, when he ordered jed to follow, he declined to move. "what shall i go over there for?" he demanded. "'cause it's our orders. we're goin' to keep you here for awhile." "well, i swan to man!" said jed. "if we should let you go, you might tell on us, you know. come, ketch hold of the rope an' go on." "well--no; i guess i won't go of my own free will. if you want me over there you must put me over." "all right," replied the governor, pulling out his knife and cutting off a piece of the rope; "we're just the fellers that can do it. come back here, men. now," he added, when atkins and friday had recrossed the chasm, "all hands pitch in, and tie him, hand and foot." the crusoe men knew, by jed's looks, that he was all muscle and pluck, and consequently they were not surprised at his stubborn resistance. they "pitched in" with alacrity, and one of them did something that sam had not calculated on--he "pitched out" again, directly. it was tom newcombe, who, the instant he laid his hand on the prisoner's collar, was seized around the body and thrown heavily on the rocks. he gathered himself up as quickly as possible, drew down the corners of his mouth, rubbed his elbow, and stood off at a safe distance and looked on. will atkins received a back-handed blow over his eye that caused him to see a million of stars; but, as he had more pluck than tom, and was anxious to restore himself to the governor's favor, he merely stopped long enough to say, "jerusalem!" and then "pitched in" harder than ever. of course; jed was conquered; but it was only after a protracted struggle. "now we're all right," exclaimed the governor, assisting his prisoner to his feet and pulling him toward the edge of the chasm, "an' i reckon you'll go over, won't you? atkins, you and friday go across ag'in an' stand by to ketch him. xury," he continued, when this order has been obeyed, "pass the rope under his arms an' make it fast, while me an' the cap'n hold him." jed, having by this time been fully convinced that it was idle to resist, submitted to the crusoe men, at the same time reminding them that the chasm was deep, and that a fall upon the rocks below might break his neck, and give sam and his band something more serious than the robbing of a potato-patch to answer for. "now, don't you be any ways oneasy," replied the governor. "you didn't harm my men while you had 'em pris'ners, an' i won't harm you, neither. are you fellers over there all ready? if you are, look out fur him, fur here he comes." jed's position just then was not a comfortable one. his hands were confined behind his back, his feet bound close together, and he was to be swung over the chasm as if he had been a sack of corn. the governor seized him by the hips, pulled him back until his feet were clear of the ground, and then let him go. he swung safely over the gully, and when he came within reach of atkins and friday, he was caught and held by one, while the other untied the rope. the crusoe men followed after, and when all had crossed, the governor ordered atkins and jack spaniard to put out the fire. as soon as this had been done, and the mutineers had collected the articles of the outfit, which they had intended to take back to the village with them, the governor lighted his lantern, and turned to the prisoner. "have you found out, by this time, that we can do just what we please with you?" he asked. "now, will you walk down to the cove, or shall we tote you?" "well, i guess i'd best walk, hadn't i?" replied jed, who was sharp enough to know that, however carefully he might be handled, he could not escape some severe bruises while being carried down that steep path. "yes. i reckon i'll walk." "all right; xury, untie his feet, and you an' the cap'n look out fur him, an' see that he don't fall down." the governor led the way to the cove, and, after the prisoner had been laid on one of the beds in the cabin, and the two mutineers had restored the outfit to its place, the crusoe men stretched themselves on the grass near the spring, to hold a council of war. by the aid of the lantern, which he had placed on the little knoll that served for the table, the chief scanned the faces of his companions, and saw that on every one of them were reflected the thoughts that had been busy in his own brain. all his men believed as he did--that a crisis in their affairs was at hand. tom newcombe, as usual, was the first to speak. "o, now, what's to be done?" he drawled. "if we keep this prisoner here his father will begin searching for him in the morning, and he will be certain to discover our hiding-place sooner or later. if we release him, he will go home and return immediately with help enough to capture us all." "well, that might not be as easy a job as you think fur," replied the governor. "if we are sharp, we can hold our own here against a dozen fellers, for a day or two. but we don't want to fight. we want to get away from here as easy as we can. atkins, what have you and jack spaniard got to say about it? are you waitin' fur a chance to get up another mutiny?" "no, governor, i aint," replied the chief conspirator, quickly. "i'll never do it again." "nor me, neither," said jack spaniard. "there's my hand on it--honor bright." "of course i can't put as much faith in you as i did before," said the chief, as he shook hands with the mutineers. "after a man has fooled me once, i never like to trust him any more till he proves that he is all right." "just tell us what you want done, governor," said atkins, "an' if we don't do it you needn't never believe us ag'in." "well, mebbe i shall have a chance to try you before mornin'. you've got to stick to us now or be taken before the 'squire. if you should go back to newport an' begin ferryin' ag'in, that farmer's boy would come across you some time, and then where would you be? we can't none of us go back to the village, an' we can't live here, neither, so we must start for our island at once--this very night. if we stay till mornin' that farmer an all his men will be down here lookin' fur jed; and if they once discover us, an' get us surrounded, we're done fur. cap'n, stand by to get that yawl under way, an' the rest of us turn to an' pack the outfit." the crusoe men obeyed these orders without making any comments upon them. they had often discussed this very move. they had talked about it bravely enough, and had even expressed their impatience at being obliged to remain so long inactive, but, now that the time had arrived, and they had heard the order given to break up their camp, more than half of them felt like backing out. they knew that they were about to encounter the real dangers that lay in their path, and which they had thus far viewed at a distance. the sweepstakes must be captured, the provisions secured, and they must assist tom in destroying the yacht. it was no wonder that they looked into the future with doubtful eyes. improbable as it may seem, the governor had the least to say of any one in the band, while tom was as jolly as a boy could be. he obeyed his orders promptly, shoving the yawl from the beach, and mooring her broadside to the bluff bank in front of the cabin, so that the cargo could be easily stowed away. after that he hoisted the sail, and was ready to lend assistance in packing up the outfit. he stepped gayly about his work, joking and laughing the while with his companions, who were astonished to see him in such spirits. "cap'n," said the governor, who had for some time remained silent, "don't you think that ar' little plan of your'n is just the least bit risky? if i was you, i'd let them 'cademy swells keep their vessel an' welcome." "you would!" exclaimed tom. "well, _i_ won't, now i tell you! what! give up the very thing i have lived for, and thought of, and dreamed about for so long? no, sir! that yacht has been the means of making me a vagabond, an outcast from home, and a wanderer upon the face of the earth, and she shall not stay above water any longer. if i can't enjoy her, nobody shall. i'll destroy the last vestige of her--i'll blot the academy navy out of existence. i'll abolish the offices of captain, lieutenant, master, and midshipman, and turn harry green and his crowd of spooneys back to the ranks, with as much ease as the principal could do it himself. i'll start a bonfire in the harbor that will serve us as a light-house, and show us our way out to sea. those fellows have teased and tormented me for months about that vessel, and now i am going to have my revenge. you will not go back on me, governor?" the crusoe men had paused in their work to listen to tom. his fiery words and determined air, not only served to convince them that he was thoroughly in earnest, and that he was resolved to carry out his plans if within the bounds of possibility, but they also had the effect of reviving the drooping spirits of the band. he spoke with such calmness and confidence, and seemed to be so utterly regardless of all the obstacles in his path, and so certain of success, that they could not help feeling encouraged. "no, sir, i'll not go back on you," said the chief, emphatically; and no one who heard him speak imagined that he had been racking his brain in the hope of hitting upon some excuse for declining to assist tom in destroying the yacht. "i said i'd stand by you, didn't i? i am a fellow who never breaks his promise." in a few minutes the outfit had been packed away in boxes, provided for the purpose, and the crusoe men began the work of stowing it in the yawl--all except tom newcombe, who, being fully occupied with his grand idea, was careful to see that nothing that could render it successful was neglected. the governor had made his first journey to the island in a skiff which he had stolen in the harbor, and it was in this skiff that tom intended to pay his visit to the storm king. she could be handled so much easier than the heavy yawl, that their chances for escape, in case of pursuit, would be increased. after bailing all the water out of her, and examining the rowlocks, tom brought out of the cabin two pairs of oars and a boat-hook, which he placed under the thwarts and tied fast, so that they could not be lost overboard while crossing the shoals; and next he produced, from some secret hiding-place, a suspicious-looking black bottle, which he put into his coat pocket. "what's that, cap'n?" asked the governor, who at that moment came up, carrying a box of crackers on one arm, and a bundle of blankets under the other. "it's coal-oil," replied tom, with a chuckle. "i am going to make sure work of that yacht, if i succeed in getting into the galley. i'll sprinkle the contents of this bottle over the wood-work, and on the pile of kindling which i shall find under the stove; then i'll touch a match to it, and--whew!" tom ended the sentence with a prolonged whistle, and by throwing his arms about his head, indicating, no doubt, the rapidity with which the flames would spread over the devoted vessel. "i have only one cause for uneasiness," said tom, to himself, when the governor had gone on to the yawl. "this skiff is painted white, and can be seen a long distance, dark as it is. if we are discovered before we reach the yacht, my splendid idea is up stump; but if i can once get on board, and make my way into the galley without being seen, i'll be all right. five minutes will do the work, and i won't care then if we are pursued. the fellows are all good oarsmen, and we can show that jolly-boat a clean pair of heels." "now, then," said the governor, picking up his lantern and peeping into every corner of the cabin, to make sure that nothing had been overlooked, "i reckon we're all ready. we're goin' to leave you here," he added, turning to the prisoner, who still lay bound and helpless on the floor. "well, i swan!" exclaimed jed. "aint you goin' to let me loose?" "not much. that would be a smart trick in us, wouldn't it, now?" "i'll do some good hollering the minute you go away." "all right. you will be discovered by your friends sometime durin' the day, most likely; but all the yellin' you can do won't help you none. the surf roars over the shoals loud enough to drown the report of a cannon. good-by, jed!" "i'll see you again," said the prisoner, who did not seem to be at all concerned. "i'll help take you before the 'squire yet--i swan to man if i won't." "you'll ketch us first, i reckon. come on, fellers." the crusoe men left the cabin and clambered into the yawl. the governor grasped the tiller, and the others picked up the oars and stood ready to push the boat from the bank. tom made the skiff's painter fast to a ring in the stern of the yawl, and seated himself beside the chief, who, seeing that every thing was ready for the start, gave the command to shove off; whereupon the crusoe men thrust their oars against the bank, and the yawl moved slowly toward the rocks at the entrance of the cove, dragging the skiff after her. as we have before remarked, the crusoe men were now about to brave the real dangers incident to their undertaking. one of them was close at hand, and it was the only one tom newcombe dreaded to encounter. it was the crossing of the shoals. he had made the passage once in the mystery, and it had tried his nerves severely; although the water was then comparatively quiet. he knew that it would be worse this time, for the wind, which had been steadily increasing since sunset, was blowing briskly, and the roar of the waves, as they dashed over the ledge that formed the shoals, could be plainly heard in the cove. "it is a capital sailing wind," said tom, with a great show of indifference. "don't i wish that yacht was in flames, and we were on board the sweepstakes, standing down the harbor under a full press of canvas? i tell you, fellows--" "jerusalem!" ejaculated will atkins. the yawl at that moment glided out from among the rocks that concealed the entrance to the cove, and the crusoe men found themselves on the edge of the shoals. they stood appalled at the sight before them. through the darkness could be seen the white waves, rolling in broken, angry masses across the ledge, and sending the spray high in air. at the further end of the shoals, and about two hundred yards distant, was a single pyramid of foam that rose above the other waves, and which seemed to be stationary. it was caused by the peculiar formation of the rocks beneath it, and was the governor's guide-post. it pointed out the channel that led across the shoals. the crusoe men took a hurried survey of the scene before them, and with one accord sprang to their feet. "governor," said friday, "i wouldn't go across there fur no money." "you can just turn around and go back," chimed in will atkins. "whenever we get tired of livin' we'll let you know. this boat couldn't stand them breakers two minutes." "much you know about it, i guess," returned the chief, angrily. "we want to go to the village, don't we, an' we want to take our outfit with us? well, then, how are we goin' to get there, i'd like to know, if we don't cross the shoals? set down! let no man move from his seat, or say a word. i've run the channel a dozen times, an' i can do it ag'in." sam did not think it best to tell his trembling crew that he had never attempted the passage in the face of such a breeze. although he spoke bravely enough, he was really frightened, and his hand trembled as it rested on the tiller. had there been any other way out of the cove, he would have been the last one to dare the fury of the waves; but he knew there was none, and, after he had succeeded in inducing his men to resume their seats, he drew in a long breath, shut his teeth hard against each other, and prepared for the work before him. he fastened his eyes on his guide-post, brought the yawl before the wind, let out the sheet, and the next moment the crusoe men found themselves flying through the breakers with almost railroad speed. in front of them, on each side, and behind, the water was white with foam; and, when they got out from the shelter of the bluffs on the island, they found that tom newcombe's "capital sailing wind" was something very much like a gale. the yawl rocked and plunged over the waves that leaped wildly around her, sometimes almost grazing the rocks as she flew along the channel. the crusoe men held their breath in suspense, and their eyes were directed anxiously toward the white pyramid which seemed to shut them off from the still water beyond. it looked threatening, they discovered as they approached it, and they trembled when the wave, subsiding for an instant, revealed to them the black, ragged crest of the rock which lay directly in their course, and toward which they were being driven with terrific force. it was here the worst danger was to be encountered. the channel ran close alongside this rock, to windward, and the governor knew that it would require the exercise of all his skill to take the yawl past it in safety. "xury," he exclaimed, yelling at the top of his voice, to make himself heard above the roar of the wind and waves, "stand by the sheet and be ready to haul in fur life when i give the word." by the time the mate had placed himself in a position to obey this order, the yawl had approached within a few yards of the ledge, and, to the no small astonishment and alarm of the crusoe men, the governor did not change her course an inch. suddenly her bow was buried beneath a pile of foam, and the next instant she was lifted on the crest of a tremendous billow, which carried her with redoubled speed toward the rock. this was too much for friday and jack spaniard, who uttered a simultaneous cry of terror, and jumped to their feet, while tom newcombe turned away his head and clutched his seat with a death-gripe, expecting every moment to see the sides of the boat smashed in, and to find himself struggling in the water. "set down!" thundered the governor. "haul in, xury!" for a few seconds two opposing forces were at work upon the yawl. the wind blew harder than ever, as if it sympathized with the crusoe men, and was doing its best to drive them out of reach of danger, while the waves came thicker and faster, and dashed their spray furiously into the faces of the yawl's crew, seemingly determined upon their destruction. so evenly balanced was the power of the two elements, that, for a time, it was a matter of uncertainty whether the wind would force them away from the rock, or the waves hurl them upon it; but the wind began to gain a little at last, the yawl glided slowly, inch by inch, around the ledge into still water, and tom, looking back, saw the pyramid of foam leaping higher than ever into the air, as if enraged at being cheated of its prey. "jerusalem!" ejaculated will atkins, gazing first at his companions, and then at the angry waves behind, as if he could hardly believe that they had passed them in safety. "_jerusalem_, i say! whew!" "well, i done it, didn't i?" exclaimed the governor, drawing a long breath of relief. "i thank my lucky stars that i'll never have to do it ag'in." it would have been hard work for any one to convince the crusoe men that they would ever again attempt the passage of the shoals. they told one another that they had seen quite enough of them, and that the dangers yet before them were insignificant, compared with those they had just encountered. but they did cross them a second time that night, and not a single boy in the band raised any objections to it. the governor now directed the yawl's course toward the head of the island, and, as she flew along, he revealed to his crew some of the plans he had determined upon. it was necessary, he said, that the work before them should be performed with as little delay as possible; consequently they would not take the yawl to the village with them, for she might be in their way. they would leave her at the head of the island, and stop for her when they came back. they would first secure possession of the sweepstakes, and moor her at the end of the pier; then they would visit mr. henry's store, help themselves to what provisions they needed, and after that assist the captain in carrying out his "splendid idea." tom listened attentively to all the governor had to say, and something he had not before thought of came into his mind. "governor," said he, "why do you leave my work till the last? don't you remember i told you that johnny harding sleeps in the store every night? suppose that while you are effecting an entrance you awaken him! he will give the alarm, and then, what will become of my idea?" "i'll risk that," replied the chief, confidently. "if we get inside the store he won't give no alarm. i know how to make him keep still. now, fellers," he added, turning the boat's head toward the island, "we'll stop here." he ran the yawl's bow upon the beach, and with the assistance of his men moored her securely to the rocks, after which he ordered the band into the skiff. will atkins and xury seated themselves at the oars, and in half an hour the skiff rounded the light-house pier, and moved up the harbor toward the place where the sweepstakes lay at her anchorage. chapter ix. johnny harding's visitors. about nine o'clock, in the same evening in which happened the events we have just described, johnny harding leaned idly over the counter in mr. henry's store, whistling softly to himself, and gazing through the open door at a vessel in the harbor, which was about to begin her voyage to the west indies. he looked as though he had been preparing for a game of fisticuffs with somebody, for his coat was off, his collar thrown open, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. but there was no one in newport with whom johnny was likely to get into trouble, for he was one of those easy, good-natured boys who seldom have any differences with their fellows. he had worked hard all day, and this was the first leisure moment he had been allowed since morning. he had taken advantage of it to pull off his coat and enjoy the cool breeze of the evening. johnny, as we have before remarked, was now as steady, well-behaved a boy as could be found in the village. he had seen the time when he had thought it exceedingly "smart" to take part in some desperate scheme for mischief--like stealing 'squire thompson's horse and wagon, and presenting him with some of his own fruit and vegetables, for instance--but he had come to the conclusion that not only was that a poor way to enjoy one's self, but it was a sure method of gaining a very unenviable reputation. tom's runaway expedition had opened his eyes. a few of his companions congratulated him, and said that in bringing the swallow back to land, after rich had lost her in the ocean, he had performed an exploit to be proud of; but those whose opinions were worth any thing, shook their heads at him; and, although they did not have much to say about it, their actions indicated that they thought johnny might have been in better business than running away with a lot of lazy students. johnny began to think so too, and saw it was high time he turned over a new leaf, if he ever expected to be any body in the world. one thing that convinced him of this fact was, the manner in which mr. henry treated him. there was a vacancy in the store, and it had been promised to johnny, whose highest ambition was to become a business man. one morning he presented himself before the grocer, who was not a little surprised to see him. "ah, yes," said he, when johnny had made known his wants, "i'd like to have you here. i don't know any one in newport i would rather have for a clerk in my store, if i was only sure you could be trusted. but do you think you could put much faith in a boy who is continually running around of nights, and who is always in some kind of mischief? when i promised you the situation i had no idea you were a night-hawk, you know." johnny thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and walked thoughtfully out of the store. he had never taken that view of the case, but he could not keep seeing that the grocer was right. he was angry at himself when he thought how foolish he had been, and, consequently, when some of his friends called on him that night, to inquire why he had missed the last meeting of their new society, johnny answered them rather abruptly. "i won't have any thing more to do with it," said he. "why, harding, what's the matter?" "the matter is just this," replied johnny. "i can see, now, that i would have been a great deal better off in the world, if i had never had any thing to do with secret societies that were organized for nothing but mischief. experience is a hard school, fellows, but it is a thorough one and i'll never forget the lesson i have learned there. i am going to behave myself now." "well, this beats me, i never thought you would turn spooney." "say what you please, my mind is made up, and you can't turn me, any more than you can turn tom newcombe, when he has an idea. the society can get along without me." johnny was as good as his word, although it required the exercise of all his firmness to resist the pressure that was brought to bear upon him. the society found it uphill work to get along without him, for he held a high position in the organization, and was the only one in it who could study up a plan for mischief at two minutes notice. its members had often been sadly in need of the services of tom newcombe; and, now that johnny was gone, the exploits were hardly worth boasting of. they tried to induce him to come back. they coaxed, praised, and ridiculed him, but it was in vain. johnny had made up his mind after mature deliberation; he knew he was in the right, and for two months he held firmly to his purpose. one night, as he was coming home from school, he met mr. henry, who began to laugh the moment he came in sight of johnny. "is this true that i hear about you?" he asked, as the boy came up. "are you a spooney?" "i don't know, sir," was the reply. "if trying to behave myself makes me a spooney, i suppose i am one." "don't you find it hard work?" "sometimes. they bother a fellow so. but i don't care for that. i'm bound to stick to it." johnny moved off, and so did mr. henry, but when the latter had made a few steps, he stopped and looked back. "johnny," said he, "if you feel like walking around to-morrow, we'll talk the matter over." johnny did feel like "walking around," and he made his appearance at the store bright and early. it did not take long to arrange matters to his satisfaction, and he had now been in mr. henry's employ about two weeks, and he began to believe that he was in a fair way to redeem himself. mr. henry was of the same opinion. he had faith in johnny's good resolutions, and he never had occasion to regret that he had taken him into the store. johnny's employer stood at his desk putting away his books and papers, while the clerk leaned on the counter and watched the vessel in the harbor. at last mr. henry closed and locked his safe, and, turning to johnny, said: "i shall leave you to-night with a big responsibility." "how much is it, sir?" asked the clerk, who knew that the grocer had reference to the money in the safe. "seven thousand dollars," answered mr. henry. "the greater portion of it belongs to my brother, who has come down from boston to take up a note that falls due to-morrow. if he fails to pay it, his creditors will have something to say to me, for i indorsed the note. there are also two thousand dollars of my own money in the safe, with which i intend to pay some bills in the morning. if i lose it i am ruined. i shouldn't wonder if you had visitors to-night," added the grocer, as he picked up his hat and cane; "so keep your eyes open." "all right, sir," replied johnny. "i'll defend that safe against an army of burglars." mr. henry was jesting, and so was johnny; not about the money, or the trouble its loss would occasion, but about the robbers. there was certainly that amount in the safe, and it was equally certain that it was needed for just the purposes that mr. henry had indicated, but he was not in earnest when he told his clerk to look out for visitors. no one ever dreamed of such a thing as a burglary in newport. johnny had never heard of one, except through the papers, but this night was to add a new chapter to his experience. "seven thousand dollars!" said he to himself, as he walked out of the store, and began putting up the shutters. "that's a nice little sum of money. i wonder if i shall ever own as much! i should say not, unless i get a big increase on my present salary. people don't live long enough nowadays to grow rich on four dollars and a half a week. never mind, every dog has his day, and who knows but there is one coming for jack harding? what can i do for you this evening, gentlemen?" this question was addressed to a couple of rough-looking men, who just then entered the store. johnny tried to obtain a glimpse of their faces as he spoke to them, but he did not succeed, for their features were concealed by the collars of their pea-jackets, which were pulled up around their ears, and by their slouch hats, which were drawn down over their eyes. "a couple of sailors, with the ague," soliloquized the clerk, snatching up his hat and fanning himself vigorously, when he thought how near sweltering he would be if he was bundled up like that. the customers stood in the middle of the floor, looking about them with every expression of curiosity, like country fellows who had just come out of their native woods, while johnny leaned one elbow on the counter and waited for them to make known their wants. "where's the boss?" inquired one of them at length. "do you mean mr. henry? he has gone home." "will he be back to-night?" johnny replied that he would not. there was another long pause, during which the men gazed about the store, and appeared to be examining every article of merchandise in it, and finally one of them walked up to the counter, while his companion strolled toward the little office where johnny slept. he first looked at the clerk, as if trying to recognize an old acquaintance in him, and asked: "got any pipes?" "plenty of them, sir," was the prompt reply. "we have a fine assortment, that was just received from boston this morning." johnny thought he had by this time become well enough posted in his business to tell, by the appearance of his customers, what quality of goods they wanted. he thought this man was a common sailor, and he put out for his inspection a box of cheap clay pipes. the man took his hands out of his pockets to examine the pipes, and johnny saw that they were fair and white, looking very unlike the brown, toil-hardened hands of a sailor. "he must be a captain," thought the clerk. "if he is, he wants something better than a clay pipe. here are some genuine imported meerschaums, in the showcase, sir," said he. the customer was a long time making up his mind which he wanted. he looked first at the clay pipes, then at the meerschaums, weighed several of the latter in his hand, and finally he pulled out his pocket-book. then it took him some time longer to find a five cent piece; and when he had paid for one of the clay pipes he rested his hands on the counter, and looked up at the articles on the shelves, as if wondering if he did not want something else. johnny waited patiently for him to come to some conclusion on this point, and, at the same time, kept close watch of the other customer, whose movements were somewhat singular. he first produced a pipe from the pocket of his pea-jacket, and, walking around the end of the counter to the match-box, prepared to indulge in a smoke. johnny, out of the corner of his eye, saw that, while he was filling his pipe, his gaze wandered up the space behind the counter, until it rested on the safe, which he regarded long and earnestly. if johnny could have read the thoughts that were passing through his mind, they might have caused him some uneasiness; but, believing that the man had found an object of curiosity in the strong box, he felt disposed to laugh at him. "where could he have passed all his life, anyhow?" thought the clerk. "he never saw a fire-proof safe before. what would he say, i wonder, if he could look at the combination lock inside, that can't be opened, even by a man who understands it, in less than ten minutes!" after burning half a dozen matches, the customer got his pipe lighted to his satisfaction, and began walking about the store again. he glanced into the little office where johnny slept, went to the front door and gazed up and down the street, thence to the side door, which he opened, and looked out into the passage-way that ran between the store and mr. newcombe's elevator, and finally he examined the shutters that johnny had just put up. having completed the rounds of the store, he began to whistle, whereupon the man at the counter picked up his pocket-book and followed his companion, who walked out on the wharf. "does any body suppose they ever saw a grocery-store before?" said johnny, to himself, as he stood in the door and watched his customers until they disappeared in the darkness. "i've seen some green men in my time, but these carry off the palm. the one that bought the pipe is not a sailor, for, if he was, he would not have been so particular. he would have taken whatever was offered him, and paid double its value, if i had seen fit to demand it, and without a moment's hesitation. they are hard-looking fellows, anyhow." having thus expressed his opinion of his customers, johnny struck up a cheerful whistle, and resumed the work of putting up the shutters. when this had been done, he locked the door, and put out all the lamps except one, which he carried into his bed-room, and sat down to read until he should become sleepy. the book was so interesting that johnny forgot that he had worked hard all day and was very sleepy, and it was half-past ten o'clock before he knew it. finding that his eye-lids were growing heavy, he went the rounds of the store once more, tried all the doors and windows, to make sure that he had fastened them securely, and then tumbled into bed. he always slept the sleep of the healthy, and, on this particular evening, he slept so soundly that he did not hear what was going on at the side door, which opened into the passage-way. about midnight, however, he awoke with a start, and with a presentment that there was something wrong. he was not mistaken, for when his eyes were fairly open, he found that his bed-room was flooded with light. he was not alone, either; there were two persons in his room who had no business there. one was standing in the door-way, holding a sledge-hammer and an iron punch in one hand, and a short piece of rope in the other; and the one who stood at the head of his bed carried something the clerk did not like the looks of--a revolver, the muzzle of which was pointed straight at his head. a single glance was enough to establish the identity of these unwelcome visitors. they were his customers of the previous evening. "what are you doing in here?" exclaimed johnny, starting up on his elbow. "get out o' this!" "silence!" whispered the man with the revolver, seizing johnny by the shoulder and placing the muzzle of the weapon against his forehead. "if you utter another word you are a dead man." the bare thought of being awakened out of a sound sleep, to find a couple of burglars in one's bed-room, is enough to send a thrill through the strongest nerves; and johnny, although he was far from being a coward, was thoroughly frightened. he knew, however, that he was in no danger of bodily harm as long as he obeyed the robbers' injunction and kept quiet. they were not there to injure him--they were after the seven thousand dollars in the safe; and johnny was powerless to prevent them from taking it. "come in here and tie him, ned," said the man with the revolver. ned, after depositing his hammer and punch on the floor, advanced into the room, and almost before johnny could tell what had happened to him, he was lying on his face in the bed, with his arms fastened behind his back, his feet tied to the bed-post, and a towel bound tightly over his mouth. "now, then, my hearty, you're safe, and the best thing you can do is to keep perfectly still. we don't want to hurt you, but if you begin any fuss, we'll settle you in a hurry." so saying, the robbers left him, and began their work in the store. from the position in which he lay, the clerk could witness all their operations, and he could not help thinking that the burglars were very expert in their business. they moved quickly, but so noiselessly that johnny, if he had not seen them, would not have known that they were there. they first pulled the counter from its place, and wheeled the safe into the middle of the store; after which one of them laid a coil of rope upon the floor, and by their united efforts, the safe was tipped over on its back and placed upon it. their next move was to strip the blankets and quilts from johnny's bed, and wrap them around the safe, leaving a small opening in them directly over the lock. then one of the robbers picked up the punch, and held it close to the handle of the lock, and the other, with one swift blow of the sledge-hammer, drove its sharp point through the thin sheet of iron that formed the outside of the safe. into the hole thus made they poured a quantity of powder, adjusted a slow match, which one of them touched off with the cigar he had been tranquilly smoking all the while, and then the robbers, hastily closing the slide of the dark lantern, retreated outside the building to await the result. the clerk was sure they had gone out, for he heard the side door open and close very carefully. "they're going to blow the safe open," thought johnny, as he lay and watched the slow match, flashing and sparkling as the fire approached the powder. "i hope it will make an awful noise. where's mr. newcombe's night watchman, i wonder, that he didn't see these fellows come in here!" a single flash of light illuminated the store for an instant, and then came the report. it was not near as loud as johnny expected it would be, for it was deadened by the blankets and coil of rope; but it jarred the glassware behind the counter, and he hoped it might attract somebody's attention. for five minutes he lay listening and waiting, but the robbers did not return. could they have been frightened from their work? if that was the case, johnny wished that the person who had alarmed them would come in and release him, for his position was getting to be very uncomfortable. five minutes more elapsed, and then he heard the side door open, and stealthy footsteps enter the store. the lantern blazed up again, and johnny was astonished to see that the robbers had been reã«nforced. there were seven of them now. "a thousand dollars apiece for the rascals," said he, to himself. "that's a good deal for one night's work. mr. henry little imagined, when he told me that i should have visitors before morning, that his words would come true!" johnny brought his soliloquy to a close very suddenly, raised his head as high as he could from the bed, and gazed earnestly at the robbers' companions. he was certain that he had seen them before. he winked his eyes hard, and looked again. there could be no mistake about it. the new-comers were sam barton and his band of outlaws. he had believed that the governor was at the bottom of the harbor, but there he was, as lively and full of mischief as ever. johnny had never been more bewildered in his life. chapter x. a strange encounter. the last time we saw the crusoe men they were rowing up the harbor toward the place where the sweepstakes lay at her anchorage. they expected to secure possession of her without any difficulty, and to take her down the harbor, through the shipping that lay at the wharves, without attracting attention. 'squire thompson never left a watch on board the schooner, and it was not likely that any body's suspicions would be aroused by so common an occurrence as a vessel passing out of the harbor at midnight. this part of the undertaking did not trouble the governor, but his heart beat a trifle faster than usual whenever he thought of the provisions. the crusoe men pulled up the harbor as though they had a perfect right to be there. they did not attempt to move quietly, for that alone would have been sufficient to excite the curiosity of the watch on some of the vessels at the wharves, who might feel themselves called upon to follow their movements, and that, to say the least, would be very inconvenient. the governor did not want to answer any questions, and he knew that the only way to avoid suspicion was to go about his work boldly. he kept the skiff headed up the harbor until he passed the sweepstakes, which lay at her usual moorings. as he went by he examined the vessel closely, and was delighted to see that she was deserted. "fellers," said he, suddenly, "wouldn't we have been in a fix if 'squire thompson had taken it into his head this afternoon to go off on one of his fishing excursions? what would we have done? luck is on our side, howsomever, an' we are all right. the schooner is our'n, an' 'squire thompson has put his eyes on her for the last time. cap'n, you will take command, an' get the vessel down to the end of the pier as soon as possible. don't try to be too still while you are gettin' under way, fur, if you do, the fellers who see us will know that we are doin' something we haint got no business to do." as the governor said this he turned the skiff down the harbor again, and when they reached the schooner, friday made the painter fast, and the crusoe men clambered over the rail. tom was once more captain of a vessel. "mr. mate," said he, as soon as his feet touched the deck, "get under way immediately." "will atkins," said xury, "drop that skiff astern, an' the rest of us stand by to hist the canvas." tom was about to attempt something he had never had the courage to try before, and that was, to take a vessel down the harbor under sail. for a wonder, he had no misgivings. the wind, although strong, was fair, and as the captain thought it very probable that he might be called upon to navigate the schooner through some difficult places before their cruise was ended, he concluded that it was best to begin practicing at once. he lent a hand in hoisting the sails, and, when every thing was ready for the start, he sent xury to the wheel, and slipped the chain himself. he did not like the idea of starting on a long voyage without an anchor, but it would have been a quarter of an hour's work to raise it, and tom was anxious to leave the village with the least possible delay. as long as he remained there he was in danger. the mate did not labor under as many disadvantages now as he did when he piloted the yacht down the harbor on that stormy night. he did not have the gale to contend with, and he could see where he was going. he took the schooner through the shipping without the least difficulty, and rounded to at the end of the pier. tom superintended the execution of this maneuver himself, and, somewhat to his surprise, made an excellent landing. he brought the sweepstakes alongside the pier so gently, that the concussion would not have broken an egg-shell. that was something worth boasting of, and tom, encouraged at his success, began to believe that he was "cut out" expressly for a sea captain. "now comes the worst part of the business," said the governor, when tom had got out a head-line and made the schooner fast to the pier. "what are you goin' to do while we are gone, cap'n?" "i'll stay here and watch the vessel," replied tom. "i told you i wouldn't have a hand in stealing the provisions." "somebody must do it," said the chief. "we can't go to sea without grub." "but how are you going to get into the store?" "do you see this yere?" answered the governor, showing an auger he carried in his hand. "the door that opens into the alley that runs between the store an' your father's elevator is fastened with a hook. we'll bore two or three holes through the door, an' then i'll put in my hand an' lift up that hook. it's just as easy as fallin' off a log." "look out for my father's night watchman," said tom. "he's always got his eyes open, and if he catches you prowling about that passage-way he'll bring our cruise to an end in a hurry." the governor had thought of that watchman more than once, and he was afraid of him. he would have breathed a good deal easier had he known that there was no danger to be apprehended from him, and that two other obstacles had also been removed from his path. the watchman was at that moment lying behind the elevator, bound hand and foot; the door which led into the store from the passage-way had already been opened in precisely the same way that the governor intended to open it, and johnny harding was powerless to resist them, or to give the alarm. but the crusoe men did not know this, and more than one of them would have been glad of some excuse for declining to assist in so hazardous an enterprise. "now, fellers," said the chief, "if there are any cowards in this yere band, i want to know it before we go any farther. if there are any among you who aint willin' to promise to stand by me to the last, let them step out on one side, so that i can have a look at 'em." the governor paused, but none of the band moved. "i am glad to see that you are all brave men," continued sam. "if any one of you tries to shirk his duty when it comes to the pinch, we'll throw him over; he sha'n't go on this expedition. now let's make a break, fur the quicker we get to work the sooner we'll get done. friday, shoulder one of them handspikes an' stand by to use it on johnny harding if he makes a fuss." "and, friday," chimed in tom, "if you do hit him, hit him hard. that boy has nearly bothered the life out of me." the governor and his companions clambered over the rail and disappeared from the view of tom newcombe, who paced impatiently up and down the wharf, now and then stopping to survey his vessel, and wishing that he could look far enough into the future to see what part she was destined to play in the crusoe drama. if they were pursued, was she fleet enough to carry them out of harm's way? would she take them safely to their island, or would she be capsized and sunk before she got out of buzzard's bay? tom did not bother his head much about these questions, for he knew that the little schooner was staunch and swift, and, as he began to have great confidence in his abilities as a navigator and seaman, he was sure that he could bring her safely out of any danger that might befall her. on the subject of destroying the storm king, however, he debated long and earnestly. he began to see that there was danger in it. the students were alert and watchful, and if they caught him on board the vessel with matches and a bottle of coal-oil in his pocket, what would they do to him? tom trembled a little as he asked himself this question, but he never once thought of giving up his "splendid idea." he only wished that the work was done, and that he was well out to sea with the sweepstakes. meanwhile, the governor and his men moved cautiously along the wharf toward mr. henry's store. they walked around the elevator without seeing any signs of the watchman, and were about to enter the passage when sam, who was leading the way, suddenly stopped. "what was that noise?" he asked, turning to his companions. "didn't you hear something drop in the store?" "i heard it thunder," replied jack spaniard. "so did i," said xury. "that wasn't thunder," returned the chief. "it was some other kind of noise; an' i am sure it was in the store. mebbe harding is movin' around in there. you stay here, an' i'll go to the door an' listen." the crusoe men concealed themselves behind the elevator, and the governor moved up the passage-way, holding in his hand a bag which he had brought to carry away his share of the provisions, and which he also intended to use in conquering johnny harding, if the opportunity presented itself. if the clerk was awake, and should happen to come to the door, he would throw the bag over his head, and hold him fast until his men could come to his assistance. he approached the door very cautiously, and when he reached it, he stopped and looked at it in astonishment. a hole had been cut in it over the lock, and the door was ajar. sam thought he must be dreaming. he looked around him to make sure that no one was observing his movements, and then placed his hand against the door, which yielded to his touch. "well, now, if this yere don't beat all the world," said the governor to himself. "is there another crusoe band in the village, i wonder?" "look here, partner," whispered a voice close at his elbow, "this is our job. you're about a quarter of an hour too late." sam turned and saw a man, who was muffed up to the eyes, standing beside him. his heart fairly came up into his mouth. he was as frightened as a boy could be, and he would have yelled and taken to his heels, but he seemed to have lost all control over himself. he stood like one petrified. to save his life he could not utter a sound, neither could he move hand or foot. he was caught, he could see that plainly; and now would come the punishment. "how do you happen to know any thing about it?" whispered the man. "about what?" sam almost gasped, recovering the use of his tongue after a desperate effort. "about the money," was the reply. "we followed him all the way from boston." "follered who?" "why, mr. henry; the brother of the man who owns this store. he had five thousand dollars with him. we have done all the work, but, since you are here, i suppose we must divide with you." "divide what?" asked the governor, utterly unable to understand what the man was trying to get at, and astonished that he did not put a pair of hand-cuffs upon him at once. "o, divide what!" repeated the burglar, impatiently. "why, the money, of course--the five thousand dollars. what else did you come here for?" "me! i come here for grub, me an' my men. we don't know nothin' about no five thousand dollars." at this moment the other robber came up, and the first words he spoke indicated that he was not at all pleased to see sam. "we always have hard luck," said he. "this is the third time we've had to divide with fellows who didn't help us do the work. how many are there in your crowd?" "six," replied the governor. he had by this time partially recovered his wits, and began to understand the matter. there was money in the safe, these men had come after it, and, believing him to be a robber like themselves, they were grumbling because they were afraid they would be obliged to share the spoils with him. sam did not want the money, but he did want provisions; and he was convinced, now, that the burglars would not stand in his way. "there are five of us here, an' one more down to the boat," added the chief. "but he says he don't know any thing about the money," observed the robber, who had first spoken to sam. "he is here after something to eat. what are you going to do when you get your provisions?" "we're going to sea." "are you? have you got a vessel?" "sartinly, we have. how could we go to sea without a vessel?" "that's lucky. now i'll tell you what we'll do. we'll give you a thousand dollars, if you will take us with you." the governor caught his breath as if some one had suddenly dashed a bucket of ice-water over him. a thousand dollars! wasn't he in luck for once in his life? what a multitude of comforts and luxuries that would buy for the crusoe band! they could stop at some town during their cruise, and purchase every thing they needed to complete their outfit. "but, perhaps, you don't want to go where we are going," said sam. "we don't care where you are bound. so long as you are going to sea, that's enough for us. we want to get as far away from this place as possible. what do you say? we're in a hurry." "i say it is a bargain," replied the governor. "all right. we'll go in now and get our money, and you can help yourselves to the provisions. where are your partners? let's have a look at them." sam, almost beside himself with joy at this unexpected freak of fortune, hurried off to find his companions. in a few excited words he explained to them what had happened, and so astonished and bewildered were the crusoe men, that for a moment they had nothing to say. they had never heard of such a thing before, and some of them were afraid to trust the robbers. "mebbe they're just foolin' us," said jack spaniard; "an' when they get us into the store, they'll arrest the whole kit an' bilin' of us." "arrest us!" sneered sam. "they aint constables, i tell you; they're burglars. didn't they cut that hole through the door, an' don't they say that they're after the money that's in the safe? we don't want to lose the chance of makin' a thousand dollars if we can help it. just think of the grub an' things it will buy!" the governor had considerable difficulty in convincing his men that it was "all right," but he did succeed at last, and induced them to follow him to the door where he had left the robbers. the latter peered into their faces as they came up, and, after satisfying themselves that the coast was clear, led the way into the store. when the lantern was turned up, sam and his men looked at the burglars, and the burglars looked at them. the result of the examination appeared to be satisfactory on both sides, for the robbers resumed their work on the safe, while the crusoe men, now feeling perfectly at their ease, gazed about the store. they looked at the shattered safe, at johnny harding, who lay a prisoner on his bed, and watched with greedy eyes the packages of greenbacks which the burglars took from the strong box, and stowed away in a valise. "where's our thousand dollars?" asked the governor, at length. "if you want to go to sea with us, you had better pay us in advance." "now, don't you be in a hurry," was the gruff reply. "when you have taken us safely out of sight of newport, you shall have your money, and not before. you'd better get to work, there. we've wasted time enough already." this aroused the crusoe men, and they began to bestir themselves. they appropriated to their own use a pile of bags which xury found behind the counter, and, by the time the robbers had finished overhauling the contents of the safe, they had collected a large supply of provisions, consisting of hams, crackers, codfish, cheese, coffee, and sugar. johnny watched all their movements, and before he had quite made up his mind whether the scene transpiring before him was a dream or a reality, the robbers had finished their work and gone out, leaving the store in total darkness. chapter xi. tom's splendid idea. the crusoe men, congratulating themselves on their good fortune, and staggering under their heavy loads of provisions, hurried back to the schooner, and their appearance relieved the anxiety tom had begun to feel at their prolonged absence. he listened in amazement to the governor's description of the events that had transpired at the store, and looked at the robbers with curiosity. he could not help telling himself that he had seen the time that he would have been horrified at the thought of having such outlaws for shipmates, but now he did not feel the least tremor, and he regarded the fact as evidence that he was getting to be a very brave sort of fellow. "now, then," said the chief, when the provisions had been stowed away in the hold. "i s'pose you gentlemen don't care to stay in the village any longer than you can help, do you? well, there's a yawl at the end of the pier, an' you can get into it an' pull out into the bay. hold straight across fur the head of the island, an' before you get there we'll overtake you. we've got a little more business to do before we say good-by to newport." the robbers thought it best to follow sam's advice. they clambered down into the yawl, and the crusoe men took their seats in the skiff, and were about to shove off from the pier, when tom, upon putting his hand into his pocket to assure himself that his incendiary materials were safe, found, to his dismay, that he had forgotten something. "o, now, hold on, governor," he drawled. "how am i going to set fire to that yacht without any matches, i'd like to know!" "you're a purty feller, aint you?" exclaimed atkins, who had all along shown a distaste for the dangers that attended their preparations for the cruise. "we'll have to give up burnin' the sloop now, an' i am glad of it. there aint no kind o' sense in it, no how. it's runnin' a big risk fur nothing." "o, now, i want you to quit calling me a pretty fellow," whined tom, who, if he had possessed the courage, would have been glad to fight somebody. "i won't give up my splendid idea. there's just as much sense in it as there is in stealing provisions. i am provoked at myself for forgetting those matches. haven't you got some, governor?" "nary match," replied sam. "but i'll tell you what you can do, cap'n. you can run up to the store an' get some. you'll find plenty there, an' harding can't hinder you from takin' as many as you want." "but it is dark, isn't it? how can i find the matches without a light?" "them bugglars left their lantern on the counter. just turn the slide, an' you'll have light enough. hurry up, now, an' we'll wait here fur you." tom, whose thoughts were so completely wrapped up in his grand project that he did not stop to consider that it might prove to be a very disagreeable piece of business to go groping about the store in the dark, sprang out of the skiff and ran up the wharf. "i'll see johnny harding," said he to himself. "the governor said that those burglars left him tied and gagged, and so i can do what i please with him. perhaps i'll give him a punch or two, just to show him that i have not forgotten how badly he has treated me since i had that yacht built. i told him that i would get even with him some day." tom involuntarily increased his pace when he thought how pleasant a sight it would be to his eyes to see his tormentor bound hand and foot, and powerless to reply to his taunts, or to resist him if he concluded to punish him for what he had done, and when he reached the store he pushed the door open and entered without hesitation. he came to a stand-still, however, before he had fairly crossed the threshold, and his heart seemed to stop beating when his ear caught the sound of a light foot-step. tom was almost on the point of turning and running for his life, but the remembrance of his "splendid idea," which he was on the very eve of carrying into execution, restrained him. he listened, but the sound was not repeated, and, calling all his courage to his aid, he walked boldly across the store. as he passed his hands over the counter they came in contact with the lantern, which blazed up when he opened the slide. he turned the bull's eye toward every corner of the store, almost expecting to see somebody advancing upon him, and he drew a long breath of relief when he found that he was alone. having satisfied himself on this point, he glanced at the safe, emptied the contents of the match box into his pocket, and then started toward the office to look at johnny harding. as he approached the door, he was surprised to see that the bed was empty. there lay the rope with which johnny had been confined, and the towel that had been used as a gag, but johnny himself was nowhere to be seen. "this is very strange," thought tom. "i understood the governor to say that he was tied, hand and foot, to his bed." tom advanced one more step, which brought him just inside the door of the office. he regretted, an instant afterward, that he had taken that step, for, as he stood bending forward, holding the lantern aloft, and looking toward the bed to assure himself that johnny was really not there, a pair of strong arms were suddenly thrown around his neck, his heels flew up, and tom found himself prostrate on the floor. although johnny harding stood as much in fear of bodily harm as any body, he determined, in spite of the robbers' threats, that he would not remain a passive prisoner. even while the burglar was tying him, and his companion was holding the revolver to his head, the clerk's brain was busy with thoughts of escape. he was not foolish enough to imagine that he could cope with two grown men, even under the most favorable circumstances, but he hoped that he might find means to free himself, so that, as soon as the robbers left the store, he could procure assistance, and begin the pursuit without loss of time. when the burglars retreated outside the building to await the explosion, johnny struggled desperately with his bonds; and if his visitors had thought to look at him when they returned, they would have discovered that one of his hands was free. when they took their final departure, johnny removed the towel with his liberated hand, and, after ten minutes' hard work, he arose from the bed and began pulling on his clothes with all possible haste. "those fellows won't get very far away with that money; not if this clerk knows himself, and he thinks he does," said johnny to himself. "i'll raise the town in two minutes. and there's the governor again, as big as life and as ugly as ever. how did he get back? he is going to receive a thousand dollars for taking those villains out to sea, is he? not much! i'll have something to say about that." johnny had by this time got into his trowsers and boots; and catching up his hat, he ran out of the office just as the side door opened, admitting tom newcombe. believing that the burglars had returned, the clerk beat a hasty retreat, and it was the sound of his footsteps that had alarmed tom. johnny concealed himself behind the door of the office, and awaited the issue of events with fear and trembling. if the burglar discovered that he had succeeded in liberating himself, he would, of course, bind him again; and this time he would do his work so thoroughly that johnny would remain a prisoner until he was released. that would be about seven o'clock in the morning, for that was the hour at which mr. henry generally made his appearance--and by that time the burglars would be miles away with their booty. johnny knew when tom turned up the light, and emptied the match-box; and when he heard him approaching the office, his excitement and alarm increased. when tom stepped inside the door, a desperate plan for escape suddenly suggested itself to him. he would rush out of his concealment, throw the intruder down, and get out of the store before he could recover his feet. he was by no means certain that he could do this, but it was his only chance, and it was no sooner conceived than it was carried into execution. the captain of the crusoe band was prostrated with the greatest ease, and johnny, who had fallen to the floor with him, would have jumped up and taken to his heels without knowing who his visitor was, if tom had only kept quiet. but the latter, astonished at the suddenness of the attack, and recognizing his assailant, thought it was all over with him, and drawled out: "o, now, what are you doing, harding?" "tom newcombe!" exclaimed the clerk, in great amazement. "o, now, yes, it's i!" whined tom. "well, i declare!" said johnny, catching up the rope with which he had been confined a few minutes before, "wonders will never cease. i thought you were at the north pole by this time; but, if i had taken a second thought, i would have known that you were in some way mixed up in this business. how much of that money will fall to your share?" "o, now, what are you doing, i say?" roared tom; for johnny, while he was speaking, had crossed the captain's hands behind his back, and was passing the rope around them. "let me up!" "i can't see it, tom," was the reply. "you are a dangerous fellow, and i think it is my duty to secure you. i believe this night's work is the result of your having an idea." the captain of the crusoe band did not waste any more breath in words. he saw that the tables were likely to be turned on him, and that the boy he had come there to abuse and maltreat, was in a fair way to put it out of his power to carry his splendid scheme into execution. he must escape from him, or the expedition would fall through; and, more than that, he must make a prisoner of the clerk, or he would give the alarm. johnny thought that tom, although he had thus far kept himself in the back ground, was the cause of all the troubles that had befallen him that night--that he was the projector and manager of the robbery. it was undoubtedly another of his grand ideas. tom's past history warranted such a supposition. he had planned many a plundering expedition against orchards and melon patches; he had twice assisted in stealing a vessel; he was one of the acknowledged leaders of an organization of rogues; he had been growing worse and worse every day, for the last year of his life, and it was reasonable to suppose that he had, by this time, become bad enough to conceive of a burglary to replenish the treasury of the crusoe band. johnny determined to capture him, and learn all about the proposed movements of the robbers. he had made up his mind that the money must be recovered; and every item of information would be of value to him. this was the second fight tom had that night, and it was a lively one. during its progress, he gained a good idea of johnny's power of muscle, and johnny thought tom was a remarkably strong and active boy to be the coward he was. long wind, and the consciousness of being in the right, brought the clerk off with flying colors; and, after a five minutes' struggle, the captain of the crusoe band lay helpless on the bed, and johnny, with his hands in his pockets, stood looking at him. tom was almost beside himself with rage and alarm, but the victor was as cool as a cucumber. "tom," said he, as soon as he had recovered his breath, "did it never occur to you that you are getting low down in the world? what will your father say when he hears that you are running around with a lot of burglars? by gracious, old fellow, you're done for--you're gone up! where's that money?" "o, now, it's half way to the island," whined tom. "you'll let me go, won't you, johnny? i'll never do it again." "who's got the money?" demanded the clerk. "those two robbers. they got into a yawl and started off. the governor told them to wait for us at the head of the island. say, johnny, are you going to release me?" "where did you leave the governor and his crew?" "in a skiff, at the end of the pier. let me go, johnny, won't you? i'll never do it again, as long as i live." "how were you going to sea?" "in the sweepstakes. we captured her, and she is ready and waiting now. say, johnny, why don't you answer my question?" "where have you been during the last two weeks?" "on block island. we've got a harboring place there, near the shoals. o, now, johnny, come back here and release me." but the clerk was gone before the words were fairly out of tom's mouth. he had heard enough to satisfy him, and he believed that prompt action on his part was all that was needed to insure the capture of the robbers. "i'll run down to the vessels, in front of the elevator, and alarm the watch," soliloquized the clerk. "i'll ask one of the captains to send a boat's crew after the governor and his crowd, and then i'll raise men enough to handle the sweepstakes. i'll start for the island in her, and the robbers, thinking it's all right, will come on board, and the first thing they know they'll be prisoners, and i'll have possession of the seven thousand dollars. that's the way to work it." fully occupied with such thoughts as these, johnny pulled open the door and sprang out into the passage-way, where he came in violent contact with somebody. it was the governor, who, impatient at tom's delay, had come up to see what was the matter with him. "hello, here, cap'n!" he growled. "haint you got eyes that you can't see nothing? if you're all ready now, let's be off." the clerk, recognizing the voice, turned instantly and ran into the store, banging the door after him. he might have escaped by going out at the other end of the passage; but his first thought was of his prisoner. if he left the store, the governor would, of course, go in and release tom; and that was something johnny did not intend he should do. "a bird in the hand is worth a dozen in the bush," thought he. "it is my business to look out for tom, now that i have got him. the other robbers can be attended to at any time." sam barton was utterly confounded. he stood for a moment gazing stupidly at the door, and then turned toward his men, who had followed close at his heels, as if expecting some of them to suggest a way out of this new trouble. "what's the row now, governor?" whispered xury "what's the cap'n gone back fur?" "that wasn't the cap'n," replied sam. "it was harding; an' i'll bet a million dollars that he's got tommy a prisoner in there." "i just know he has," snarled will atkins. "that's the kind of luck we're havin' to-night. let's go away an' leave him. we can't do any thing fur him." "we can, too," replied the chief, angrily. "now, atkins, i don't want to hear any more out of you about desertin' a comrade in distress, fur i haint forgot that you are a mutineer. you're always growlin', an' i'm gettin' teetotally tired of listenin' to it. if you had any sense at all, you would know that we must get into this store fur two reasons. we're bound to capture harding ag'in, fur, if we don't, he'll come out the minute we are gone, an' raise a yell; an' we'll have the whole town after us in no time. an' we must get the cap'n out of there, 'cause we can't get along without him. is there any body else in the band who knows enough to take command of the vessel? do you, atkins?" "of course not. i never was to sea in my life." "well, then, what are you grumblin' about? none of us haint been to sea, except tommy. he's been miles an' miles out of sight of land; he is the only one among us who understands the winds an' currents, an' we must release him, or give up the expedition." as the governor said this he tried the door, but found it fastened. he stooped down and looked through the hole the burglars had cut over the lock, and by the light of the lantern, which was standing on the table in the office, he could see johnny with an uplifted poker, ready to strike the first hand that was put in to raise the hasp. the chief explained the state of affairs to his men, adding, that they must determine upon some plan to attack johnny in the rear, or to get him away from the door long enough for them to open it. "hold on a minute, governor!" exclaimed xury, suddenly; "i'll fix that. lend a hand here, friday." the mate ran off, followed by friday, and in a few minutes they returned, bringing a ladder which they had found behind the elevator, and which they began to raise against the side of the store. "do you see that winder up there?" asked xury. "well, give me one man an' we will go in there, an' come down the stairs. if harding pitches into us, you can open the door an' come in; an' if he stands by to defend the door, me an' my man will soon fix him." "that's a good idea," said the chief. "friday, you go with xury. jack spaniard, run down to the skiff an' bring up the oars. harding has got an iron poker, you know, an' you will need something to make you even with him. but mebbe the winder is fastened, xury." "i know it is, 'cause i've looked at it a hundred times before to-night. it is fastened with a stick; but the glass is broke, an' i can soon throw the stick down." the two crusoe men mounted the ladder, and by the time the window was raised jack spaniard returned with the oars, which sam passed up to the mate, saying: "don't be no ways backward about usin' 'em if you get a chance. punch him hard, fur he is a spunky feller." xury and his companion disappeared, and the governor waited impatiently for them to begin the attack. all these movements had been accomplished so quietly that johnny, wholly intent upon watching the door, had no suspicions of what was going on until he heard the crusoe men coming down the stairs behind him. before he could think of flight they rushed upon him, and, although he resisted manfully, he was speedily brought to terms by a savage thrust in the ribs from friday's oar, which made him double up like a jackknife; and, at the same moment, the governor and the rest of his men entered through the side door. in less time than it takes to tell it, tom and johnny changed places, and the former, boiling over with rage, would have been mean enough to revenge himself upon the helpless clerk if he had not been restrained by the chief. "hold on, cap'n," cried sam, catching tom's hand as it was about to descend, with savage force, upon the prisoner's face; "it aint fair to strike a man when he's down, an' we haint got no time to waste in nonsense, neither. now, harding, i reckon you'll stay there fur awhile. come on, fellers." the crusoe men hurried back to their skiff, and in a few minutes more were pulling up the harbor as if nothing had happened. friday sat in the bow with his boat-hook; will atkins and jack spaniard handled the oars; sam managed the helm; and tom thought over the events of the night, and enjoyed his anticipated triumph over the students. none of the band had any thing to say about his adventure with johnny harding; in fact, they soon forgot it, and thought only of the dangers attending the work they had yet to perform. the governor glanced at tom's face a good many times while they were moving up the harbor, and was surprised that he did not discover some signs of fear. but that sentiment had no place in tom's mind just then. he grew bolder and more reckless the nearer they approached to the storm king. he did not even tremble; his nerves were as firm as a rock, and his determination to attempt the destruction of the yacht was stronger than it had ever been before. "didn't i tell harry green, when he had me locked up in that state-room, that if he did not release me at once i would square yards with him some day?" said tom to himself. "i suppose he thinks i have forgotten all about it, but i'll show him that i never forget. the sight of that yacht in flames will amply repay me for all the misery she has caused me." in ten minutes after leaving the pier the crusoe men had arrived within sight of the storm king. the governor raised his hand, and atkins and jack spaniard became more cautious in their movements. they handled the oars so carefully, and sent the skiff along so quietly, that not a ripple was heard in the water. nearer and nearer the pirate crew approached the devoted vessel, holding themselves in readiness to seek safety in instant flight, should occasion require it, and presently friday fastened into the fore-chains with his boat-hook, and tom drew himself up and looked over the rail. he heard a few words of the story which one of the anchor-watch was relating to his companion, and could just discern the forms of the quartermaster and officer on watch, who paced the deck in blissful ignorance of the danger that menaced their vessel. tom drew his breath more rapidly than usual, as he crawled noiselessly over the rail and across the deck, and when he crouched at the head of the ladder and listened to that conversation between the anchor-watch, which we have already recorded, his heart thumped against his ribs with a noise that frightened him. but, fortunately for the captain of the crusoe band, the students believed him to be miles away at that moment, and, thinking that the noise that had attracted his attention was only imaginary, the young tar resumed his story, his companion settled into a comfortable position to listen, and tom slipped down into the galley. he was now in a dangerous situation. the ladder ran down between the galley and the forecastle, where slept half a dozen students, and if one of them should chance to awake while he was there his capture was certain. tom thought of this, but if there had been no one within a hundred miles of him, he could not have gone about his work with more deliberation. he first looked for the kindling, which he had told sam he should find under the stove. it was there, and the wood-box was filled also. he moved the wood-box under the shelves that supported the dishes, piled the kindling-wood around it, and then, pulling out his bottle, threw the coal-oil upon it and upon the shelves and bulkhead. it was but the work of a moment more to light a match and apply it to the kindling, and in an instant the wood was in a blaze. "i think these fellows will find out what sort of a boy i am now," chuckled the captain of the crusoe band, as he made his way up the ladder. "this is the grandest idea i ever had, and i have carried it out, too. there'll be nothing left of the storm king in fifteen minutes." "hallo! boat--ship--i mean, man ahoy!" came the hail, breaking in upon his reverie, and scattering all his courage to the winds in an instant. it was well for tom that he was close to the rail, for, had he been discovered a few seconds sooner, his retreat would have been cut off, and he would have fallen into the hands of the students, who, in their rage, might have treated him very roughly. hearing the footsteps of the watch close behind him, he threw himself headlong over the rail and landed on his hands and knees in the skiff, which, in a moment more, was flying down the harbor with the speed of the wind. he heard the anchor-watch pronounce his name. he knew when the officer of the deck came forward, and he would have been willing to give any thing he possessed could he have been in a position to see the lieutenant's face and hear what he had to say about it. he knew when the order was given to lower the jolly-boat, and distinctly heard the rattle calling the crew to quarters. on the whole, he was well satisfied with what he had done. he had caused a great commotion among the students and thoroughly alarmed them, even if the fire he had kindled in the galley failed to destroy the yacht. "you had better hurry up, governor," said tom, with a calmness that astonished his companions. "that jolly-boat will be after us almost immediately." "give way, strong," commanded the chief. "cap'n, there's my hand. i have put you down fur a coward more 'n once since i made your acquaintance, but i confess that i didn't know any thing about you." tom accepted the governor's hand, and proudly listened to the congratulations of the crusoe men. he laughed when he thought how nicely and easily he had accomplished his work, snapped his fingers in the air, and acted altogether like one demented. he listened for the sounds of pursuit, and presently heard the measured dip of oars behind. "the jolly-boat is coming, sam," said he. "and there goes the fire-alarm," he added, as the yacht's bell began tolling rapidly. "they can't save her, for there's too much coal-oil in the galley. now, men, listen to me. when we reach the vessel xury will go to the wheel; jack spaniard will make the skiff fast to the stern; friday will cast off the line; and atkins and the governor will shove off. be lively, now, for the sooner we get out of newport the better it will be for us." the crusoe men were well aware of that fact, and tom's orders being strictly carried out, the sweepstakes was got under way very speedily. but, just as the wind filled the sails, and she began to move through the water, xury discovered their pursuers. "stand by, governor," he exclaimed. "here comes them spooneys." sam looked over the stern and saw the jolly-boat swiftly approaching the schooner. chapter xii. how it resulted. when the crew of the storm king saw the flames coming out of the fore-hatchway, and learned from the anchor watch that tom newcombe had turned up again, and that he had been on board the yacht, to carry out that "splendid idea" of which he had spoken, their amazement and indignation knew no bounds; and there was not one among them who would not willingly have given up all his chances for promotion, if he could have had that boy within reach of his arm for one minute. and when midshipman richardson, flying down the harbor in the jolly-boat, heard the fire-bell ring, and, looking over his shoulder, saw the smoke ascending from his vessel, he placed his hand on the cutlass which hung at his side, and told himself that, if he could only get one finger on the collar of tom newcombe's jacket, he would capture him or perish in the attempt. if tom had only known it, he had, at last, succeeded in thoroughly arousing the students. they had thus far treated him much more leniently than he deserved--not out of any love for him, but because of their respect and affection for his father; but now they had one and all resolved that he had done damage enough. he need not try to save himself by flight, for he could not do it. they would hunt him high and low, and they would find him, too; and when they got their hands on him, they would see that he did not escape the consequences of his last act. of course the students never said all this, for they were so busy that they did not have time to say any thing; but they were as determined about it, and as certain of each other's assistance, as though they had talked the matter over, and already decided upon a general plan of action. the first lieutenant had never in his life been more astonished and alarmed. that his evil genius should reappear again so suddenly, when every body believed him to be miles away, and that he should have the audacity to board the vessel, and set fire to her under the very noses of the anchor-watch, when he knew that the chances were not one in ten that he could escape detection, was almost incredible. harry could not understand it. it showed what a reckless, vindictive fellow tom newcombe was, and how determined he was, too, when he once made up his mind to any thing. "you've reached the end of your rope, my hearty," were the first thoughts that passed through harry's mind. "you've got to lead crusoe life now, sure, for you can never return to this village." then he stamped his foot on the deck, and looking impatiently down the harbor in the direction the jolly-boat had gone, exclaimed, aloud: "o, what shall i do? that villain has tied my hands, and i can't even pursue him. richardson, if you know what you are about you will not let him escape you this time." having succeeded in working off a little of his surplus indignation, the lieutenant seemed, for the first time, to realize that the fire-bell was ringing in his ears, that his little vessel was being slowly consumed before his eyes, and that his men were looking to him for orders. he had stood inactive on his quarter-deck not more than a minute, and during that time the men had been filing up from below, bringing their hammocks, which they stowed away in the nettings with as much care and precision as though they had just been called up to their morning's duties, instead of midnight fire-quarters. as fast as they disposed of their beds, they sprang to their stations, and presently the first lieutenant saw before him twenty young tars, some at the pumps, others at the fire-buckets, ready to pass the water when the word was given, a couple with axes in their hands, the boatswain's mate holding the nozzle of the hose, and all awaiting his commands. not a boy moved, and not an eye was turned from the first lieutenant, although the smoke began to rise in greater volume from the hatchway, showing that the fire was making rapid progress. naval discipline had been strictly carried out, and harry felt ashamed of himself when he reflected that he was the only one on board who had shown any signs of excitement. "fire in the galley!" shouted the lieutenant. "break down on that pump! pass up the water! mr. jackson, close the main hatch, and every other opening except the door of the galley." the sailors jumped at the word. the boatswain's mate dived through the smoke with the hose; the buckets began to fly along the lines; the boys at the pump came down manfully; and soon a furious hissing and steaming below told the first lieutenant that the water was pouring into the galley. harry fumed inwardly because he could not go down and use a bucket with the others. but his place was on deck, where he could see all that was going on, and could be readily found by his officers, in case they had any thing important to report. "i'm an unlucky fellow," said he, pacing nervously back and forth, and unconsciously making use of tom newcombe's favorite expression. "first, i was captured by a crew of pirates, who tried their best to sink me; i came near having my commission revoked because their leader escaped; and now i am set on fire! what could have possessed that fellow to come back here? where has he been? what has he been doing? where is he now? what is the prospect, mr. jackson?" he added, turning to the second lieutenant, who at that moment came up, all begrimmed with smoke and dirt, and drenched with water. "it is not very flattering, sir," was the reply. "the wind comes strong down the fore-hatch, and fans the flame." "shut the galley, and knock a hole through the door for the hose," said harry, promptly. "if the fire continues to gain headway, we must cut into the deck to give the buckets a chance. what will become of us if we lose the vessel, jackson?" "we're not going to lose her, sir," replied the lieutenant; and harry was greatly encouraged to hear him speak so confidently. "she will capture tom newcombe and his band of freebooters for us yet." jackson ran off to obey the orders of his superior, and the first lieutenant stopped the buckets (for, of course they could not be used when the galley door was closed), and waited impatiently for the next report. up to this time he had been so engrossed with his work, that he could not have told whether he was alone in the harbor or not; but now he was reminded of the fact that there were vessels all around him, and found that the storm king had suddenly become an object of interest to their crews. a yawl came alongside, and half a dozen men, armed with axes and buckets, sprang over the rail. they were led by an old, gray-headed sea captain, who, the moment he touched the deck, demanded in a voice that could have been heard above the roar of a hurricane: "who's master of this craft?" "i am in command, sir," replied the first lieutenant. "you!" exclaimed the old sailor, looking first at harry's uniform, and then toward the galley, taking in at one swift glance all the preparations that had been made for putting out the fire. "well, what have you done, little marline-spike?" "i've stopped the draft, and am throwing water on the fire as fast as i can." "if you want any help say the word. i've got a boat's crew here. if you've no objections, i'll just step down and take a squint at things. perhaps a few suggestions from an old fellow who has had two vessels burned under him in mid-ocean wouldn't come amiss." "o, no, sir," replied harry, gratefully. "i shall be glad to listen to your advice. it won't do to let this fire get started in the harbor." "it would ruin me," replied the captain. "that's my vessel over there, and she is all i have in the world. if i lose her, i shall be high and dry aground." harry did not wonder that the old sailor felt uneasy. he was so nervous himself that he could not stand still, and he became appalled when he thought of the possible consequences of tom newcombe's attempt to carry out his "splendid idea." he had placed a million dollars' worth of property in jeopardy, and all to satisfy an unreasonable grudge against his father, the students, and the principal of the academy. if the fire he had kindled in the galley of the storm king should spread to the shipping in front of mr. newcombe's elevator, tom might be revenged in a way he had not thought of. he had promised to raise a breeze in the village, that would lead the people there to believe that they had never known any thing about him, and he had succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations. the uneasiness was not confined to the crews of the vessels that were moored about the yacht--it began to spread through the town. mr. newcombe's night watchman, who had by this time been discovered and released, had found out that there was something unusual going on, and he was ringing the bell on the elevator, as if his life depended upon his arousing the village in the shortest possible space of time. then the alarm bells, and the big bell at the academy joined in, the fire engines rattled through the streets, men began to run about the wharves, and in a few minutes all newport was in commotion. some thought the town was on fire; but the flames had thus far been confined to the galley of the storm king, and, thanks to harry and his crew, they were likely to remain there. "what do you think of it, sir?" asked the first lieutenant, when the old sailor returned from the galley. "o, it's all right. i couldn't see much on account of the smoke; but there's no danger now if you keep the draft shut away from it." before harry could reply, another yawl dashed up alongside the yacht, and a second party of sailors clambered over the side, headed by a burly, red-whiskered man, who seemed to be in a terrible rage about something. "it beats the world what little sense some people have," said he, hurrying up to the old captain, who was standing beside harry. "the idea of giving a lot of little brats like these full charge of a vessel! i've had my eye on this craft ever since i've been in port. i've said a dozen times that she'd get us into trouble, sooner or later, and now my words are coming true. the whole harbor will be in a blaze in five minutes. peters," he added, turning to one of his men, "kick those young sea-monkeys out of the way, and put out that fire." harry overheard the order, and so did lieutenant jackson, who at that moment came up to report that the fire was being rapidly subdued. the former was willing to take advice and to receive assistance, but he was not the one to submit to any domineering, and he regarded the order as a most unwarrantable interference, and, if the red-whiskered sea captain had been of his own age, it is probable that he would have heard something. but the first lieutenant, angry as he was, did not forget the respect due to those older than himself. "captain," said he, mildly, "the galley is full of water, and there is no necessity--" "shut up!" was the polite rejoinder. "do you suppose that i am going to leave so dangerous a thing as fire to the management of a lot of little boys? go down there, peters." "mr. jackson, you will allow no one to interfere with you," said harry. "very good, sir," replied the lieutenant, who was in excellent fighting humor, like all the rest of the yacht's company. "i'll look for him." peters ran down the ladder to execute the orders of his captain. the first man he encountered was the boatswain's mate, who stood in front of the galley holding the nozzle through a hole in the door, and directing the stream of water upon the fire inside. "come, now, get out o' this!" roared peters, trying to push the young tar away from the door. "who are you? get out o' this yourself," replied the boatswain's mate. peters, seeing that the boy was not disposed to be driven away from his work, proceeded to carry out his orders to the very letter. his first move was to fasten with both hands into the collar of the mate's jacket and send him sprawling on the deck; his second, to throw open the door that led into the galley. as the apartment had been flooded with water, and the fire nearly drowned out, this did not endanger the little vessel as it would have done a few minutes before, but the mate was none the less angry. "well, douse my to'-gallant top-lights," he growled, "here's a go." "wheeler," shouted the second lieutenant, from the deck, "close that door at once." "no words, now," said peters, shaking his fist at jackson, "or you'll go overboard." "we'll see about that. stand by here, men!" the students swarmed around their officer, and peters began to believe that he had stirred up a hornets' nest. "i was sent down here to put out this fire," said he. "give me that nozzle." "i was sent down here for that same purpose," replied the boatswain's mate, "and i won't give up the hose. the fire is out, and now i am going to put you out." as he spoke he turned the nozzle full in the face of the intruder, an action which caused him to toss up his heels and measure his length on the wet deck. when he recovered his feet he thought no more of the fire, but made the best of his way up the ladder, followed by a stream of water from the hose. all these things happened in much less time than we have taken to describe them. it was probably not more than ten minutes from the time the first notes of the alarm were struck until the last spark of fire had been extinguished. in five minutes more the deck of the storm king had been cleared of the sailors, her anchor slipped, and she was standing down the harbor under a full press of canvas. as captain steele's military duties kept him ashore, harry was virtually the commander of the yacht, and, having authority to act in all emergencies like the present, he was not delayed in his operations by being obliged to ask instructions of his superior. he did just what he knew the captain or the principal would have done, had either of them been there--he started in hot pursuit of the incendiary, and was fully resolved to capture him before he returned. every thing seemed to indicate that there were stirring times ahead. sam barton, although he had but a small force at his command, was cunning and reckless, and harry was long-headed, fruitful in expedients, and determined. he was simply working to effect the capture of the young rogue who had tried to destroy his vessel, while the governor and his band were fighting for liberty. the contest promised to be an exciting one. "i have to report, sir, that the starboard watch is engaged in setting things to rights below, according to orders," said the second lieutenant, stepping up and saluting. "very good, sir," replied harry. then, dropping the officer, he inquired: "how does she look, jack?" "o, don't ask me. it makes me mad to think of it." "well," said harry, taking a good survey of his friend, who was as wet and begrimmed as a boy could be, "if she looks as bad as you do i don't want to see her." "she does, and worse. go down and look at her, harry, and then tell me if you think any punishment too severe for that fellow. but don't this night's work beat you?" "beat is no name for it; i am taken all aback. if any one had told me that tom newcombe was as reckless as he has shown himself to be, i should have laughed at him. what do you suppose he intends to do? where is he now?" "i wish i could tell you. we must hunt him up, and when we have captured him we can find out all we want to know." the second lieutenant went below to put on dry clothing, and harry walked forward to take a look at things. he found that ten minutes had made a great change in the appearance of his little vessel. the effects of the fire were visible on deck about the hatchway, and on the ladder that led below. the wood-work of the galley was charred and smoked; the furniture was scattered about over the floor and broken and battered; the stove was overturned; the water stood in little pools all over the floor, and, altogether, it presented so desolate an appearance that the lieutenant was sorry he had come down to look at it. "she isn't much like the neat little vessel of which i have been so proud," soliloquized harry, as he returned to the deck. "but i am thankful for one thing, and that is, her sailing qualities are not injured, and we can use them to bring that fellow to justice." then, turning to the officer of the deck, he instructed him to put two men on the forecastle with orders to keep a bright lookout for the jolly-boat, and also for a white skiff with a crew of half a dozen boys. meanwhile the jolly-boat flew down the harbor, propelled by two good oarsmen. midshipman richardson sat bolt upright in the stern sheets, examining each side of the harbor as well as he could through the darkness, and hoping it might be his good fortune to put "just one eye on that tom newcombe." he did not stop to consider that it was reported, by the anchor-watch, that tom was backed up by his old pirate crew, and that, if such was the case, he would have six desperate fellows to contend with. he cared nothing for the difference in numbers. he had but two companions, but he was sure that, having justice on his side, he could overcome all obstacles. "there's a boat right ahead, sir," said the bow oarsman. "i can hear it." "so can i," replied richardson. "give way, strong. remember, men, if we come up with tom newcombe i shall catch him and hold fast to him, and i want you to stand by to defend me with your cutlasses. do you understand?" "ay, ay, sir!" was the answer. "whatever we do must be done quickly," continued the young officer. "we can't hope to capture his whole crew, nor beat them in a fair fight. tom newcombe is the man we want, and, if i can once get my hands on him i can hold him, if you will keep the others off. bear in mind, men, that he set fire to our vessel." there was no danger that the young tars would forget that, for the strokes of the little bell continued to ring in their ears, and, as they passed along, they could hear the watch on board the vessel talking with each other and making inquiries about the fire. add to this the fact that they were trembling with anxiety for the safety of the yacht, and filled with apprehension lest tom's new plan should prove successful, and there was no fear but that his crime would be kept in remembrance. richardson went the entire length of the harbor without seeing any signs of the crusoe band. he could hear the boat just ahead of him, but he could not see it, for it was concealed from him by the darkness; neither could he gain on it an inch, although his crew worked at the oars until the perspiration ran in streams down their faces. at length, however, the jolly-boat reached the end of the pier, and the midshipman suddenly discovered something that filled him with excitement. it was a small schooner, which was slowly moving out into the harbor. at her stern was moored a white skiff. "there they are," whispered richardson. "give way strong." "hallo, here!" exclaimed a voice from the deck of the schooner. "boat ahoy!" the young officer made no reply. he grasped the tiller-ropes more firmly in his hands, and guided the jolly-boat under the stern of the schooner. chapter xiii. crusoe afloat again. the midshipman's desire to "get just one eye on that tom newcombe," was gratified now; for, as the jolly-boat rounded the stern of the schooner, and came alongside, he discovered the captain of the crusoe band leaning over the rail. "o, now, you had better keep off, if you don't want to get into trouble," he drawled. "all hands stand-by, to repel boarders." "way enough!" commanded richardson. "board with a loud cheer." "down with the 'cademy swells!" cried the governor, rushing frantically to the side, followed by his men. "pitch 'em overboard as fast as they come up!" but that was much easier said than done. the boat's crew whipped out their cutlasses, and when the chief saw the bright blades flashing before their eyes, he drew back, and wished for the spears he and his band had used during the attack on the yacht. the crusoe men all shrank away from the rail, for the actions of the students indicated that they were determined to board the schooner in spite of all opposition, and that they were quite as determined to use their weapons on the first one who came within their reach. a few flourishes of the cutlasses cleared the way for them, and before the governor could think twice, the young tars had gained a footing on the deck. "knock them down! throw them overboard!" exclaimed tom newcombe, retreating with all possible haste toward the forecastle, closely followed by the students. "o, now, keep your hands off, dave richardson, or i'll get even with you, some day." the midshipman, not in the least intimidated by the threat, held fast to tom's collar, which he had seized with a vice-like grasp, and dragged him toward the jolly-boat with one hand, while, in the other, he carried his cutlass, which he kept whistling through the air in a way that made the crusoe men give room with alacrity. close at his heels followed the boat's crew, ready to resist any attempt that might be made to rescue their captive. richardson hurried him across the deck, and the crusoe men, astonished at the audacity of their assailants, and afraid to trust themselves within reach of the gleaming cutlasses, stood in a group on the forecastle, not knowing what to do. tom struggled desperately for his freedom, sometimes planting his feet firmly on the deck, and pulling back with all his might; then trying to unclasp the strong fingers that were holding fast to his collar; but finding that his efforts were wholly in vain, he began to call lustily for assistance. "help! help!" he cried. "lend a hand, can't you? are you five fellows going to stand there and let three spooneys capture me?" these words aroused the governor, who now, for the first time, seemed to realize the fact that his crew outnumbered that of the enemy, two to one, and that it would be a cowardly piece of business to allow them to make a prisoner of one of his men, before his very eyes, and without a single effort on his part to rescue him. tom was the most valuable man in the band; and after assisting him through so many dangers, he could not afford to lose him now. "handspikes!" yelled the governor. "down with the 'cademy swells! knock 'em overboard!" the crusoe men rushed forward in a body, two of them armed with handspikes, two more with the oars that belonged to the skiff, and friday flourishing his favorite weapon, the boat-hook. the midshipman began to get excited and uneasy, but never wavered in his determination to take tom a prisoner to the storm king. "tumble into the boat, men," said he, hurriedly, "and stand by to catch this fellow." the oarsmen leaped over the rail, without stopping to look before them, and, to their no small amazement, found themselves struggling in the water. in the hurry and excitement of the attack, they had not thought of making the painter of the jolly-boat fast, and she had drifted astern of the schooner, which had all this while been in motion. but an unexpected bath in the harbor was no new thing to them, and they were quite as ready to carry on the fight in the water, as on the deck of the schooner. "pitch him over, sir," said simmonds, holding his cutlass in his teeth, and putting up his hands to receive the prisoner. "we'll catch him." "o, now, i'd just like to see you do it," drawled tom, seizing the rail with both hands and holding on with a death grip. "i won't stand no such treatment. let me alone, richardson!" if tom wanted to see himself thrown overboard, he was certainly accommodated; for the words were scarcely out of his mouth, when he flew through the air, and striking the water head-foremost, went down out of sight; and the midshipman, without waiting to see what had become of him, sprang over the rail, just in time to escape from the boat-hook, with which friday attempted to catch him by the collar. this movement created a great commotion among the crusoe men. they were astonished at the recklessness of the students, and feared that they were about to lose tom after all. like many others of their class, they had been accustomed to look upon a well-dressed, gentlemanly-appearing youth as an arrant coward. the term "spooney," which the night-hawks had used to designate a studious, well-behaved boy, meant, with sam and his crowd, a fellow who had neither strength nor courage; but they had learned that the word, as applied to the students, was not exactly correct. they had discovered that good clothes, strong muscles, and reckless bravery go together sometimes; and that the crew of the jolly-boat, although they were young gentlemen, were antagonists not to be despised. the governor stood for a moment, looking over the rail and watching the fight that was going on in the water--for tom still kept up a furious resistance--and then called out: "xury, go to the wheel an' throw the schooner up into the wind; an' the rest of us man the skiff. let go tommy's collar, spooney, or i'll chuck this handspike at you!" "help! help!" roared tom, who was being pulled through the water toward the jolly-boat. "release me at once, dave richardson! hit him, sam." the chief made a desperate effort to strike the young officer, but the latter was just out of reach. then sam raised the handspike, and was about to throw it at the midshipman, but lowered it again, when he took a second look, and saw that he was likely to hit one as the other. he hurried off to assist his men who were hauling the skiff alongside, and then began a most exciting contest for the possession of the prisoner. richardson's object was to escape with him, and the governor's to rescue him. the officer and one of his men held fast to tom, and simmonds, who was an excellent swimmer, struck out for the jolly-boat, hoping to return with her and pick up his companions before the crusoe band could man the skiff. the governor saw and understood the move, and resolved to defeat it. if the students succeeded in getting tom into their boat, sam's chances for recovering his man would be very slim indeed. "hurry, fellers!" he exclaimed, excitedly. "can't you see what them spooneys are up to? man the oars, will atkins an' jack spaniard," he added, as his crew sprang into the skiff, "an' give way fur dear life." just as the skiff was shoved off from the schooner, simmonds climbed into the jolly-boat, and catching up the oars, pulled swiftly to the assistance of his companions. he was nearer to them than the crusoe men, but atkins and jack spaniard were good oarsmen, and they came out ahead in the race. "keep away from here, spooney!" exclaimed friday, shaking his boat-hook at simmonds, as the skiff dashed up to the struggling captain of the crusoe band, "'taint safe to come no nearer." "now, then," cried the chief, seizing the midshipman by the collar, and plunging his head under the water, "i reckon you'll turn tommy loose, won't you?" the students, knowing that it was useless to contend longer against such heavy odds, released their prisoner, and dived out of sight to escape the savage blows which atkins and jack spaniard aimed at them with the oars. tom was dragged into the skiff by the governor, who ordered the band back to the schooner; and the midshipman, after being picked up by simmonds, took his seat in the stern of the jolly-boat, and directed her course up the harbor. he had made a gallant attack upon a superior force of the enemy, and had succeeded in capturing one of them; but he had got the worst of the fight in the end, his prisoner had been rescued, and now the only thing he could do was to report the state of affairs to his superior officer. "i am sorry that we are obliged to let them go," drawled tom, as he sprang upon the deck of the schooner, and saw the jolly-boat disappearing in the darkness. "i'd like to have them prisoners long enough to pay them for the ducking they gave me. friday, drop the skiff astern. fill away, xury, and hold for the head of the island. atkins, are you sailor enough to loose those gaff top-sails?" "i reckon," was the reply. "well, go aloft, then, and do it. governor, you and jack spaniard hoist the flying jib. we have need of all the rags we can spread, now." in a few minutes every inch of canvas the sweepstakes carried had been given to the breeze, and the little vessel boomed along over the waves at a terrific rate. the topmasts bent and cracked, the foam rolled away in great masses from under her bows, and now and then a fierce gust of wind would fill the sails, and the schooner would roll down until she seemed on the point of capsizing. her captain, no longer the coward he was when he accompanied mr. graves on the trial trip of the storm king, stood holding fast to the rail, and looking back toward the harbor. he knew that the fire-bells would soon arouse the town, that the news of the robbery and the destruction of the yacht would spread like wild-fire, and that the pursuit would not be long delayed. he wanted a good start in the race; and he would have spread all the canvas if the wind had been blowing a gale. "we've got a long voyage to make, you know, skipper," said the chief, "an' we must be careful of our vessel." "but when we are in danger we must get all that we can out of her," replied tom. "hold her to it, xury, don't luff an inch. if she can't stand this breeze, we've no business to go to sea in her. but i don't discover any signs of the fire yet, do you sam?" "no, i don't. mebbe them swells have put it out." "o, now, they haven't, either," drawled tom, who could not be persuaded to believe that his "splendid idea" had failed, after all the trouble and danger he had incurred to make it successful. "they couldn't put it out--there was too much coal-oil in the galley. she must be entirely consumed by this time; but, if i thought she wasn't, i should be tempted to go back and try it again." "there come them spooneys, cap'n," shouted xury, from his place at the wheel. tom looked toward the village, and could just distinguish the dim outlines of a vessel which was coming out of the harbor, and appeared to be following in the schooner's wake. the thought that it was the storm king had scarcely passed through his mind, when his mate continued: "we've wasted a heap of good time in helping you carry out your idea. you had oughter done your work well, while you were at it. that's the sloop you tried to burn." "o, now, you don't know what you are talking about," drawled tom. "i reckon i do. i can tell the storm king as fur as i can see her. friday, bust open the door of the cabin, an' bring up the 'squire's spy-glass." friday went forward after a handspike, and tom leaned his elbows on the rail and watched the approaching vessel. the thought that this last grand idea of his would share the fate of all his splendid schemes, had never once entered his head. he had been certain that it would prove successful--he did not see how it could be otherwise; but now he was convinced that it had failed, for he had examined the yacht so often and so closely, that he knew the exact shape of every sail and rope on her, and it did not require the aid of the 'squire's spy-glass to satisfy him that the vessel following in his wake was the one he had tried to destroy. he knew it was the storm king. no other sloop of that size about the village could sail so swiftly, or ride the waves so gracefully. even while he leaned over the rail, so filled with rage and disappointment that he could scarcely breathe, he could not help saying to himself, as he had done a hundred times before, that she was the prettiest object in the shape of a vessel that he had ever seen. and now to think that he must go away from newport, and leave her in the hands of his rival! he would never have another opportunity to try any of his splendid ideas on her; and while he was wandering about the world, a fugitive from justice, harry green would remain in the village, surrounded with friends, beloved and respected by all who knew him, and, worse than all, first lieutenant of the storm king. it was some time before the captain of the crusoe band could realize all this; but when he did, he was so nearly beside himself that he would not have cared a grain if the schooner had foundered at that moment, carrying all hands, himself included, to the bottom. "o, now, did any body in this world ever see or hear of so unlucky a boy as i am?" yelled tom, stamping his foot on the deck, and fairly trembling with anger. "i never can do any thing like other fellows, for something is forever happening to bother me. another of my grand ideas has ended in smoke! the yacht is above water yet. i wish she would capsize. go away with your spy-glass, friday. what do i want with a spy-glass, when i know it is the storm king?" "what did i tell you, cap'n?" said xury. "o, now, i want you to hush up!" shouted tom, placing his hands on the rail, and jumping up and down as if he were about to precipitate himself into the waves. "don't speak to me; don't any body dare speak to me. i am a desperate man; and if you don't look out, i'll--i'll--i've the greatest notion in the world to jump overboard." "there's the yawl, an' i can see them two bugglars standin' by it," said atkins. he addressed himself to the governor, not deeming it safe to speak to tom, who showed an alarming disposition to break things. he had caught up a handspike, and was swinging it around his head, glaring fiercely at his companions as if he had half a mind to strike one of them; but, thinking better of it, he turned and brought the handspike down upon the rail with such force that the little vessel fairly trembled under the blow. the governor stood off at a safe distance and looked at him, hoping that his rage would soon subside, and that he would give his attention to his duties. but tom continued to beat the rail with the handspike, now and then stopping to look at the yacht, which seemed to be rapidly falling behind. "be you gone clean crazy?" sam ventured to ask, at length. "no, i haven't!" shouted tom. "i wish i had about twenty good men; i would board that yacht and make sure work of her. i'd cut a hole through her bottom, and i'd stay by her and watch her until she had sunk completely out of sight. then i'd like to see harry green get her again." "we've got to stop here fur the yawl an' them bugglars," suggested the chief. "well, get a crew ready to man the skiff," said tom, throwing down the handspike after hitting the rail one more blow harder than all the rest. "you will take charge of the skiff, governor, and tow the yawl out to us. we'll make her fast alongside, and take the outfit aboard as we go along. tell those robbers that if they want to sail with us, they can get into the skiff. be in a hurry, now, for we haven't a single instant to lose." when the skiff had been hauled alongside, the schooner was thrown up into the wind, and sam and two of his men pulled for the island. although they used all possible haste, a good deal of precious time was consumed in towing out the yawl; and when she had been brought alongside, and the sweepstakes was ready to fill away again, the storm king was half way across the bay. during this time the schooner had made considerable lee-way, having drifted past the head of the island. this was something tom had not calculated upon; and, so busy was he in brooding over his disappointment, that he did not notice it, until it was too late to prevent it. it had been his intention to run down the north shore, where he could get the full benefit of the breeze; but he was afraid to attempt it now, for the yacht was rapidly approaching, and, if he rounded the head of the island again, he would, of course, be obliged to sail directly toward her. this was something he did not like to do, for he was already as close to the sloop and her angry crew as he cared to be. the only course left him was to follow the south shore, which he did; and in a few minutes he had left the yacht out of sight behind the island. "let that skiff go adrift," commanded the skipper, as soon as the schooner was fairly under-way. "we can't afford to have any dead weights dragging after us now. governor, turn to with the rest of the hands and pass up the outfit. as we are in something of a hurry," he added, turning to the robbers, "perhaps you gentlemen will lend us a hand." the "gentlemen" declared themselves willing to do any thing; and, with their assistance, the outfit was soon taken on board, and stowed away in the cabin; after which the yawl was also turned adrift, and the sweepstakes, with nothing to retard her progress, bounded merrily on her way. "hurrah for us, skipper!" cried the governor, joyfully, "we're off now. after three months hard work, we've got fairly started for our island. who cares for them spooneys in the yacht? we've got a swift vessel, an' we can show 'em a pretty pair of heels." the chief was as gay and jubilant as tom was vexed and disappointed. chapter xiv. the phantom schooner. the governor was now as certain that he would see crusoe's island as he was that he was at that moment standing on the deck of the sweepstakes. what was there to prevent it? the worst obstacles in his way, the only ones, in fact, of which he had stood in fear, had been overcome. the schooner had been captured, the provisions secured, he had assisted tom in his mad scheme for destroying the yacht, and made good his retreat, and now he was fairly out of the harbor with a swift vessel under his feet, propelled by a strong and favorable breeze, his pursuers a mile behind, and losing ground every moment. the prospect was certainly encouraging. the chief had told tom that the sweepstakes could show the yacht a pretty pair of heels, and no doubt, in a fair trial of speed, she would have done so, for she was a much larger vessel than the sloop, and carried nearly twice as much canvas. but the governor forgot that the race is not always to the swift, and that the yacht had a decided advantage in being handled by a captain who understood his business. harry green was an excellent sailor for a boy of his age, and he was backed up by a crew who had been his competitors at the examination, and consequently they were almost as well posted as he was, and quite competent to offer advice if he needed it, while tom had no one to consult, his men being as ignorant as himself. the first lieutenant knew what the sweepstakes could do in the way of sailing, and he was well aware of the fact that if he expected to capture the governor and his crew he must depend more upon strategy than upon the speed of his vessel. by the time the fight between the midshipman and the crusoe men was ended, the storm king had been got under way and was standing down the harbor. the first lieutenant, having just come out of the galley, was thoughtfully pacing his quarter-deck, where he was presently joined by jackson, who looked none the worse for his battle with the fire. of course the exciting events of the night came up for discussion. the young officers expressed unbounded astonishment at tom's audacity, and tried in vain to determine what new idea he had got into his head. they were completely in the dark, and there they remained until they picked up the jolly-boat and her crew, and midshipman richardson, drenched in body and exceedingly uncomfortable in mind, came aft to report the failure of his attempt to capture the incendiary. he told his story in a few words, adding a piece of information that increased harry's astonishment, and made him believe, with johnny harding, that wonders would never cease. "i saw mr. newcombe's night watchman on the wharf as i was coming back, sir," said richardson, "and from him i learned that mr. henry's safe has been blown open and robbed of seven thousand dollars. it was done by two strangers--professional burglars undoubtedly--and they were afterward joined by sam barton and his band of rascals, who carried off a quantity of provisions." "where was the watchman, that he did not give the alarm?" asked harry. "the robbers knocked him down, and bound and gagged him, before they went into the store," replied the midshipman. "they also made a prisoner of johnny harding, one of them holding a revolver to his head while the other tied him. but the funny part of the story is, that the governor is to receive a thousand dollars for taking the robbers to sea. sam and tom still have crusoe's island on the brain, according to my way of thinking, and are starting off to hunt it up." the first lieutenant was now satisfied of this fact himself. he dismissed the midshipman after listening to his story, and turned to consult with jackson. "i wish that tom had taken some other vessel," said he, after they had talked the matter over, "the sweepstakes runs like lightning, and if she was in charge of a sailor, i should never expect to see her. my only hope is that newcombe will commit some blunder. if he does, we've got him. he can't escape, for all the tugs in the harbor will be after him as soon as they can raise steam; but i wish it might be our good fortune to capture him, alone and unaided. if we catch the whole band we'll recover the money, you know. instruct the officer of the deck to have a bright lookout kept for the sweepstakes." scarcely had this order been issued, when one of the lookouts, who had learned the particulars of the fight from the boat's crew, came aft to report that a schooner, which looked very much like the sweepstakes, was standing across the bay toward the head of the island. the officer of the deck went forward to examine the vessel through his glass, and came back to harry with the information that the pirate was in plain sight. during the next quarter of an hour the first lieutenant stood on the forecastle, watching the movements of the schooner, and turning over in his mind various plans for her capture. when he saw her stop to pick up the yawl and the burglars, he called his crew to quarters, and made every preparation for boarding her. "if tom knows any thing," said he to jackson, "he will come back and go down on this side of the island; and if he tries that, we may be able to cut him off." "but he's not going to try it, sir," said the second lieutenant, who was watching the schooner through his glass. "he is standing down the other side." "is he?" exclaimed harry, eagerly; "so much the better. i was sure he could not take that vessel far, without making some mistake. we will go down on this side of the island and meet him. we shall reach the foot before he does, for he will have to go a long distance out of his way to avoid the shoals. if we can only catch him in the narrows, between the foot of the island and the main shore, he is our prize. we'll board him, and have a regular hand-to-hand fight with him." harry, highly elated at the prospect of a conflict with the pirates, held on his course until the schooner was out of sight behind the trees on the island, and then put the storm king before the wind, and stood down for the narrows. the crew all understood the meaning of this maneuver, and, although nothing was said to indicate the fact, harry knew that they were intensely excited. he was quite as badly off as the rest in this respect, and it required the exercise of all his self-control to maintain his dignity. the first lieutenant thought the island must have grown immensely since he last sailed around it. the mile that lay between him and the narrows seemed to have lengthened into five. the yacht appeared to him to be on her bad behavior also, but that was only harry's imagination, for she was doing splendidly, although she did not move more than half fast enough to suit her eager and impatient crew. the minutes flew by, and at last the storm king rounded the foot of the island. a half a dozen glasses were instantly brought into requisition, and to the immense relief of the crew, nothing could be seen of the schooner. the yacht flew along the edge of the shoals, and in ten minutes more entered the narrows and shaped her course toward the head of the island. "now, here's the place," said the first lieutenant. "if we meet him coming down we'll run up and board him before he can round to. where is he, i wonder?" the students were all on the watch, every eye being turned in the direction from which the pirate was expected to appear, and harry nearly jumped from the deck when one of the crew sang out: "sail, ho! straight ahead, and coming down like the wind." "it's the schooner!" exclaimed the lieutenant, in an excited voice. "i believe it is," replied harry, springing upon the rail to obtain a better view of the approaching craft. "now i know it is. station a man at the rattle, mr. jackson, and see that the crew are all in their places. i've got you now, tom newcombe!" "are you going to run him aboard, sir?" "i am, indeed, if i get the chance." "humph! he seems to forget that there are two desperate villains on board that vessel, and that they are armed with revolvers," muttered the second lieutenant, under his breath. "we'll have a chance now to see how it feels to face loaded weapons." jackson thought his superior was becoming very reckless, but that did not prevent him from hurrying off to execute his commands. he sent another man to the wheel; stationed a midshipman in the waist to pass the first lieutenant's orders; placed one of the crew at the rattle; and collected the boarders in a group on the forecastle. harry, from his perch on the rail, watched all that was going on, and, having seen the crew stationed to his satisfaction, he turned to look at the schooner. he found that if he had got tom newcombe, he was likely to lose him again, for the latter had kept his eyes open, and the moment he discovered the yacht he put his vessel about, and prepared to show harry her heels. the maneuver was so clumsily executed, however, that the storm king approached very near to her before she could fill away on her course again--so near that her bow was abreast of the schooner's waist, and only about ten feet from her. every thing had worked as harry thought it would if he met the pirate there, and he was sure of his prize. "hard a port," he shouted, so excited that he scarcely knew what he was about. "stand by, mr. jackson." "o, now, you had better mind what you are doing over there, harry green!" cried tom, from the deck of the schooner. "you'll get the worst of it if you run foul of us." "we're after you pirates," replied harry, "and we're bound to have you. you had better surrender at once." "surrender!" repeated the governor, "not much we won't. we aint them kind of fellers. we're goin' to fight as long as a plank of this yere vessel stays above water. mind that, spooneys." the actions of the pirate crew fully confirmed the words of their chief. they rushed to the starboard side of the deck, flourishing handspikes, oars, and boat-hooks, evidently determined to make a desperate struggle for their liberties, and among them harry could see the two burglars, one of whom was holding fast to the valise that contained mr. henry's money. the young tars saw the war-like preparations, and they saw the robbers, too, and knew that they were more to be feared than all the crusoe band. it was no boy's play to face revolvers in the hands of such characters, but not one of the crew would have hesitated an instant, had the order been given to board the schooner. they saw tom newcombe there, and they could not forget that he had tried to burn the storm king. they crouched behind the rail like so many tigers, ready for a spring, grasping their cutlasses, pikes, and muskets, and waiting for harry to lay the yacht alongside the pirate, when they would leap over the rail and capture every one of their enemies, or drive them into the bay. "port it is, sir," said the quartermaster, in response to harry's order. the yacht and the schooner were rushing through the water, side by side, like a couple of race horses on the home stretch, the pirate being about half a length ahead; but, when harry's order was obeyed, the storm king fell off and swung toward the schooner, and the first lieutenant expected every instant to see the two vessels come in contact. so certain was he that such would be the case, that he held fast to the shrouds, to avoid being knocked overboard by the shock, and had even opened his lips to shout: "boarders away!" when the sweepstakes drew rapidly ahead and bounded on her course, leaving the yacht still swinging around as if she were about to start down the narrows again. a murmur of disappointment and indignation arose from the young tars on the forecastle, who looked first at their officer, and then at the rapidly receding schooner, as if they did not quite understand how she had escaped. harry felt a good deal as did tom newcombe when he discovered the yacht coming out of the harbor, but he did not act as foolishly, by any means. he told the second lieutenant to come about and pursue the schooner, and then sprang down from the rail, saying: "did you ever see such luck? did i make any mistake, jackson?" "no, indeed. you handled the yacht all right, but see, the pirate has longer legs than we have. isn't she a trotter? she can run away from us, and not half try." "i believe she can," replied the first lieutenant, who felt considerably crest-fallen over his defeat, and did not care to say much. "we will keep as close as possible to tom, and be ready to take advantage of his next mistake. he'll be sure to make one presently." harry stood on his quarter-deck watching the pirate, and not more than ten minutes elapsed before he began to think that he knew what he was talking about when he predicted that her skipper would soon commit another blunder. both vessels had by this time passed the shoals--the sweepstakes being so far ahead that harry could but just make her out through the darkness; but, instead of holding up the harbor and keeping far enough away from the bluffs to feel the full force of the wind, tom rounded the shoals, and shaped the schooner's course toward the island. the first lieutenant was quite as much astonished as delighted at this apparent want of foresight on the part of the pirate captain, but he made no remark. he held on his way until the schooner was out of sight in the darkness, and then he tacked and ran toward the island. "what do you think, jackson," asked harry, whose spirits were now as exalted as they had before been depressed; "hasn't he run into a nice trap? we've got him this time." "yes, he's caught easy enough now. he has no chance for escape that i can see. the shoals are on one side of him, and we all know that he can't cross them; the island is in front of him, and i am quite sure he can't get over that; we are behind him, and if he tries to come out we can cut him off. he's caught, sir." harry was certain of it. he ordered the crew to their stations once more, and went forward with his glass to watch for the schooner. the storm king was headed toward the point where the shoals joined the island, and the first lieutenant was sure that when tom became alarmed, and tried to run out, he could not pass by on either side without being discovered and cut off. he could not imagine what made him go in there. if he was trying to dodge the yacht, he was certainly going about it in a very awkward manner. a few minutes more passed, and harry began to wonder why he did not see the schooner. she could not go much farther in that direction without being dashed upon the shoals, and tom must soon round to and come out, if he wished to save his vessel. the roar of the breakers grew louder and louder as the yacht approached them, and the waves dashed and foamed over the ledge, just as they had done when the crusoe men braved their fury two hours before. they were now getting quite as close to them as some of the students cared to go. even jackson became a little uneasy, and, although like all the rest of the crew, he kept a bright lookout for the sweepstakes, he now and then glanced anxiously toward the first lieutenant, who, perched upon the rail, was turning his glass in every direction, fully conscious of their dangerous proximity to the breakers, but more interested, just then, in the fate of the schooner than in any thing else. "look here, mr. jackson," he exclaimed suddenly, "tom had better come out of that. he'll be cast away as sure as he is a foot high." the second lieutenant thought it very probable that the storm king would be cast away also, if her commander did not mind what he was about; but, like a good officer, he said nothing. he knew that harry was a better sailor than he was--he must have been, or he would not have held a higher rank; that he was quite as deeply in love with the yacht as any of the crew, and that he would not willingly run her into any danger from which he could not extricate her. but still the breakers roared loudly and looked dangerous, and the second lieutenant wished the vessel well away from them. "what do you suppose tom newcombe is trying to do?" continued harry, excitedly. "no boy with his senses about him would take a vessel like the sweepstakes in there. anyhow, we have the satisfaction of knowing that if he isn't wrecked he can't get away from us. he is penned up, cornered, caught. what shall we do with him when we capture him? throw him overboard?" the yacht was still bounding toward the shoals with all the speed that stiff breeze could give her, and just as harry ceased speaking, the bluffs on the island loomed up through the darkness. the shore for two hundred yards was plainly visible, and anxious eyes examined it closely, but nothing could be seen of the schooner. the students were utterly bewildered. they looked at one another, then along the shore again, but not a sign of a sail could they discover. the pirate schooner had disappeared as completely as though she had never been in the harbor at all. "come about, mr. jackson," said harry, as calmly as though the long line of foaming, hissing breakers before him had been a mile away, instead of almost under the vessel's bows. his mind was so fully engrossed with the mysterious disappearance of the schooner, that he could think of nothing else. where could she have gone? was a question he asked himself more than once while the storm king was coming about. she could not have slipped by him, dark as it was, for there had been too many pairs of sharp eyes looking out for that. she could not have gone over the island, and she might as well have tried that as to attempt the passage of the shoals. she certainly had not been dashed in pieces on the rocks, for, in that case, he would have heard the noise of the collision and the cries of the crew, and, besides, he would have seen the wreck. harry did not know what to make of it. "wheeler," said he, turning to the boatswain's mate, who happened to be standing near him, "what do you think of this?" "well, sir," replied the young tar, touching his cap and hitching up his trowsers, "i was just wondering if it _was_ a schooner at all. she may be a small edition of the flying dutchman, sir." if harry had been superstitious he would have thought so too. the schooner's disappearance was so mysterious, so sudden, so unexpected! just at the moment when the crew of the storm king were waiting for the order to board her, she had vanished, and no one could tell where she had gone. the first lieutenant knew many an old sailor who, had he been on board the yacht at that moment, would have solemnly affirmed that they had been pursuing a phantom. chapter xv. tom has another idea. "yes, sir," repeated the governor of the crusoe band, in a tone of great satisfaction, "we're off fur our island at last. them spooneys will never trouble you any more, cap'n. you're safe from johnny harding, an' i'm safe from mr. grimes, bobby jennings, an' all the rest of 'em. hurrah fur us!" tom stood leaning over the schooner's rail, watching the storm king, which was rapidly fading from his view, and thinking, not of johnny harding, but of the failure of his grand idea. he would not have been greatly disappointed if he had known that he should never see crusoe's island. he had, of course, expected that when he should be comfortably settled in some remote corner of the world, far away from all the troubles and vexations that had made his life in newport so miserable, he would realize his idea of supreme felicity; but one element in his happiness was to be the satisfaction of knowing that he had carried out his threat, and "squared yards" with every body; that he had destroyed the storm king; that he had rendered the naval commission, in which harry green took so much pride and delight, perfectly useless to him, and that he had taken ample revenge upon his father and upon the principal of the military academy. with such thoughts as these to console him, tom imagined that he would be perfectly content to pass the remainder of his days on some desert island, even in the company of such uncongenial fellows as sam barton and his men; but now he knew that could not be. his splendid scheme had failed. the yacht was still right side up, as swift and as handsome as ever, and as sound as a dollar, in spite of the charred and smoked wood-work in her galley. that was enough to banish all tom's hopes of happiness. he could not enjoy a moment's peace of mind as long as the storm king remained above water. he was a disappointed boy--an unlucky, ill-used, and unappreciated boy, too--whose life must henceforth be a desert and a blank. no more sport, no more enjoyment for him, and all because of that one unkind act of his father's. this was the way the captain of the crusoe band reasoned with himself as he leaned over the rail, gazing through the darkness toward the spot where he had last seen the yacht, and that was the way he would have told his story to any stranger who he thought would sympathize with him; but if such sensible fellows as johnny harding, harry green, and bill steele had been consulted, they would have shown tom up in a different kind of light altogether. they would have cleared mr. newcombe, and placed all the blame right where it belonged--upon tom's own shoulders. they would have described the home and surroundings of this "boy of bad habits"--this "rolling stone"--who had gone from one thing to another in search of that which none of us find in this world--freedom from care and trouble--and would have proved that he ought to have been one of the happiest boys in newport. they would have told that his sole object in life had been to avoid every thing that looked like work, and to establish himself in some easy, pleasant business, that would run along smoothly, without the least exertion on his part. they would have described him as a boy utterly wanting in firmness of purpose, except when he got one of his grand ideas into his head, and then he was as unreasonable and obstinate as a mule. they would have said that his numerous failures had not taught him wisdom, but had made him more determined; that he would not listen to any one's advice, and that he clung with bull-dog tenacity to his favorite belief that "nobody could teach him." and they would have come, at last, to the inevitable consequences of such a life as tom had been leading, and told how he had been going down hill all this while, until he had at last got so low that no boy who had the least respect for himself could associate with him; that he was the leader of a band of rascals, the companion of burglars, a fugitive from justice, and one of the most miserable and despised of human beings. tom could not help acknowledging to himself that such was his condition, but he clung to the idea that it was not his fault. his father was responsible for it all. "if he had only given me that yacht, as he ought to have done," tom had said to himself twenty times that night, "things would have been very different. i could have paid him back his four hundred dollars in a week or two, and after that every cent i earned would have been clear profit. but now--just look at me! i won't stand no such treatment from any body, and that's all about it." "what's the row now, cap'n?" asked the governor. "o, i was thinking about that yacht," drawled tom. "and, talkin' about her, too," returned sam; "i heard what you said. this is a hard world, tommy, that's a fact. the lucky ones go up, an' the onlucky ones go down. life's nothing but luck, nohow." "well, if that's the case," whined tom, "what is the use of a fellow's exerting himself at all? if it is his lot to go ahead in the world, he will, and if it isn't, he won't, and all the working and planning he can do will not better his condition in the least." "exactly! sartinly! that's just my way of thinkin' to a dot; an' every thing goes to prove that i am right. now, me an' you were born to be poor--to go down hill; an' your father was born to be rich--to go up hill. haven't you tried hard to be somebody?" "o, now, yes i have!" "i know it. i never in my life saw a feller that tried harder, an' what's the reason you didn't succeed? 'cause you are onlucky. it aint your lot to go up hill. you might work an' scheme, an' try your level best, till you are as old as your grandfather, but it wouldn't do you no arthly good, whatsomever. now, just look at your father! he's one of the lucky ones. every thing he touches turns to money to onct. he needn't do no work if he don't want to. he can set back on his easy chair an' read his paper, an' the cash comes pourin' in so fast that he has to hire a man to take care of it. now, i ask, why is it? it's his lot; that's the reason, an' he aint no better'n i be, neither. things aint fixed right, nohow, 'cordin' to my way of thinkin'." tom was not overburdened with common sense, but he was not foolish enough to believe in sam barton's doctrine. he knew that it is the industrious, prudent, and persevering who go up hill, and the lazy and worthless who go down. he knew that his father had made many a long voyage as a common sailor, and a good many more as captain, and worked hard for years with hand and brain before he could "set back in his easy chair" and read his newspaper during business hours. but he was quite ready to agree with the governor when he said that "things were not fixed right" in this world. tom was quite sure they were fixed wrong. he had tried so hard, and had been so certain of success! if his plans had not all failed so miserably, he would have been a happy and prosperous trader, and the owner of the finest little sloop about the village, instead of a captain in the crusoe band. he could not see that he had made any mistakes in refusing to listen to the advice so often given him. the blame rested entirely with his father. tom was a very unhappy boy, and the only consolation he could find was in the thought that, by this nights work, he was severely punishing his father. mr. newcombe would, of course, hear all the particulars of the robbery, and of the attempted destruction of the yacht, and then he would regret that he had not paid more attention to his son's wishes. but it would be too late. the ill-used one would be miles at sea before morning, and he would never again return to newport as long as he lived. tom told himself that he was resolved upon that; but, after all, he did go back, and perhaps we shall see how he looked when he got there. all this while the schooner had been bounding along the south shore of the island, headed toward the narrows. xury was still at the wheel, tom and the governor were standing at the head of the companion-ladder, the rest of the crusoe men were gathered on the forecastle, and the robbers were leaning over the rail in the waist, looking down into the water, and conversing in low tones. the governor had been so busy since they came on board the schooner that he had scarcely spoken to them, but now he left tom (who had again fallen into one of his meditative moods) to scrape an acquaintance with them. the burglars were so deeply engrossed in discussing their affairs that they did not hear the sound of sam's footsteps, and he approached within a few feet of them without being discovered. so close was he to them, indeed, that he could catch every word of their conversation. he had not thought of playing the part of eaves-dropper, but he found that they were talking about the thousand dollars they had promised to pay the crusoe men for taking them to sea, and something that was said brought sam to a stand-still. "you were not in earnest when you made that offer, were you?" he heard one of the robbers ask. "yes, i was. i thought there were some men in the party, and that we could afford to pay them well for passage on board their vessel; but i see they are all boys, and we can give them the money or not, just as we please." "it would be a foolish piece of business to throw away a thousand dollars, after coming so far, and working so hard for it." "i know that, and i don't intend to do it. they seem to understand managing a vessel pretty well, and they may succeed in taking us to a place of safety. if they do, we'll step ashore and let them whistle for their money." "but won't they make a fuss?" "who cares if they do? haven't we both got revolvers?" "well, now, if this yere don't beat all the world," soliloquized the governor, who could scarcely believe that he had heard aright. he stood for a moment as motionless as if he had been nailed to the deck, looking the very picture of astonishment and alarm; then he shook his head threateningly, moved quietly across to the other side, and settled into a comfortable position, to think the matter over. since the robbers made him that offer, the thousand dollars had never once been out of his mind. in his eyes it was an immense fortune, and he would have been willing to do almost any thing in his power to obtain possession of it. he already regarded the money as his own, and he had laid his plans for the disposal of it. he would not trust it in the hands of the treasurer of the band, but would take charge of it himself. he would invest a portion of it in weapons, fishing-tackle, clothing, powder, shot, and other articles they needed to complete their outfit, and with the remainder he would purchase provisions. he had never dreamed that the burglars would refuse to live up to their promise, but he had heard enough of their conversation to satisfy him that they would bear watching. sam thought they were the meanest men he had ever heard of. "i won't give up the money," said the governor, striking his fist upon the rail to give emphasis to his words; "that's just all about it. they promised to give it to me if i would take them out to sea, and they sha'n't go off this vessel till i have it in my hands. if they won't stick to their bargain, like men had oughter do, i must find some way to make 'em. step this way a minute, skipper. what do you think them two bugglars are doin'?" he added, in a scarcely audible whisper, glancing toward his passengers, who were still leaning over the rail. "they're layin' their plans to swindle us out of our money!" "no!" exclaimed tom, who had also built his hopes high upon that thousand dollars, and could not bear the thought of losing it. "it's a fact. i heard them talkin' about it." "o, now, did any body ever hear of such luck?" drawled the captain, stamping his foot impatiently upon the deck, and twisting his mouth on one side as if he had half a mind to cry. "i don't see how i can stand another disappointment to-night. that money would have bought so many things we really need! what did they say, sam?" the governor repeated the conversation he had overheard as nearly as he could recall it, and when he had finished his story tom thrust his hands into his pockets and thoughtfully paced the deck. sam watched him closely, and when he saw the captain's face brighten up, and the scowl disappear from his forehead, his hopes rose again. "what is it, skipper?" he asked. "i've got another idea," replied tom, excitedly. "we want that money, don't we?" "of course we do, an' we're bound to have it, if we can get it. there ain't a single dollar in the treasury. i'd like to punish them fellers, too, fur bein' so mean as to think of cheatin' us." "well, we can do it," said tom, mysteriously. "sam," and here he approached the governor, and placed his lips close to his ear--"i can't see the use of being satisfied with a thousand dollars when we can just as well have more." "more!" echoed the governor; "more'n a thousand dollars?" "don't talk so loud. we've got just as much right to the money in the valise as those robbers have; don't you think so?" "i reckon i do. it don't belong to nary one of us." "well, let's take it." "what! all of it--the whole five thousand dollars?" "yes, every cent of it." the governor staggered back against the rail and looked at tom without speaking. he had, by this time, become well acquainted with the captain, and when the latter declared that he had another idea, sam was prepared to listen to something desperate, such as arming the band with the empty shot-guns, and demanding the passage money at their muzzles; but he had not dreamed that tom would think seriously of attempting to deprive the burglars of their ill-gotten gains. "if you want to punish them," continued the skipper, "i don't know any better way." "nor me, neither," returned sam. "but how can we do it? that's the question. we're only boys, an' they're men an' carry revolvers. i wish we had a few loads fur our guns." "just leave this thing to me, governor," replied tom. "i can think it over in half an hour, and then i'll let you know what i have decided to do. you had better tell the other fellows what has been going on, and ask them what they think of it." as tom said this he once more buried his hands in his pockets and began pacing the deck, and sam ran off to repeat to the rest of the band the conversation he had overheard between the burglars, and to tell them what he and the captain had determined upon. the crusoe men listened attentively, and it is hard to tell whether they were the more indignant at their passengers, or amazed at the audacity of their skipper. they spoke of the revolvers, and declared that, rather than face them, they would give up the thousand dollars. "o, we aint goin' to fight the bugglars," said sam, quickly. "tommy an' me aint so foolish as to believe that six boys are a match fur two men with loaded pistols in their pockets. we're goin' to fool 'em, somehow. we'll either get the revolvers away from 'em, or study up a plan to get hold of the valise, without puttin' ourselves in the way of the shootin' irons. the matter is in the cap'n's hands, an' he is thinkin' it over now. we'll larn them fellers a thing or two before we are done with 'em." the governor left his men to talk the matter over at their leisure, and walked toward the robbers, who had brought their consultation to a close, and seemed to be awaiting an opportunity to speak to him. "look here, boy," said one of them, as sam came up, "who are you, and where are you going?" "well, mister," replied the governor, "it's a long story, but, if you want to hear it, i reckon i can tell it to you." the passengers declared their willingness to listen, and sam proceeded to give them a complete history of the crusoe band from the day it was organized down to the time he met the robbers at mr. henry's store, describing their adventures in glowing language, and dwelling, with a good deal of pride, upon the exploits of this particular night. the men were no less astonished than every one else had been who had heard the story, and sam could see that they were uneasy, too. "so you really set fire to a vessel before you left the harbor, did you?" asked one. "sartin. we might as well have let it alone, howsomever, fur her crew put out the fire before it had a chance to do any damage, an' she is after us now. but that needn't scare you none, fur we are leavin' her behind fast." "that makes no difference," replied the robber. "if she can't catch you, there are plenty of other vessels that can do it. you'll have the whole town after you before long, and we are in danger as long as we remain with you. we want you to set us ashore at once." "how about our money?" asked sam. "what money?" "why, the thousand dollars you promised to pay us fur takin' you out to sea." "o, you haven't earned that yet. we told you that you should have it when you had carried us safely out of sight of newport. that's something you can't do, and so you need not expect to receive the money. we can't give it to you for nothing, you know." "well, if this yere aint the very meanest piece of business i ever heard of," muttered the governor, as he turned on his heel and left the robbers. "but they aint by no means so smart as they think they are. we'll larn 'em how to cheat us. what's the trouble now?" this question was addressed to the skipper, who was running about the deck in a high state of excitement, having just discovered the storm king coming up the narrows. although tom was very much interested in his plot against the robbers, he had not forgotten the responsibilities resting upon him, and he had kept a bright lookout for their pursuers. he knew the yacht had gone down the other side of the island, and he was well aware of the fact that he ran some risk of being cut off, but he had great confidence in the speed of his vessel, and held on his course, hoping to beat the sloop in the race, and to pass through the narrows before she came in sight. but in this he was disappointed. the storm king was directly in his path and coming toward him at a rate of speed that made the skipper of the pirate craft extremely nervous. "i say, tommy," cried sam, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise, "there's them spooneys again." "o, now, am i blind?" drawled the captain. "don't i see them as plainly as you do?" "but how does it come that they are in front of us? that's what i want to know. i thought they were a mile behind by this time. we can make up our minds for a fight now, sartin." "why, they are boys," exclaimed one of the robbers. "we have nothing to fear from them." "now, don't you fool yourself," replied the governor. "if they are boys, there's lots of 'em, and they've got muskets, pikes, an' cutlasses, an' they know how to use 'em, too. you'd better be gettin' them shootin' irons of your'n ready." for a few minutes there was a great commotion on the deck of the sweepstakes. the captain's orders were promptly obeyed, but the schooner came about very slowly, while the storm king continued to approach at the top of her speed, and the governor could see that harry was making preparations to come to close quarters. while the little vessels were rushing through the water, side by side, and so close together that an active boy could almost jump from one to the other, the excitement on board the sweepstakes was intense, and it was increased when the yacht began to fall off and swing toward the schooner. the crusoe men had no desire to face cold steel in the hands of twenty enraged students. "all hands repel boarders," shouted the captain of the pirate craft, flourishing his handspike about his head. "crowd her, xury. jack spaniard, get an ax and stand by to cut us loose if they try to lash the yacht fast to us." but we know that harry did not succeed in his attempt to lay his vessel alongside the pirate. her superior sailing qualities enabled her to escape, and by the time the yacht was ready to fill away in pursuit, she was almost out of sight in the darkness. there was no exultation on the part of the officers of the crusoe band, however. they had escaped from one danger, but they knew that there were others close at hand. it had been their desire to get into deep water with the least possible delay, but the yacht had sadly interfered with their plans. the sweepstakes was fairly blockaded. "i wish that sloop was at the bottom of the ocean," exclaimed tom. "if we don't look out, harry green will get the better of us yet." "don't you think we could run by her?" asked the governor, anxiously. "no, indeed. the schooner is very swift, but she couldn't do that. we must go back to our harboring-place. it isn't safe to go around the island again, for those tugs have raised steam by this time, and, whatever we do, we must keep away from them. perhaps if we run into the cove we can give harry green the slip. he will not know where we are, and if he goes off to hunt us up, we'll come out and start for our island again." the governor did not like this plan. the cove was too near the village to be a safe hiding-place now, and as soon as the events of the night became generally known the harbor would be covered with vessels and tugs. but he could see no other way of escape, and he finally went aft, and took his place at the wheel. the passengers stood in the waist, holding fast to the money, and watching all that was going on; but they had nothing to say until they heard the roar of the breakers, and discovered that the schooner was headed directly toward them. then they wanted to know where the captain was going, and what he intended to do, but the reply they received did not convey to them the desired information. tom could not forget that they had laid their plans to cheat the crusoe band, and he thought that men who could go back from their word, as these intended to do, were not worth noticing. "you will please attend to your own business," said he. "but this is our business, captain," protested one of the passengers. "we don't want to be wrecked." "well, if you are afraid, you can get out and go afoot," said tom. "i am master of this vessel, and if you will keep quiet, you will find out that i know what i am doing." but the robbers' actions indicated that they did not feel disposed to keep quiet. they looked at the shoals, whispered together for a moment, and then one of them thrust his hand into his pocket, and, approaching tom, said, savagely: "look here! we are not going in among those rocks. if you want to keep out of trouble--" just at that moment the sweepstakes dashed into the channel that ran between the shoals and the bluffs on the island, and the burglar forgot what he was about to say to tom, and thought only of self-preservation. they both rushed frantically to the side, and while one of them held fast to the rail with one hand, and to the valise with the other, his companion hurriedly divested himself of his pea-jacket, and kicked off his boots, in preparation for his battle with the waves, which he seemed to believe was not far distant. the governor was uneasy also. he had never before attempted to take so large a vessel as the sweepstakes through the channel, and he was by no means certain as to the result of his undertaking. but luck was still in his favor, and, after being tossed about on the angry waves for ten minutes--it seemed much longer to the trembling and excited crusoe men--the schooner glided swiftly between the rocks at the entrance of the cove, and ran her bowsprit among the bushes that grew on the bank in front of the cabin. and while harry green and his crew were wondering at her mysterious disappearance, and telling one another that they had been pursuing a phantom, she lay snug and safe in the cove, and none the worse for her rough passage across the shoals. "well, i done it, didn't i?" exclaimed the governor, triumphantly. "we're safe from harry green now, an' if it wasn't fur the fuss we had with them farmers, we could stay here fur a year, an' nobody would be the wiser fur it. i'll go an' see how jed is gettin' along." sam jumped ashore and ran toward the cabin, and tom, after he had seen the schooner made fast to the bank, turned to the robbers and asked: "what do you think of it now?" "we think we have seen quite enough of you crusoe men," was the reply. "we shall leave you. you can go your way and we'll go ours." "you'll talk to the governor before you go, won't you?" "the governor! what do we want to talk to him about?" "why, about that money--the thousand dollars, you know." "guess not," answered one of the robbers, with a laugh. "good-by, captain." "you are not gone yet," said tom, to himself. "if i know any thing you will be glad to come to terms before you are ten minutes older." he waited until the burglars were out of sight, and then, calling his crew about him, continued: "those fellows are trying to cheat us out of their passage money. they can't find their way out of the cove without a guide, and if they ask any information of you, send them to me or to the governor. if one of you says a word to them about that path, we'll tie you hand and foot, and leave you here on the island. we'll show them that we are quite as smart as they are." at this moment the governor came running from the cabin, breathless and excited, and, clambering over the rail, stormed up and down the deck, swinging his arms about his head like the shafts of a wind-mill. "fellers," he shouted, "we're done fur now. our cake's all dough. jed's gone!" "gone!" echoed all the crusoe men, in concert. "yes, gone--sloped--mizzled--cleared out--and i can't find hide nor hair of him. we'll have all them farmers down on us now." "well, i wonder if any living man ever heard of such luck!" drawled tom. "our jig is danced at last," snarled will atkins. "i knew all the whole time that we'd never see our island." there was great excitement among the crusoe men. chapter xvi. johnny is mistaken for an enemy. johnny harding was greatly discouraged by the result of his conflict with the crusoe men. his victory had been turned into defeat; and while he was lying on his bed, bound hand and foot, the burglars were making good their retreat from the village. every instant of time was precious; for, of course, the longer the pursuit was delayed, the more difficult would it become to effect the capture of the robbers. johnny struggled desperately for his freedom, and shouted for help until he was too hoarse to speak; but the governor's own hands had tied the rope with which he was confined, and the only person within hearing of his calls was the watchman, who was as powerless as the clerk himself. it seemed to johnny that he must have lain there three or four hours, although it was really not more than twenty minutes; and, during that time, the captain of the crusoe band had made his unsuccessful attempt to destroy the yacht. johnny heard the fire-bells, and wondered if a conflagration of the town was to be added to the excitements of the night. there was not much sleeping done in newport after the big bell at the military academy added its voice to the universal din. business men thought of their property on the wharf, and ran down to assure themselves of its safety. mr. newcombe and the grocer met in front of the elevator. the former stumbled over his watchman, who, strangely enough, had not been discovered by the crusoe men, and mr. henry, somewhat surprised that the bells had not alarmed johnny, pounded loudly upon the front door. "come in, whoever you are," cried the clerk. "get up, and open the door," replied the grocer. "don't you hear those bells? is every thing right in there?" "not by a long way, sir. i've had visitors. you will have to come in at the side door." johnny knew that mr. henry was astonished, for he heard him talking to himself as he entered the passage. when he reached the side-door, and saw the hole that had been cut through it, he knew what had been going on as well as if his clerk had explained the matter to him. he lighted one of the lamps, and after glancing at the safe, and at the papers that were scattered about over the floor, he entered the office to look at johnny. "i suppose they got it all?" said he, as he untied the ropes with which the prisoner was confined. "if they didn't it was their own fault. we are short about twenty-five dollars worth of provisions, also. tom newcombe and his pirate crew have turned up again, and have drawn on us for supplies." mr. henry's astonishment increased as his clerk hurriedly recounted his adventures. the latter took particular pains to describe to his employer the intended movements of the robbers, as he had learned them from the captain of the crusoe band, and, when he had finished his story, the grocer said he would ask mr. newcombe to send out his tugs. but johnny was too impatient to wait for the tugs. it would be half an hour before they were ready to start, and there was no knowing what the robbers might do in that time. the clerk wanted to find them, and keep as close to them as possible; and something might happen that would put it in his power to recover the money. he knew that the grocer did not blame him for any thing that had happened--he would have been a most unreasonable man indeed, had he done so--but still johnny felt that he was, to some extent, responsible for his employer's property, and that the only way to redeem himself, was to return the money to mr. henry with his own hands. he did not then decide upon any plan of action. his first hard work must be to find the robbers; and, when that had been done, he would be governed by circumstances. he left the grocer on the wharf talking to mr. newcombe, and ran to the end of the pier where he had seen a yawl moored the night before; but that was the one the robbers had taken at sam barton's suggestion, and it was then dancing about in the bay, having been turned adrift after serving the purpose of its villainous crew. "i want a skiff," said johnny, to himself, "and i could find plenty if i was only on the other side of the harbor. i'll have to swim over." johnny was a boy who never allowed himself to be daunted by any obstacles, and having made up his mind that he wanted a skiff, he was determined to secure one by some means or other. he was about to jump into the harbor and swim to the opposite side, when he happened to glance toward one of the vessels lying in front of the elevator, and saw a yawl moored at her stern. he could cross the harbor much more easily and quickly in a boat than by swimming, and he decided to borrow the yawl. "well, now, what do you want here?" demanded one of the watch, as johnny leaped over the rail, and began to cast off the boat's painter. "i want to use this yawl," replied the clerk. "i can't stop to explain, for i am in a great hurry." "avast there!" shouted the sailor. "if i get hold of you, i'll pitch you overboard." but the watch did not get hold of johnny, for by the time he reached the stern, the clerk was a boat's length from the vessel, and was sending the yawl rapidly across the harbor. he found a number of skiffs on the opposite side, and, selecting the one that suited him best, he hoisted the sail and filled away for the island. he had scarcely cleared the harbor when he discovered the sweepstakes; but knowing that his skiff was no match for her in sailing, and being perfectly well aware of the fact that, even if he should overtake her, he could not recover the money alone and unaided, he turned his boat's head toward the foot of the island. by this maneuver he would gain on the schooner nearly a mile and a half; and, when she came out of the narrows, he would follow her and keep her in sight until one of the tugs came up, when he would board her, and assist in securing the robbers. when he reached the foot of the island, the sweepstakes was not in sight; and while he was waiting for her, he saw the storm king dash up the narrows. johnny was astonished to see her there at that time of night, and he was greatly encouraged. it was plain to him that tom had been doing something to arouse the students, and the clerk was glad indeed that it was so. his only fear had been that the crusoe men would succeed in getting out of the harbor, and making good their escape before the tugs could get ready to start in pursuit; but now he was satisfied that the chase would soon be over. he was sure that the yacht would capture the pirate, and he wished that he was on board to assist the students; and, being ignorant of the fact that harry knew more about what had been going on than he did, he wanted to tell him that there were two desperate characters on board the schooner, that they had robbed mr. henry's store of seven thousand dollars, and that they were armed with revolvers. he stood up in his skiff, and shouted at the top of his voice, to attract the attention of the students; but they were too far off to hear him. then he filled away in pursuit of the yacht; but she ran away from him very easily, and finally disappeared in the darkness. "the robbers will be caught, anyhow," soliloquized johnny, "and it will make no great difference whether i am there or not. if the sweepstakes comes down the narrows, harry green will cut her off; and if she goes around the head of the island, she will run against some of the tugs. tom won't give up as long as he sees the least chance for escape, and if he finds that he is likely to be captured, he will desert his vessel and take to the woods. he can't go ashore with his schooner, on the main land, for the water is so shallow that, after his vessel grounded, he would have to swim about half a mile. tom is too lazy to do that, and besides, if he were to attempt it, he might be picked up by the jolly-boat. his only chance will be to land on block island, and perhaps he will go back to that harboring place he told me about. that's the very idea!" added johnny, excitedly, striking his knee with his clenched hand. "there is just where tom will go if he is cornered. he will think that because he has lived there a week without being discovered, he can do it again." as these thoughts passed through johnny's mind he came about and started for the island. when he reached it he drew the bow of his skiff upon the beach, and, clambering up the cliff, ran toward the shoals. little dreaming how near he was to the object of his search, he stopped within a few feet of the head of the path that led into the cove, and strained his eyes through the darkness, in the hope of discovering the storm king or the schooner. but they were nowhere to be seen, and he was about to start on again when his steps were arrested by a faint shout which seemed to come up from below. it was uttered by jed, who, since the departure of the crusoe band, had not ceased to call lustily for help. he had little hope, however, of bringing any one to his relief, for the roar of the breakers, although it would not have drowned the report of a cannon, as sam barton had declared, was still loud enough to render his being heard extremely doubtful. johnny listened, and presently the shout was repeated. "there's certainly somebody down there," said he to himself, "and he seems to be in distress, too. who knows but it may be one of the crusoe men? if it is, he is just the fellow i am looking for." as johnny said this he walked along the cliff as near the edge as he dared to go, in the hope of finding some way to descend into the cove; but he did not long continue his search, for, as he was passing a thicket of bushes, a man suddenly sprang up and seized him by the collar. "we've got you now, you young villain," said he, savagely, "and we'll take care to hold fast to you." the first thought that passed through johnny's mind was, that he had again fallen into the hands of the burglars; the second, that they could not manage him as easily as they had done before. he would fight as long as he was able to raise a finger. but the clerk did not have time to act on this resolution, for his assailant threw him down with as much ease as he had prostrated tom newcombe in the store, and caught him by the throat, and, at the same instant, a second man appeared, who quickly confined his hands behind his back, and gagged him by forcing a handkerchief into his mouth. his captors handled him very roughly, and johnny would have yelled with pain, but the gag and the strong grasp on his throat rendered it impossible for him to utter a sound. having satisfied themselves that their prisoner was securely tied, the men jerked him to his feet, and then johnny got his first good look at them, and was astonished to discover that they were not the burglars. they were two young farmers, whom he had often seen in the village--the same who had captured tom newcombe a few hours before. they were searching for jed, and when they saw johnny prowling about the cove, they hastened to secure him, believing him to be one of the crusoe men. the clerk knew there was a mistake somewhere, but the gag effectually prevented him from explaining matters. if he tried to free his hands, in order to remove the gag, the farmers would think he was endeavoring to escape, and they might treat him even more harshly than they had done before. the only thing he could do was to submit quietly, and make himself known to them at the first opportunity. "you young rascal!" said bill, shaking his fist in johnny's face. "we'll show you how to rob potato-patches and cut down cellar doors," said josh. "if you don't pay for this night's work, it will be because there is no law in the land." the farmers grasped his arms, and johnny walked submissively between them toward the house. he was satisfied, from what they had said, that the exciting events of the night had not been confined to the village. the people on the island had evidently come in for a share of the trouble, and johnny, who was blessed with more than an ordinary amount of curiosity, wondered what had been going on, and grew angrier every moment, because he could not speak to his captors. he thought of the time he was wasting, too, and wished josh and bill had been a thousand miles from there before they attempted his capture. johnny was astonished at the sensation he created when he was led into the house. every one present looked at him with curiosity, and wondered that so honest-looking a boy should belong to a band of young robbers. when he had taken the chair pointed out to him, josh stationed himself near the door to prevent his escape, and bill removed the gag. the rough treatment he had experienced had sadly ruffled his temper, and as soon as he was able to speak he looked fiercely at bill, and exclaimed: "i'd like to know what you are about!" "would! well, i can soon tell you," replied bill. "you are one of those fellows who robbed our potato-patches, aint you?" "do i look like a boy of that kind?" demanded johnny, indignantly. "i never saw your potato-patch, and i don't know that you have one." "now, just look a here," said bill, "what's the use of telling that?" "it's the truth," protested the prisoner. "my name is john harding, and i am clerk in mr. henry's grocery store, which has just been robbed of seven thousand dollars. i was in pursuit of the burglars when you caught me. i am not in the habit of telling lies," he added, more angrily than ever, noticing that the young farmers smiled derisively as they listened to his story. "all you have to do is to go back to the beach with me, and i will soon convince you that i am not trying to deceive you." "you want us to take you there, so that your friends can release you, i suppose," said josh. "we gagged you to prevent you from giving the alarm." "you need not have put yourselves to so much trouble, for i haven't a friend on the island. i came here alone. let me loose, can't you? i don't want to be confined here like a felon." the farmers had been so nicely outwitted by the crusoe men that they were very suspicious, and, believing that johnny's story had been invented for the occasion, they did not put the least faith in it. they had caught him prowling about in the vicinity of the potato-patch, and that, in their eyes, was evidence strong enough to condemn him. johnny said every thing he could to induce them to believe that he was really what he represented himself to be. he told how the burglars had effected an entrance into the store, described the operation of blowing open the safe, and even mentioned the fact of having heard somebody shouting for help while he was standing on the cliff. then the farmers, for the first time, became interested. "perhaps it's jed," said bill. "he is our brother," he added, in answer to an inquiring look from johnny. "he went out with us after the fellows who cut down the cellar door, and he hasn't come back yet. we had better go down there, for he may have fallen over the cliff." "you will take me with you, will you not?" inquired johnny. "no, i guess not; we don't think it would be safe. you see, the way you fellows got those two prisoners out of the cellar makes us think we can't be too careful of you. we'll leave you here, and for fear that you might escape, or be rescued while we are gone, we'll take you up stairs and tie you fast to something." johnny protested loudly against this arrangement, but his words fell upon deaf ears, and he was obliged to submit to his captors, who conducted him into the garret and bound him to the chimney, which came up through the middle of the floor. "there," said josh, "i'd like to see your friends find you now. you'll be likely to stay here until we come back, unless you can pull the chimney down, and i don't think you are strong enough to do that." johnny was astonished at the care exhibited by the farmers in providing for his safe-keeping, and it led him to the conclusion that tom and his band had been doing something desperate. he was impatient to learn the full particulars of the robbery of the potato-patch, and the rescue of the prisoners, but he was much more anxious to regain his liberty, and continue the pursuit of the burglars. he did not doubt that the students would capture them, and, as that would be a big feather in their caps, johnny wanted to assist in the work, in order that he also might enjoy the honors of the exploit. josh and bill were gone fully half an hour, and during every moment of that time johnny's impatience increased, until at last it seemed to him that he could not possibly endure his captivity an instant longer. of course he tried hard to free himself, but his captors, remembering the prisoners who had escaped from the cellar, had taken especial pains to make his bonds secure, and johnny finally abandoned his attempts in despair, and awaited his release with all the fortitude he could command. at last, to his immense relief, he heard footsteps on the porch, and after a few minutes' delay josh and bill came up the stairs, accompanied by jed. they all seemed to be very angry about something, and if johnny had known what jed had experienced at the hands of the crusoe men, he would not have been at all surprised thereat. when jed's eyes rested on the prisoner, his countenance fell, and he seemed to be very much disappointed. he took the candle from bill's hand, held it close to johnny's face, examined his clothing, and finally shook his head. "you'll know me the next time you see me, won't you?" asked johnny. "yes, and i would know you now, if i had ever seen you before. he don't belong to the crowd," he added, turning to his brothers. "i took a good look at every one of them, and i can't be mistaken. you had better let him go." "i think so too," said the prisoner. "it's lucky for you that you aint one of the robbers," continued jed, shaking his head in a threatening manner, "for i had made up my mind to give you a good drubbing. let's return to the cove and watch for them. perhaps they will come back." "do you mean the crusoe men?" asked johnny. "i know they will come back. they are blockaded, and they can't get out of the bay." josh and bill were quite ready to go back to the cove, but they were not willing to release their captive. they could not be made to believe that he was not in some way connected with those who had plundered their potato-patch, and johnny began to think them the most unreasonable men he had seen for many a day. there was jed, who had had some adventure with the crusoe men, and who repeatedly affirmed that he had never met johnny before, but still josh and bill would not be convinced. "you see," said the former, "it does not follow that you ain't one of the robbers because we did not see you with them. if you had nothing to do with what has been going on here for the last week, what were you sneaking around the farm for? that's what i want to know." "i wasn't sneaking around at all," replied johnny, impatiently. "i was going about my business openly and above board, and i didn't care who saw me. i was looking for the men who stole mr. henry's money." "now, that's a funny story, aint it? a boy like you wouldn't be in any hurry to put himself in the way of two robbers, armed with revolvers. we are going back to the cove, and we shall take you with us. the men folks are all out looking for jed, and we are too sharp to leave you long in the house with nobody but women to watch you." "wouldn't it be a good plan to obtain a little more assistance?" asked johnny. "if you will collect half a dozen men, you can capture every one of those fellows if they come back." "that's just what we intend to do," replied josh, "but i think we three can manage them, and watch you besides." "but you forget the robbers." josh smiled and shrugged his shoulders, intimating very plainly that he was not yet prepared to believe that the robbers existed, only in johnny's imagination. "if you will agree not to make any fuss we won't gag you," said he. that was something gained, and johnny readily gave the required promise. although his hands were still bound behind his back, his captors seemed to be very much afraid of him, and during the walk to the cove they kept a firm hold of his arms, and looked about them suspiciously, as if they every instant expected to be called upon to resist an attempt on the part of the crusoe men to rescue their prisoner. but johnny _was_ released; not by the governor and his band, however, but by the crew of the storm king, and josh and bill never once thought of offering any resistance to them. it did not take harry green long to come to some conclusion respecting the mysterious disappearance of the pirate vessel, and, after his conversation with the boatswain's mate, he astonished his second lieutenant with an order to call away a company of small-armed men. while the jolly-boat was being lowered, the plucky midshipman richardson, who commanded the company, reported for orders, and was instructed to go ashore and explore every nook and corner of the bluffs on that side of the island. he left the vessel as fully determined to effect the capture of tom newcombe as he had been before, and, when the party from the farm-house came up, he had stopped with his company on the cliffs above the cove to reconnoiter. when he heard them approaching, he ordered his men to conceal themselves. of course he was not sure that they were the ones he had been sent out to capture, but he argued, as did josh and bill in regard to johnny, that if they were honest people they would not be roaming about the island at that time of night. "halt!" shouted richardson, when the farmers, with their prisoner, had advanced fairly within his ambush. "close up around them, men, and punch the first one that tries to escape." bill and josh were so astonished that they did not think of flight or resistance until it was too late. the young tars arose from their concealments on all sides of them, and they suddenly found themselves surrounded by a wall of gleaming bayonets, every one of which was held so close to them that the least forward or backward movement on their part would have brought them in contact with the cold steel. "well, look here! i swan to man!" said jed, shrinking away from the bayonets in front of him, only to receive a slight prick from three or four behind. "i say, fellows," stammered bill, "you've made a mistake." "is that you, richardson?" asked johnny. "harding!" exclaimed the midshipman, excitedly, "and a prisoner, too. we've got the burglars. put your hands above your heads," he added, sternly, addressing himself to josh and bill; "quick, or you'll feel the points of those bayonets." "hold on, dave," cried johnny, when he saw that the bayonets were drawn back for a thrust. "these men are not the robbers." "they are not? how does it come, then, that you are a prisoner?" demanded the young officer. "untie my hands, somebody, and i'll tell you all about it." "see here, fellows," exclaimed jed, who seemed greatly annoyed by the close proximity of the muskets, "just turn them stickers the other way, will you?" none of the young tars, however, paid the least attention to his words, and, indeed, he might as well have spoken to the wind; but richardson heard the appeal, and, turning to johnny, inquired: "are you sure these men are all right?" "certainly i am," was the reply. "fall back!" commanded the midshipman. the wall of bayonets was removed, and jed was immensely relieved. the prisoner was quickly released, and in a few words told the story of his adventures. bill and josh were compelled to believe him now, and they apologized so freely that johnny readily forgave them. "i suppose it's all right," said the midshipman, "but, to tell the truth, i am disappointed. when i saw you a prisoner, harding, i was sure that these men were the ones we were looking for. if they had been, we could have captured them easily enough, couldn't we? now, what's to be done? i have ten good fellows with me, and if we can get tom newcombe and his band in as tight a place as we had you a minute ago, they won't stand much chance of escape." a council of war was held on the spot, and, after johnny had repeated the conversation he had had with tom newcombe in the store, richardson was satisfied that he knew what had become of the sweepstakes. he decided to go into the cove at once, and jed volunteered to act as guide. they would approach as close to the pirates as they could without giving the alarm, and then they would charge upon them and overpower them. the sailors would attack the robbers, and leave the crusoe men to the care of johnny and his three friends, all except tom newcombe, whom the midshipman regarded as his own especial property. when all the details of their plan had been discussed, richardson gave the signal to jed, who led the way down the path. chapter xvii. the battle at the bridge. the governor and his band were certainly in a predicament. a half dozen tugs were, by this time cruising about the bay in all directions; the storm king lay at the upper end of the shoals under the bluffs, her crew kept constantly at quarters, in readiness to board the sweepstakes if she came out; and a strong force, under command of the midshipman, was preparing to assault the pirates in their hiding-place. harry thought he had them surrounded; and there were few, indeed, among the crusoe men who did not believe that their voyage was at an end. it is true they had a way of escape from the cove that the students knew nothing about--by the channel that ran across the lower end of the shoals--but who among them could promise that they would not meet a tug there when they went out? even tom, who was generally expert at finding his way out of difficulties, believed it was all over with the crusoe band. he leaned against the rail and looked down into the water; the governor thoughtfully paced the deck, and the rest of the band stood in a group in the waist, watching the movements of their officers, and waiting impatiently for them to make known their plans. "come, skipper," said sam, at length, "why don't you wake up and talk to us?" "o now, what shall i say?" drawled tom. "i am the unluckiest boy in the whole world!" "we've heard that a thousand times," said the governor, impatiently. "we're all of us unlucky, for the matter of that. but what shall we do? are we goin' to give up?" "no, we are not. we have had a good many adventures to-night. i don't believe that any other boys of our age ever came safely out of as many scrapes as we have been into, and now we are not going to allow ourselves to be cornered, like rats in an oat-bin. we must leave here at once." "i say, governor," suddenly exclaimed one of the robbers, who had made the circuit of the cove without finding any way of egress, "how do you get out of this hole?" "we don't go out at all," replied the chief. "we stay in." "we do not intend to remain here any longer. we have wasted time enough with you, and now we are going off on our own hook." "well, then, why don't you go?" drawled the skipper "because we can't find any way out of the cove." "we don't want nothing more to do with you two fellers, whatsomever," said sam. "go off about your business." "now see here, boys, this thing has gone about far enough. we've had more than we want of this nonsense, and we'll teach you to give a civil answer to a civil question. we are going out, and one of you must show us the way," said the burglar; and, as he spoke, he came on board the schooner, and, striding up to sam, seized him by the collar. "let me be!" roared the chief. "will you guide us to the top of the cliff?" "will you pay us the thousand dollars you promised us for taking you out to sea?" whined tom. "if you go back from your word, you need not ask favors of us." "you have not taken us to sea yet." "that's because you haven't given us a chance. we can do it, and we will, too, if you will stay with us." "let go my collar, i say!" shouted sam. "answer my question first," replied the robber. "i don't know nothing about a way to the top of the cliff. stand by, here, fellers. hit him with a handspike, somebody." the crusoe men began to bustle about in a state of intense excitement, and the other burglar leaped over the rail to assist his companion. there was a lively prospect for a fight, and, no doubt, if tom newcombe had not interposed, the deck of the pirate vessel would have been the scene of a desperate conflict. the governor and his men were very much enraged at their passengers, and were fully determined that they should not leave the cove until they had kept their promise, in regard to the thousand dollars. sam was a very stubborn fellow, and the robber would have found it a much more difficult task than he had bargained for to force the secret of the path from him. "it's no use, mister," said he, doggedly. "you may shake me as much as you please, but i just ain't a goin' to tell you what you want to know till i see the color of that money. you promised to give it to us, an' we're bound to have it. punch him in the ribs with your boat-hook, friday." "o now, look here!" drawled the skipper. "i won't have any quarreling and fighting on a vessel i command. stand back, friday. put away that handspike, xury. if you are determined to leave us, i'll send a man to show you the way up the cliff." "no you won't, neither!" shouted sam, indignant at the proposition. "but if i do," continued tom, without noticing the interruption, "you won't gain any thing by it. on the contrary, you will find yourselves in ten times the danger you are in now; for the prisoner we had confined in that cabin has escaped, and of course he has alarmed every body on the island. we are going to sea again, immediately, and, if you will remain with us, and behave yourselves, we will take you to a place of safety. you ought to remember that we don't want to be captured any more than you do." "but you have got the whole village after you," said the burglar. "look here, mister, be you goin' to let go my collar?" asked sam. "it is by no means certain that every man in newport is after _us_," said tom. "don't you suppose there are some in pursuit of _you_? your best plan would be to remain with us; and, if we succeed in getting out of the bay, we will land you on some island, out of reach of the police officers and the telegraph. if we find our escape cut off, we will run our vessel ashore and take to the woods." the burglar seemed to be impressed with tom's arguments, for he released the governor, and turned to consult with his companion; while sam, who was utterly amazed at tom, led him off on one side and inquired: "hain't you made a nice mess of it now? do you intend to show them fellers the way up the cliff?" "of course i do." "well now, skipper," said the governor, doubling his fist, and shaking it in the air, "of all the mean things i ever knew you to do, this yere is the beat. have you forgot that we want to pay them for tryin' to cheat us?" "no, indeed," replied tom, emphatically. "i am bound to carry out my new idea, and you have seen enough of me to-night to know that i mean what i say. we will guide them up the path as far as the chasm, and leave them. we'll tell them that we had a bridge across there, but it is gone; and that they'll have to get over the best way they can. in the meantime i will turn the schooner around, and, when i am ready to sail, i'll send you word; and i'll wager my share of the thousand dollars that the robbers, rather than be left alone in the cove, will come with us." "humph!" grunted the chief. "you're trustin' a good deal to luck, 'pears to me. mebbe that plan will work, an' mebbe it won't. if we lose our passage-money, we can thank you for it." "what else can we do?" asked tom. "it's the only way i know of to avoid a fight." "well, captain," said the burglar, who had thus far done the most of the talking, and who answered to the name of sanders, "we've concluded that we had better go. you can send a man to show us up the path." "all right," replied tom. "you have acted very meanly toward us, and you may have the satisfaction of knowing that you take with you our best wishes for your speedy capture. governor, you and atkins guide them up the path, and the rest of us stand by to get the vessel under-way." sam thought that the skipper, in spite of his assertions to the contrary, had either given up all hopes of carrying his new idea into execution, or else, that the disappointment he had experienced in the failure of his plans against the yacht, had turned his brain. this new scheme of his for avoiding a fight with the robbers, the governor regarded as a sure method of throwing away their last chance for obtaining possession of the passage-money. if the burglars left the cove, the crusoe men would never see them again, and the only thing that would prevent them from so doing, was the difficulty of bridging the chasm; and that could be easily overcome. "good-by to them thousand dollars," growled the governor, as he lighted his lantern and led the way toward the path. "i'd a heap sooner have a fight with the bugglars, than let them off so easy. they can build a bridge in five minutes." there were other obstacles, however, besides the building of the bridge, that stood in the way of the robbers leaving the cove, that neither sam nor tom knew any thing about; but the former discovered them the instant he came in sight of the chasm. he stopped, astonished at the scene before him. when josh and bill went into the cove to release jed, they had built a bridge of saplings, by the aid of which the storming party was about to invade the governor's stronghold. midshipman richardson was half-way across the bridge, and johnny harding, who had armed himself with a heavy club, was preparing to follow the young officer as soon as he was safely over. behind johnny stood the young tars, leaning on their muskets, one of them holding a powerful dark lantern, which rendered objects in the vicinity of the bridge as plainly visible as though it had been broad daylight. the chief saw and comprehended, and a smile of exultation lighted up his face, but speedily gave way to an expression of alarm. there was some satisfaction in knowing that the robbers could not leave the cove, and that he and his band might yet have an opportunity to secure the valise and its contents; but there was little to be found in the knowledge of the fact that he was on the point of being attacked by a force that outnumbered his two to one. sam recognized the midshipman, and knew instinctively that something was going to happen. the fight in the harbor had taught him that the young officer was an unpleasant fellow to have about. "ah, mr. barton, we 're glad to see you," said richardson, when he had recovered from his surprise. "you are just the man we are looking for. you may consider yourself a prisoner--you and your villainous companions there. your harboring place is completely surrounded, and you will save yourselves trouble if you surrender at once." "jerusalem!" exclaimed will atkins, looking about him, as if seeking some avenue of escape. as he did so, his eyes rested on the pile of stones which he and jack spaniard had collected to defend their breastwork against the assaults of the governor, and a bright idea struck him. "sam," he whispered, "let's heave them rocks at him, an' drive him back, an' then throw down the bridge." the chief was prompt to act upon the suggestion. he and atkins sprang behind the breastwork, and, before the midshipman could make up his mind what they were going to do, the stones were flying about him in a perfect shower. it would have been utter folly to stand longer upon the bridge in that exposed position, and, without waiting for a second volley, the officer turned and took to his heels. "hurrah for governor barton and the crusoe men," shouted sam. "you needn't talk to us about surrenderin', 'cause we ain't them kind of fellers, as i told you once before to-night. chuck the bridge into the gully, atkins." if the chief imagined that he had disposed of the attacking party, he soon discovered his mistake. they were by no means defeated simply because their commanding officer had been driven from his position on the bridge. they had come there to capture the pirates, and they knew that two of them carried revolvers in their pockets. if the knowledge of that fact was not enough to turn them from their purpose, they were not likely to be frightened away by such missiles as sam and his man had discharged at them. they were sharp enough to know that the bridge was the key to the enemy's position, and that much depended upon their ability to prevent atkins from carrying out the governor's order. stones were plenty on their side of the chasm, and there was also nearly half a bushel of potatoes left of those sam had used against the mutineers. they were prompt to follow the example set them by the enemy, and, when will atkins ran forward to throw the bridge into the chasm, the order to halt, which he disregarded, was enforced by a volley of stones and potatoes that made the path in the vicinity of the bridge so uncomfortable that the crusoe man was glad to retreat. "go on," thundered the governor. "that bridge must come down." "well, you can throw it down yourself," retorted atkins "i ain't in no hurry to be hit by them taters an' rocks." "keep away from that bridge," said the midshipman. "harding, if you and your three friends will act as artillery-men, we'll charge across and capture those fellows--the crusoe men, i mean. of course we can't arrest the robbers unless we can take some advantage of them; but we can keep them in here until we can send word to mr. grimes, and i don't think they will dare use their revolvers on him. if they find that they are fairly cornered, they won't have the courage to resist an officer of the law." "but how can we keep them in?" asked bill. "easy enough. if they attempt to come across the bridge we'll pepper them with stones. if they return to their vessel, and go out the other way, we can't help it. that's harry green's business. simmonds," he added, "go down and report to the first lieutenant that we have found the pirates, that the robbers are with them, and that we are preparing to attack them." the midshipman was almost on the point of adding: "and tell him that he had better send for re-enforcements and keep a bright lookout for the sweepstakes, for she may try to run by him;" but he did not say it, for he knew that it was no part of his business to instruct his superior officer. harry was smart enough to attend to all such matters, and richardson was sure that he would neglect no precautions to insure the capture of all the schooner's crew. "now," continued the young officer, when simmonds had started off to obey the order, "open fire on them, and drive them into the bushes, so that they can't throw at us." although richardson spoke in a tone so low that the governor could not catch his words, he knew what he was saying, and saw the necessity of making some arrangements to offer a decided resistance to the advance of the students. "atkins," he whispered, "go down an' bring up the rest of the fellers. that bridge must come away from there, or them spooneys will be down on us like a hawk on a june bug." "suppose we point our revolvers at them," said sanders. "what good will that do? they ain't easy scared, an' they know you wouldn't dare to shoot them as well as you know it yourself. what i am afraid of is, that they will send off after more help. we must get out of here to onct, but we must throw that bridge down first, or they will catch us before we can get our vessel under-way." scarcely had sam ceased speaking when the artillery-men opened fire on him, and he and his companions were driven to the shelter of the bushes; but not until a potato, thrown by jed, his former prisoner, had smashed his lantern and extinguished the light. the bull's-eye of the dark lantern was turned full upon the place where he had taken refuge, and, although the artillery-men could not see him, they kept up a continuous shower of missiles, hoping to confine him so closely in his concealment that he could not return the fire. in this they thought they were successful, for not a single stone was thrown from sam barton's side of the chasm, and the midshipman, believing that he had retreated to his vessel, gave the order to advance, and led the way upon the bridge. the governor, however, had never once thought of retreating. he was still in a position to defend the cove, and, moreover, he had been re-enforced by tom newcombe and the rest of the band. while the fire from the artillery-men was the hottest, the crusoe men and their allies had been quietly collecting ammunition and patiently awaiting an opportunity to use it. the burglars worked as hard as the rest, and sanders, little dreaming how closely his movements were watched by all the members of the band, hid his valise in the bushes, and stood with his arms full of stones, ready to fire upon the young tars when they came in sight. this did not escape the notice of sam barton, who mentally resolved that, the instant the bridge was thrown into the chasm, he would catch up the valise and run for the vessel. he and his men were well enough acquainted with the path to travel it rapidly in the dark, and they might, perhaps, succeed in getting the sweepstakes under-way before the burglars could reach her. this plan he communicated in a whisper to tom, who declared himself strongly in favor of it, and watched his opportunity to reveal it to the other members of the band. the crusoe men were all intensely excited, and heartily enjoyed their anticipated triumph over the robbers. the governor and his companions, who dared not show so much as the tops of their hats above the bushes, could not see what was going on among the students, but they had a plain view of about half the bridge, and when the attacking party appeared they opened so hot a fire upon it that the advance was speedily checked, the column thrown into confusion, and the young tars, after expending all the ammunition they had brought with them, in the vain attempt to dislodge the enemy, retreated precipitately to the shelter of the trees on the opposite side of the chasm. "now's your time, governor," exclaimed sanders, who entered as heartily into the work, and was as much interested in what was going on, as though he had been a boy himself; "rush out and throw down the bridge." "well, now, if you are in such a hurry to see that bridge come down, you had better rush out there yourself," replied sam. "i can't see any sense in a feller's puttin' himself in the way of gettin' his head broke." "we whipped 'em, didn't we?" said xury. "o yes, we did, but what good will it do?" drawled the captain. "they'll keep on charging us as long as that bridge is there. all they want is to employ us here till daylight, and by that time we must be out of the bay, or we can just consider ourselves captured. i've got another idea," he added, suddenly. "mr. mate, send a man to the vessel after a rope." "will atkins," said xury, "go down and fetch up a rope." "will atkins! will atkins!" repeated the owner of that name, angrily. "it's always will atkins, if there is any thing to be done. aint there nobody in this band that can do nothing besides will atkins?" "go on, now, an' bring up that rope, an' quit your growlin'," commanded the governor, sternly. atkins sullenly started down the path, grumbling to himself as he went, and vowing vengeance against the officers of the band. the mutinous spirit in him was as strong as ever, and only awaited a favorable opportunity to break forth again in open opposition to the governor's authority. he spent a good deal of time in searching for the rope, and, before he returned to the chasm, the crusoe men had successfully resisted another attempt, on the part of the students, to charge across the bridge. "how are things in the village?" asked the governor, as atkins spitefully threw the rope down in front of tom. "did you see mr. henry?" "i hain't been near the village for two hours," replied the discontented member. "well, you might have been there and back two or three times, since you went away. i concluded you couldn't find a rope on board the vessel, and had gone over to mr. henry's store for one." some sharp words passed between the governor and his man, and while the conversation was going on, tom completed his arrangements for carrying out his new idea, which were very simple. he coiled the rope on the ground so that it would run out rapidly, and to one end of it fastened a heavy stone. "i understand it all, now," said the chief. "that bridge is bound to come down. be ready to run, fellers, the minute i grab the valise," he added, in a whisper. tom's first attempt to remove the bridge was successful. he threw the stone over it, hauled in on the rope, and in a moment more the saplings were lying at the bottom of the chasm. the yell of indignation which arose from the students, mingled with the triumphant shouts of the crusoe men. "that's the way to do it," cried sanders. "we are all right now. i say! hold on, there, boy!" he continued, in quite a different tone of voice, when he saw the governor, with the valise in his hand, disappear around the bend in the path, closely followed by his men. "what do you mean? stop, i tell you." the burglars looked as though they thought it was not all right with them after all. they stood for an instant irresolute, and then started in hot pursuit of the crusoe men, dashing recklessly down the slippery path, apparently all unconscious of the fact that a single misstep would precipitate them upon the rocks forty feet below. they reached the cove in safety, having made such good use of their time that, when the governor sprang over the schooner's rail, they were close at his heels. sam was astonished, and highly enraged, but accepted the situation as gracefully as he could. seeing that his plan for "getting even" with the robbers had failed, he placed the valise against the rail, and said, innocently: "there's your money, mister. cap'n, get under-way, to onct." sanders looked sharply at the governor. he had nothing to say, but he resolved that as long as he remained on board the sweepstakes, he would never for an instant release his hold upon the valise. he believed the chief had some designs upon it. "i reckon you'll stay with us now, won't you?" asked sam. "we must, i suppose," replied sanders. "what are you going to do? do you intend to cross the breakers again?" "sartin; there aint no other way to get out of the cove." the actions of the burglars very plainly indicated that they did not like the idea of again attempting the passage of the shoals; and sam himself would have been very glad indeed if there had been some less dangerous avenue of escape open to them. he could not forget the rock on the outer edge of the breakers, nor the risk he had run there a few hours before. every thing being ready for the start, he went to the wheel, the line with which the schooner was made fast to the bank was cast off, and she moved slowly out of the cove. the skipper stationed two men at the fore and main sheets, placed xury in the waist to pass orders, and then took his stand beside the governor. the latter would have stoutly denied that he felt the least nervousness or timidity, but his compressed lips and trembling hands told a different story. all the crusoe men were more or less alarmed, with the exception of the mate, who was as careless and indifferent as ever. nothing seemed to disturb him. he stood leaning against the rail, whistling a lively tune, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes fastened on the rock at the opposite side of the shoals. he never moved a muscle when a huge wave carried the schooner almost over the ledge, and, when the order was given to haul in the sheets, he repeated it with as much calmness as he would have exhibited had the sweepstakes been in smooth water, and running before a favorable breeze. the passage was safely accomplished, much to the relief of every one on board; and again the crusoe men told themselves that they had dared the fury of the shoals for the last time. where was the storm king all this while? she was still lying at the upper end of the breakers, waiting for the sweepstakes. her commander did not know there were two channels that led across the shoals. chapter xviii. the robbers are punished. to say that tom newcombe was delighted to find himself once more out of the cove and safely across the shoals, would but feebly express his feelings. he had never expected to see the bay again except as a prisoner. while he was in the cove and besieged by the students, he would willingly have disposed of his interest in the crusoe band, and freely surrendered his share of the passage money, if he could have wiped out the record of that night. he had not seen a single hour's peace since he joined sam barton's society. he had constantly been in some trouble or other. it would have been well enough with him, he thought, if the governor had not turned up again--tom had a great habit of laying the responsibility of his misdeeds upon other shoulders than his own--and he had more than once wished that the spar which had brought sam into the harbor had drifted the other way, and carried him out to sea, and that he had been picked up by some vessel and taken to china or some other remote quarter of the globe. in short, when the captain of the crusoe band found that his voyage was in danger of being brought to a speedy termination, he had been very hard on the governor, and had felt disposed to look on the dark side of things; but now that he was once more bounding over the waves of the bay before a fine breeze, and with not a tug or sailing vessel in sight, his spirits rose again. he was once more ready to believe that the expedition might prove successful. after bringing himself safely out of all the difficulties he had been in that night, it would be singular indeed if he could not find some way to overcome the obstacles yet before him. there was no immediate danger to be apprehended from the students. harry green had been outwitted, and with proper precautions their other pursuers might also be avoided. he sent xury to relieve the governor at the wheel, and ordered him to hold the schooner directly across the bay toward the main land. his plan was to run as close to the shore as the depth of the water would permit. it was dark in the shadow of the bluffs, and if there were any tugs between him and the entrance to the bay, he hoped to run by them unnoticed. now that the danger attending the crossing of the shoals was passed, the crusoe men could think about other matters. tom and the governor, after exulting over their escape, pondered upon the failure of their plan for obtaining possession of the valise, and atkins nursed his wrath against the officers of the band. the mutineer no longer desired the success of the expedition. all he cared for was to insure his own safety, and to be revenged upon the governor, tom, and xury. "we'll never see crusoe's island nohow," said he, to himself. "tommy aint sailor enough to take us through a bay twenty-five miles long, with tugs runnin' up an' down it all the time lookin' fur us. we're bound to be ketched sooner or later. but just s'pose we do find our island! what fun will i see livin' there? it'll be atkins, atkins, all the whole time. atkins will have to do every thing, and them lazy officers will sit around in the shade an' see me work. i aint a going to be a servant fur nobody, an' the best thing i can do is to leave the band. jack spaniard, come here." the governor was well enough acquainted with atkins to know that, after what had transpired at the bridge, it was best to keep a close watch over him. when he saw him standing sullen and alone on the forecastle, he knew that he was brooding over his wrongs, and, when jack spaniard joined him, sam was sure there was mischief brewing. he saw them engage in a whispered consultation, and, when he could stand it no longer, he walked up to them, and laid a hand upon the shoulder of each. "see here, my hearties," said he, "what's goin' on? it looks mighty suspicious to see your two heads so close together. be you studyin' up another mutiny? if you are, you can bear two things in mind: one is, that you will come out at the little end of the horn, just as you did before. the other, that you won't get off so easy, by no means." "we aint quite so foolish," replied atkins. "what could me an' jack do ag'in you four fellers? we were talkin' about that money, an' we've thought up a way to get it. mebbe it won't work, but there's no harm in tryin' it, you know." the governor listened attentively while atkins unfolded his plan, and said it contained some suggestions that were well worth listening to. the discontented member did not, however, tell all that he and his companion had been talking about. he kept back some things which, had he repeated them to the chief, would have brought him into trouble immediately. sam went aft to consult with tom, and presently the schooner's bow veered around until it pointed toward one of the numerous islands that lay near the middle of the bay. in reply to a question from sanders, tom said: "we're going to land. it isn't safe to continue our cruise at present, for it is nearly daylight. there is a creek on deer island, and we think it best to conceal ourselves there until night." the governor and his men kept a bright lookout while they were running across the bay toward the island, but none of their pursuers were in sight, and, after coasting along the shore for a short distance, the sweepstakes entered the creek of which tom had spoken. half an hour afterward she was snugly hidden in the bushes that grew in the water along the edge of the bank, and her crew were stretched out on the deck, sleeping soundly, after their night of excitement and adventure--all except will atkins, who had been ordered to keep awake and watch for the enemy. this was another injustice that the mutineer declared he would not submit to. wasn't he as sleepy as the others? and was there no one in the band except himself who could stand watch? because tom, sam, and xury were officers, was it any reason why they should shirk their share of the work? atkins could not see that it was, and he told himself that he was about to do something that would make ample amends for all he had endured at their hands. but keeping a lookout for their pursuers was not the only duty atkins was expected to perform. he had a difficult and dangerous task to accomplish, and one that he would rather had fallen to the lot of some other member of the band. while he paced up and down the deck he thought more of the passengers and their money than he did of the tugs that might at any moment come steaming up the creek. the robbers lay upon the forecastle, sanders with the valise under his head for a pillow, and both of them were snoring loudly. atkins was sure they were sound asleep, but he was too wary to ruin his plans by being in too great a hurry. he allowed an hour to pass before he made any attempt to secure the valise--that was the extra duty he was expected to perform--and then he went about his work very cautiously. with a step that would not have awakened a cricket, he crossed the deck and took his stand beside the rail, within easy reach of the robbers. after assuring himself that there was no sham about their sleep, he placed his foot against the valise and began pushing it from under sanders's head. slowly and cautiously was the movement executed, atkins scarcely daring to breathe the while, lest it should arouse the robber, and, at last, he had the satisfaction of seeing sanders's head roll down upon the deck. quick as a flash atkins's foot came back beside the other, and if the burglar had awakened then he would have seen him leaning over the rail, gazing into the bushes ahead of the vessel, and looking as innocent as a boy of that kind could look. but sanders was not aroused. wearied with his night's work, he still snored lustily, and atkins congratulated himself on having accomplished the most dangerous part of his undertaking. the next step was to arouse the band. he did not touch the valise again, but left it lying on the deck and crept to the place where the governor was sleeping. "sam," he whispered, "it's all right. i've got the money." "no!" exclaimed the governor, starting up and rubbing his eyes. "where is it?" "i left it layin' close to him, so that if he wakes up before we are ready to start he will think that his head rolled off of its own accord." "you're a brick," said the governor, approvingly. "this 'most makes me forget that you were a mutineer. call the other fellers an' we'll be off." atkins was on the point of obeying this order when, to the intense chagrin of both the crusoe men, sanders awoke with a start, and, raising himself on his elbow, looked about him. seeing the governor on his feet he inquired: "what's going on there?" "nothing," replied sam, "only i must take my turn standin' watch now." the robber raised a pair of very sleepy-looking eyes toward the clouds, remarked that it was pretty near daylight, and then, pulling the valise under his head, went off into the land of dreams again. "did you ever see such luck?" growled atkins. "the whole thing must be done over again." "well, you can do it, can't you?" asked sam. "i reckon i could, but i just aint a goin' to try. you told me to get the valise out from under his head an' call you, an' i done it. 'taint my fault that he woke up. if you want any thing more done you can do it yourself." "i guess i am as good a hand at that kind of business as you are," said the chief. "let's call up the other fellers, so that if i get the valise we can start to onct." the crusoe men were quietly aroused, but still remained stretched out on the deck, watching the governor, and ready to move when he gave the word. he approached the robber with more fear and trembling than he had ever before exhibited in the presence of the members of the band, for he could not help thinking of what would be done to him if the burglar should chance to awake and find him meddling with his pillow. sanders had had nothing to say when sam ran away with his valise in the cove, but he had looked very savage, and the governor did not care to be caught in the act of robbing him. he was a long time at his work, but finally the burglar's head rolled down on the deck again, and sam hastily picked up the valise and joined his companions. they followed him to the stern, let themselves silently down into the water, and swam after the governor, who, holding his prize above his head with one hand, struck out for the farthest shore with the other. they all cast frequent and anxious glances over their shoulders, and made their way through the water with all the speed they could command, expecting every instant to hear the bullets from the burglars' revolvers whistling about their ears. but nothing of the kind happened. sanders and his companion slept on, all unconscious of their loss, and the crusoe men crossed the creek in safety and disappeared among the bushes that lined the bank. tom newcombe's idea had been successfully carried out, and atkins was the one who had suggested the way. the governor and his band would perhaps have been astonished to know that, while they were revenging themselves upon the robbers, they were playing into the hands of one of their pursuers. but it turned out that such was the fact; and if johnny harding, who was at that moment standing on the deck of the storm king, disappointed and utterly disheartened, could have received intelligence of what had just transpired on the deck of the pirate vessel, he would have danced for joy. johnny was not one who made loud boasts of what he intended to do. he possessed quite as much courage as the majority of his fellows, but he did not deny that he was afraid of the robbers. he even confessed that if he should overtake them he would be at a loss to know how to recover the money. but there was no one in the crusoe band that he was afraid of, and if he had known that his employer's property was in possession of the governor, he would have been certain of success. "we're even with them fellers now," said the chief, as he and his men concealed themselves in a thicket of bushes, from which they could watch the schooner without being observed themselves. "we'll larn 'em how to swindle us. five thousand dollars! that's a heap of money, aint it, fellers?" (the crusoe men did not know how much money they had in their possession. sanders had told them that there were five thousand dollars in the safe, and they imagined that was the amount in the valise. had they known that it was more than seven thousand dollars, their excitement, which was already intense, would have known no bounds.) "i 'most wish we had let it be," continued the governor, who became frightened when he fully realized what he had done. "let's hide it somewhere." "what for?" demanded the skipper. "why, 'cause. we can't never use it all, an' s'pose we should be ketched." "o, now, we are not going to be caught," replied tom, impatiently. "the tugs will never come in here after us, for it is too near the village. every body will think that we have kept on out to sea. our prospects were never brighter than they are at this moment. i am just as certain that we shall see the island as i am that my clothes are wringing wet from my swim across the creek. we need a better outfit, and how are we going to get it with no funds in the treasury? we've got the money now, and we might as well use it. we have as much right to it as those robbers." "that's what i say," said atkins. "i am treasurer of the band, so i'll take charge of the cash. just pass the valise over this way, governor." "now, you hold your breath till i give you the valise, won't you?" said the chief. "if you are treasurer, i'm governor, an' i won't ask nobody to help me take care of this money. i'll just hang on to it myself." atkins had been in excellent spirits during the last few minutes, but now he resumed his usual scowl, and looked as sullen and ugly as ever. his under-jaw dropped down, and his face lengthened out wonderfully. he had plans of his own that he was awaiting a favorable opportunity to carry into execution, and the governor's determination to hold fast to the money sadly interfered with them. he looked at jack spaniard, and jack looked at him, and it was plain that neither of them were pleased with the arrangement. "aha!" exclaimed the governor, "i know what you fellers are winkin' an' blinkin about. do you diskiver any thing green in this yere eye? i can see through a ladder as fur as any body." "why, what's the row, governor?" asked jack spaniard, innocently. "there's something up--that's the row," replied sam, "an' you know it as well as i do. you'd best walk turkey from this time on, you two fellers, or i'll be down on you when you aint lookin' fur it." "i think this is a purty how-de-do," growled atkins. "what's the use of havin' any treasurer, if the governor is goin' to take charge of the cash?" "there aint no use at all in havin' one--not such a one as we've got. you've good cheek, atkins. you tried to ruin the expedition by gettin' up a mutiny, an' now you're thinkin' how to steal this money from us, you an' jack spaniard are, an' yet you have the imperdence to ask me to let you take charge of it. of all the things that have happened in the band since i got to be governor, this yere is the beat." the two mutineers listened to this speech in amazement and alarm. it was all true, especially that portion of it which related to the plan they had in view for making off with the valise; but how did it come that the governor knew any thing about it? they were quite sure that neither of them had spoken a word to him or to any body else on the subject, and they were equally certain that no one had overheard any conversation between them. they opened their eyes, puffed out their cheeks, and looked at the governor and at each other as if they could not understand the matter. "o, i knew you would deny it," said sam, "but you needn't, 'cause i am sartin it's so. we've wasted time enough in jawin' now, an', as we've got to stay here all day, we might as well go to sleep. xury, you can stand watch fur two hours. keep your eyes on the schooner, an' call us if you hear any fuss." the crusoe men had resorted to the expedient of deserting their vessel in order to get rid of the robbers. it was a part of atkins's plan. sanders, when he awoke and discovered that his money was gone, would, of course, begin an immediate pursuit of the crusoe band. he would not look for them in the vicinity of the vessel and on that side of the creek, but, believing that it would be their desire to get as far away with their plunder as the limits of the island would permit, he would most likely search the woods along the beach. the burglars could not go all over the island in one day's time, and there was little probability that they would discover the governor's hiding-place. he and his men would remain concealed in the bushes until dark, and then they would board their vessel and put out to sea, leaving the burglars, as they had intended to leave the crusoe men--whistling for their money. thus far the plan had worked smoothly, and the loyal members of the band were highly elated. the only question that troubled them was: might not the robbers, suspecting the trick that had been played upon them, watch the vessel and capture them as they went on board? that was something that time only could determine. never before had the governor laid his head on a pillow worth so much money. it was not an easy one, but sam had, of late, been accustomed to hard beds and hard pillows, and he slept soundly in spite of the new responsibilities resting upon him. the captain and friday also soon forgot their troubles, but there was no sleep for the mutineers. they sat gazing sullenly at the governor and at xury, who, if one might judge by his looks, had suddenly begun to sympathize with them in their rebellious mood. he appeared to be angry, and muttered something about being compelled to stand watch when he was so sleepy. he kept his eyes fastened upon the mutineers, who seemed to be rendered very uneasy by his scrutiny, and jack spaniard finally demanded: "did the governor tell you to watch us as well as the money?" "now, who told you that i was watching you?" asked xury. "there aint no law in this band that hinders me from looking at you, is there? but you needn't be so short with me. i never done nothing to you that i know of." "didn't you help the governor capture us?" "yes, an' i would do it agin. you broke your promise by desertin' me an' the cap'n while we were in trouble, an' if you had been in my place you would have done just as i did. but this case is different." atkins and jack spaniard began to prick up their ears. the hint contained in the mate's last words, slight as it was, led them to believe that he also was becoming dissatisfied and was ready to join with them against the governor. but they were in no hurry to commit themselves. "we don't understand you," said jack spaniard. "no, i reckon not," replied the mate, with a laugh. "you an' atkins were not layin' plans to steal this money, were you? i know you were, but i hain't got nothing to say ag'in it. if you will let me come in with you, mebbe the job can be done a good deal easier. the governor suspects you, an' you can't wink your eye without his knowin' all about it. but he thinks i am all right, an' i can get my hands on the money at any time. o, you need not be afraid to trust me," he added, earnestly, seeing that atkins and his companion exchanged significant glances, and in various other ways indicated that they were suspicious of him. "i know that we are bound to be captured if we stay on board the sweepstakes, an' i am goin' to desert her. but i don't want to go without any money, an', as i have as much right to the five thousand dollars as the governor has, i'm goin' to take it. i heard the cap'n say that we would stop at one of the elizabeth islands to take on a supply of water. if we do, i shall watch my chance, an' the first thing the governor knows i'll be missin', an' so will the money. if you want to go with me, all right; if you don't, you can stay behind an' be servants fur them two lazy officers. them's my sentiments." this was the beginning of a long conversation. atkins and jack spaniard would have been glad of xury's assistance, for they knew that they would be so closely watched that it would be an exceedingly difficult matter for them to secure possession of the valise, but the mate could pick it up at any time, and without exciting the governor's suspicions. they could not forget, however, that xury had exhibited a great deal of zeal during the attack on their breastworks. he had always been loyal to the chief, and they were surprised to hear him talk of deserting, and afraid to trust him. but he seemed to be thoroughly in earnest, and atkins finally acknowledged that he and jack spaniard had made up their minds to leave the band at the first good opportunity, and that they intended to take the money with them. they compelled xury to make all sorts of promises that he would never betray them, and the latter, to show that he meant all he said, agreed to do the dangerous part of the work himself. they could remain in the back-ground, and, if he was detected, he would take all the blame and all the consequences upon himself. by the time the details of their plan had been discussed xury thought his two hours had nearly expired, and he aroused the governor with a request that he would appoint his relief. tom newcombe, much to his disgust, was the one selected. he grumbled loudly--as all the crusoe men did when called upon to act contrary to their own wishes--but no one paid the least attention to him. the governor re-arranged his pillow, and was settling himself into a comfortable position to finish his nap, when an exclamation from xury brought him to a sitting posture. the sound of hurrying footsteps and angry voices was heard on the deck of the schooner. sanders had discovered that his money was gone. the crusoe men crouched lower in the bushes, and listened intently to catch the words of the robbers' conversation. they heard all that was said, and blessed their lucky stars that there was a wide creek between them and the enraged men. "don't they take on, though!" whispered the governor. "i wouldn't be on board the sweepstakes now fur nothing. we'd better do some good runnin' if they get after us, fur they're mad enough to use them revolvers." at this moment the attention of the crusoe men was drawn from the schooner by a sound that greatly increased their excitement--the measured dip of oars. they looked down the creek and saw the jolly-boat approaching. chapter xix. the army and navy. harry green was greatly encouraged by the report simmonds brought him concerning the state of affairs in the cove. the crusoe men were surrounded, and, although he and his crew might not be able to capture them, protected as they were by the burglars' revolvers, they could at least keep them in the cove until the arrival of re-enforcements. he sent simmonds back to the midshipman with a few orders, and after instructing the second lieutenant to have the jolly-boat called away, he ran down into his cabin and dashed off two short notes, containing, in a condensed form, the report he had just received from richardson. when packard, the third lieutenant, who was to go in charge of the boat, reported for orders, harry commanded him to proceed toward the village, and give one of the notes into the hands of the captain of the first tug met. if he met none of the tugs, he was to go on to newport and find mr. newcombe, or mr. henry, if either of them were there, and after that report to captain steele, and give him the second note. the young officer was not at all pleased with his orders. he would have been much better satisfied if harry had sent him ashore to take command of the storming party. he was afraid that if he left the yacht he would not see her again until the pursuit of the pirates was ended. captain steele might tell him to remain at the academy; or, if the principal sent out re-enforcements, he might be ordered to take command of his company (packard was captain of company c), and that was something he did not want to do. the military would join in the pursuit with alacrity, and make the most strenuous exertions to effect the capture of the crusoe men, and thus rob the navy of the honors now almost within its grasp. since the advent of the storm king, there had been a hot rivalry existing between the military and naval portions of the academy, and many a stormy debate had been held as to the relative merits of the two branches of the service. the military officers said that the navy would do well enough to convey transports of troops in time of war, and that was all it was good for. the hard fighting was always done on the land, and the victories that decided the war were gained by the soldiers. "sour grapes!" harry would always reply. "if i were in your places, i would not run down a thing, after trying my best to win it. you landlubbers burned gallons of midnight oil in preparing for the naval examination. i heard more than one among you say that he would rather be a midshipman than major of the battalion; and now, because you failed to gain any position on board the yacht, the navy is of no account. as for hard fighting--why, fellows, you must have forgotten your history, if you ever knew any thing about it. take the case of the bon homme richard, in her fight with the serapis! the action lasted three hours and a half, and, during that time, one hundred and fifty, out of the three hundred and twenty men who composed the crew of the richard, were killed and wounded. the loss on board the serapis was about the same. nearly one-half the men on board the two vessels fell in the fight, and that is something you never heard of in a modern land engagement. and, more than that, the fire of the enemy was not the only thing commodore jones had to contend with. the richard was in flames from the beginning. in the heat of the action she sprang a leak, and the master-at-arms, believing that she was about to sink, released a hundred british prisoners who were confined in the hold." "didn't he deserve to be pitched overboard?" asked jackson. "this thing can never be decided by argument, fellows," said major williams. "i wish something would turn up, so that we might have a chance to show ourselves." "so do i," answered harry. "we would soon convince you that the infantry of the newport academy is a slow coach compared with its navy." but for a long time that "something" did not "turn up," and the rival students despaired of ever having an opportunity to test their respective abilities. if tom newcombe had only been there to organize another runaway expedition; or if some discontented boy could be found to take his place! but no one thought of deserting the academy now that the grand commander was gone, and the students, determined to excel their opponents in every thing, devoted themselves to their studies. each side put forward its best scholars for the valedictory and other academic honors, and some of those who were the loudest in denouncing the navy, picked out the offices on board the yacht that they thought themselves competent to fill, and worked night and day to prepare for the examination. but now came tom newcombe and his band of outlaws, and gave them the very opportunity they had so long wished for. to the soldiers he did not come so much as an incendiary as a solution. they wanted to capture him simply to beat the navy. the reason why packard was in no hurry to go back to the academy was, because if he and his boat's crew were ordered to join their company, they would be obliged to work against their favorite branch of the service, and they wanted to assist it by every means in their power. when the jolly-boat had left the yacht, harry took his stand on the quarter-deck, and watched the shoals as closely as ever a cat watched a mouse. his crew was now reduced to seven men--a small force with which to board the sweepstakes, but still the first lieutenant wished she would come out. he knew that his note to captain steele would bring all the troops at the academy about the cove, and he was impatient to have the work done before they arrived. the captain would soon be on hand to take command of the vessel, and then, if the crusoe men were captured by the navy, the lion's share of the honors would fall upon the shoulders that wore the double anchors. captain steele was a great man at the academy already, and he did not need any more glory; but harry did. it might be a point in his favor at the next examination. he kept the yacht sailing back and forth, as close to the entrance to the channel as he dared to go, ready at an instant's warning to intercept the pirate captain; but he never came. somebody else came, however. it was the midshipman with his company of small-armed men. he had built a bridge in ten minutes after tom destroyed the other, and led his men at a reckless pace down the path into the cove, only to find it deserted. he met no desperate crusoe band, drawn up in battle array, to dispute his advance. there was the cabin they had occupied, and a few useless articles they had left scattered about, but nothing was to be seen of them or their vessel. "they are captured now," exclaimed the midshipman, joyfully. "they have put out to sea again, and i expect they are in harry green's clutches by this time." richardson frantically searched every nook and corner of the cove, to satisfy himself that the pirates had really abandoned their harboring place, and then returned with his men to the top of the cliff, and led them toward the yacht. the young tars went pell-mell down the bank, falling over rocks and logs, and scrambling through bushes, that made sad work with their new uniforms. they expected to find the crews of the two vessels engaged in a desperate fight; and fearing that harry, with his small force, might get the worst of the encounter, they were in a great hurry to reach the sloop. a minute's delay on their part might give the pirates time to beat off the boarding party and escape. breathless and excited, richardson halted on the bank, and there was the yacht, sailing tranquilly back and forth, and not another vessel in sight. "storm king, ahoy!" yelled the midshipman, utterly amazed, and wondering what sort of a craft the sweepstakes was, anyhow, that she could slip out of a narrow channel under the very noses of so many watchful students. "where is she, sir?" "whom do you mean?" asked the first lieutenant, beginning to feel uneasy at once. "the schooner. she has left the cove. didn't you see her when she went by you, sir?" harry understood from this that the sweepstakes had again escaped. she certainly had not run past him, as the midshipman had intimated; the crusoe men could not have taken her out of the cove and carried her across the island, and yet she had escaped. harry asked himself if he had ever seen her at all that night. he turned and gazed at the second lieutenant, who stood at his side looking the very picture of consternation and bewilderment. "i don't understand it, sir," said the latter. "neither do i," replied harry. "run alongside the bank and take those men on board." while the order was being obeyed, harry paced up and down the deck, racking his brain in the hope of finding some explanation for this second disappearance of the schooner; but the only conclusion he could come to was, that he had been outwitted in some mysterious way, and that tom newcombe, or whoever was the presiding genius of the crusoe band, possessed more brains than he had given him credit for. he saw now that the pirate captain knew what he was doing when he ran into the cove. "i will tell you what i think about it, harry," exclaimed johnny harding, who was the first to board the sloop. "the sweepstakes crossed the shoals farther down." "impossible!" cried the first lieutenant. "perhaps it is, but how, then, could she get out of the cove without your knowing something about it? from this time forward it will be hard work to make me believe that any thing is impossible. if a man had told you, an hour ago, that a boat could live on those shoals, you would have thought he was crazy, wouldn't you?" by this time the midshipman came up to report, and after harry had listened to his story, and held a short consultation with jackson, he admitted that johnny's idea concerning the manner of the schooner's escape was correct. he ordered the second lieutenant to fill away for the narrows, and once more the storm king went dashing over the waves in pursuit of the crusoe men. but there was little enthusiasm among her officers. a stern chase is always a long one, and they were following a vessel that could sail three feet to the yacht's two. the young sailors thought of the military, and looked anxious. when the yacht was fairly under way, an eager group gathered on the forecastle to listen to a smooth-tongued fellow who related to them the particulars of the fight at the bridge; and, on the quarter-deck, johnny harding entertained the officers with a recital of his adventures. when he finished his story, he was in his turn astonished at what they had to say of the attempt the captain of the crusoe band had made to destroy their vessel. "any sensible boy could have told that tom would come to something like this," said johnny, as he went below with the first lieutenant to look at the galley. "a fellow can't keep such company as he has been keeping for the last three months, without getting into serious trouble, sooner or later." the two friends talked about tom's probable future, until they were interrupted by the entrance of the officer of the deck, who informed harry that a tug was following them down the narrows, and that she had whistled three times--indicating a desire to communicate with the yacht. harry hurried on deck, gave jackson the necessary orders, and the storm king was thrown up into the wind to wait for the approaching vessel. "tug ahoy!" shouted the officer of the deck, when he heard the bell ring to "slow down." "storm king!" was the response. "that's captain steele," said harry. "i wish he had stayed away a little longer, for i don't like to give up the command without having accomplished any thing. man the side, mr. jackson." the young commander was received by the first lieutenant, the officer of the deck, and four side boys, each of the latter holding a lantern to light him on board. tom newcombe had greatly admired him when he was nothing more than an adjutant, and if he could have seen him when he stepped on board his vessel he would willingly have given every thing he possessed to have been in his place. no doubt the wide difference that existed between the captain and himself would have served to confirm him in the opinion he had long entertained--that this was a hard world, and he the unluckiest boy in it. tom was not the only one who would have been glad to stand in captain steele's boots. the students all envied him, and especially when they saw him in his naval uniform. he presented a fine appearance on horseback, at the head of the battalion, but he looked better with his jaunty-cap and the six stripes of gold lace and star he wore on his arms. then he had so much authority, and there were the privileges to which his double rank entitled him. he was allowed to decide certain questions of discipline without an appeal to the principal. he was at liberty to go on a cruise in the storm king twice each week, and he could select the days for the sport. if he wanted to visit newport at any time after study hours, all he had to do was to report to the principal that he was going; and, if he did not feel like walking, there was a horse always at his service. he and the major had a cosy little room of their own at the academy, nicely furnished, and plentifully supplied with books, and no one, not even the teachers, ever intruded there. the privileges and comforts that fell to his lot were highly prized by the students, and it was no wonder that they envied him, and declared that he should not hold the honors longer than the next examination. lieutenant green and major williams were his principal rivals. harry, like a good many others, cared nothing for the lieutenant-colonel's commission, but he did want to command the yacht, and the captain knew it and was afraid of him. when the young commander came on board his vessel he lifted his cap, saluting first the quarter-deck and then the officers; but, being too excited to maintain his dignity, he exclaimed, as he shook johnny warmly by the hand: "what does this mean, harry? you are not running away from the enemy?" the first lieutenant was not allowed an opportunity to reply, for he was immediately assailed on all sides. the tug was loaded with students (she had also brought back lieutenant packard and his boat's crew), and major williams and several other military officers had accompanied the captain on board the yacht. they were intensely excited and impatient, and nearly overwhelmed harry with their questions and their eager demands to be led to the hiding-place of the crusoe men without an instant's delay, and the babel that arose from the quarter-deck effectually drowned the lieutenant's voice when he attempted to reply. the soldiers did not hesitate to follow the example set them by their officers. they poured over the rail and engaged in loud conversation with the foremast hands, and, for a few seconds, the confusion and noise were enough to drive one distracted. harry tried in vain to make himself understood, and was finally obliged to fall back on his authority as commander of the vessel. he made a motion to jackson, who hurried off to the forecastle, and a moment afterward the boatswain's whistle was heard above the tumult, followed by the command: "hear there, fore and aft! keep silence, every body!" however much the impatient military might have been disposed to disregard a request, they could not refuse to yield obedience to an order when it came from the lawful master of the vessel. "now," said harry, when quiet had been restored, "ask your questions one at a time, and i will answer them if i can. in the first place, captain, i am not running away from the pirate; i am pursuing him. i thought i had cornered him in the cove, but he has got out, and how he did it is a mystery to me." "escaped!" exclaimed the major, in disgust. without noticing the interruption, harry went on to tell captain steele what he had done, and to describe to him the movements of the phantom schooner, which filled every body with astonishment. the major and his officers listened attentively to all that was said, and exchanged significant winks with one another. the chase after the pirates promised to be interesting, and to afford them full scope for the exercise of all the judgment and foresight they possessed, and if the skipper of the sweepstakes continued to show the skill he had thus far exhibited, he might succeed in getting safely on the sea in spite of all their efforts to capture him. they hoped to obtain some clue to his intended movements, but the officers of the yacht were as much in the dark as themselves. "i might have known better than to ask any information of you," said the major. "if you could put your finger on tom newcombe at this moment you wouldn't tell me." "indeed i would," replied harry, honestly. "if the crusoe men were simply runaway students, and were guilty of no more serious offense than deserting the academy, perhaps i should decline to give you any assistance in the way of advice or information. if they escaped, there would be no great harm done. but tom newcombe must not be allowed to remain at liberty after trying to burn our vessel, and if we don't catch him i hope you will. if you are smart enough to do it, you will simply be performing an act of justice, and you can claim the honors." "well, we'll be off," said the major. "if you want some help we'll make fast to you and tow you down the narrows." harry looked at the captain, but the latter had not yet assumed the command, and had nothing to say, so the lieutenant replied that he was much obliged for the offer of assistance, but, if it was all the same to the major, he would use his own motive power. "all right," said williams. "we wish you the best of luck, but that won't help you any; and so you might as well go back to the academy. you have had the 'pirates,' as you call them, twice within your grasp, and allowed them to escape. just let us put our eyes on them once! the next time you see us we'll have them prisoners." the major and his officers went on board the tug, which steamed down the narrows, and the storm king, as soon as the jolly-boat had been hoisted at the davits, followed after. the captain now intimated that he was ready to take command of the vessel, and harry assumed the duties of executive, while jackson modestly took his place with the other watch officers. they all heard what the major said, and laughed at it, but they were by no means in as good spirits as they pretended to be. they wished he and his men had stayed away a little longer. the navy had heavy odds to contend against, and some of the officers thought their rivals stood an excellent chance of snatching from their grasp the honors they had hoped to win by their cruise after the pirates. major williams was working for promotion, and he possessed a decided advantage over the captain, having a tug and two companies of infantry under his command. more than that, there was another tug in pursuit of the crusoe men, having on board the principal, mr. newcombe, mr. henry, two constables, and two more companies of infantry under spencer, the ranking captain. the commander of the storm king was not so much afraid of williams as he was of spencer. the former, if he found himself in need of advice, could consult only with his officers and the captain of the tug, while spencer's movements would be directed by the "brains" of the academy. "we must look to our laurels now," said captain steele. "have you any thing to propose? shall we go out to sea, or stay in the bay?" "let us remain here, by all means," replied the first lieutenant, who had talked the matter over with johnny. "my idea is, that we ought to begin a thorough search of these islands. tom isn't foolish enough to keep on out to sea now, for it is nearly daylight." the captain thought the suggestion a good one, and he proceeded to act upon it. deer island came first on the list, and, by the time the sun arose, he had sailed around it without discovering any signs of the crusoe band. "now comes the creek," said he. "mr. green, have the jolly-boat called away, and send mr. jackson aft." "i'd like to go with him, bill," said johnny. "you won't see any comfort if you do. the jolly-boat can't seat more than three fellows." "i don't care for comfort. if you will let jackson take me as far as the shore i will get out and walk." "go ahead, and i will tell him to call you when he gets ready to come back. while you are gone i'll run down and look at the other islands." in a few minutes the jolly-boat, with an armed crew at the oars, and johnny harding crouching in the bow, disappeared among the reeds and bushes that lined the banks of the creek, and captain steele, unwilling to waste an instant of time, filled away to continue his search among the lower islands. had he known all that was to happen in that creek before he saw his boat's crew again, he might not have been in so great a hurry to leave them. jackson and his men wondered why johnny had come ashore, and if they had asked him for a reason, the only one he could have offered was that he desired to be doing something. he believed that the crusoe men were concealed in some place where the sloop would not be likely to go, and, if he took a run about the interior of the island he might, perhaps, obtain some clue to their whereabouts. jackson set him ashore, and continued his voyage of discovery up the creek, and half an hour afterward came in sight of the tall, raking masts of the sweepstakes rising above the bushes. his first impulse was to make the best of his way back to his vessel and report the matter to the captain, but he knew that the storm king was a mile down the bay by that time, and before she could return to the creek the crusoe men might be a long distance from there. they were slippery fellows--they had three times succeeded in making their escape when jackson would have staked his chances of promotion on their capture--and now that he had found their vessel again, he did not want to lose sight of her. he peered through the bushes, but could see no signs of life about the schooner. perhaps her crew, believing themselves safe from pursuit, had gone to sleep; and, if that was the case, could he not board the vessel and secure them before they recovered their wits sufficiently to resist him? midshipman richardson had dared to attack them with a force no larger than the one now at his command, and had nearly succeeded in capturing tom newcombe, and that, too, when the pirates were wide-awake and ready for him. was he afraid to follow in the lead of an inferior officer--a boy scarcely more than half his size? jackson told himself that he was not, and that if he could once get his hands on tom's collar he would like to see him escape. "give way together," said he, in an excited whisper, "and stand by me, no matter what happens." a few swift, silent strokes carried them up the creek to the edge of the bushes that surrounded the sweepstakes, and then the oars were drawn in, and the crew forced the jolly-boat ahead by pulling at the bushes and reeds. when she came alongside the schooner the lieutenant drew himself up and looked over the rail. the deck was deserted; neither the robbers nor the crusoe men were in sight. "perhaps they are below," said jackson. "we will go on board and make a rush for the cabin. if they are down there, and we can shut the door on them, we'll have them safe enough." the boat's crew clambered over the rail and moved across the deck with noiseless steps. they had nearly reached the companion-way, and jackson was in the act of reaching out his hand to close the door, when, as if by magic, two figures appeared at the head of the ladder, and a brace of revolvers were leveled full at their heads. "don't move hand or foot," said a gruff voice. the students stood as if petrified. chapter xx. a chapter of incidents. while the robbers were lamenting the loss of their money, and vowing vengeance against the crusoe men, they had determined upon a course of action, which promised, before long, to turn sam barton's triumph into defeat. they saw through his plan very easily. they knew that it was not his intention to remain long away from his vessel. they would search the woods along the bank of the creek, and, if they failed to find him, they would conceal themselves, and when he returned on board the schooner at night, they would punish him and his men in a way they had not thought of. they would tie them hand and foot, and turn the sweepstakes adrift. the current of the creek would carry her out into the bay, where she would soon be discovered, and taken in charge by some of her pursuers. if sam had told the truth about his exploits, he might be deprived of his liberty for a year or two; and that, the robbers thought, would be ample revenge for the temporary loss of their money. when they saw the jolly-boat approaching, they concealed themselves behind the rail to observe her movements. the success of their plans now depended upon the course her commanding officer might see fit to pursue. if he came on board the schooner, so that they could capture him, and prevent him from returning to his friends with a report of the discovery he had made, every thing would be well with them; but if he went back to the bay after re-enforcements, their game was up. they waited impatiently for jackson to make up his mind what he would do. when they saw the jolly-boat coming toward the bushes, they hastily retreated to the cabin; and, just at the moment when the second lieutenant was congratulating himself on his success, they sprang up and compelled his surrender. "we are all right now," said sanders, in a tone of satisfaction. "keep perfectly quiet, and no harm shall be done you." as the burglar spoke he handed his revolver to his companion, pulled some pieces of rope from his pocket, and before the students had fairly recovered from their bewilderment, they were powerless to resist, even if they had been foolish enough to think of it. the robbers lifted them in their arms, carried them down the ladder into the cabin, thence into the hold, and laid them in a row as if they had been logs of wood. "we shall leave you here," said sanders, "while we go ashore and hunt up the crusoe men. you didn't see them while you were coming up the creek, did you?" jackson replied sullenly in the negative. "well, they are around somewhere, hidden away in the bushes. they stole our money." the second lieutenant, who was quite as much interested in the recovery of the seven thousand dollars as was johnny harding, suddenly became very talkative, and wanted to know all about it; but the robber only told him that sam and his men had, by some means, obtained possession of the valise while he was asleep; that he knew they were not far off, and that he would have the money in his hands again by that time the next morning, and be miles from there. "i never, in my life, was guilty of so stupid a piece of business before," said sanders, in disgust. "the idea of two grown men depending upon a lot of little boys to take them to a place of safety! we ought to lose the money, and be caught besides." "that's just my opinion," replied jackson, heartily. "if you don't look out some 'little boys' will get the better of you yet." the robber answered that he would risk that, and after closing and locking the door of the hold, he went ashore in the jolly-boat with his companion, to begin the pursuit of the governor and his band. meanwhile johnny harding was dashing frantically through the bushes, as uneasy as a fish out of water, and perspiring like a butcher. he had a vague idea that he was looking for the crusoe men and their allies, and that if they were hidden anywhere in that island, he would like to come upon them unobserved, and then go back to the bay after re-enforcements. he was still intensely excited, and perhaps did some queer things, such as looking up into the trees, as if he were hunting for squirrels, and carefully examining places where one of those little animals could scarcely have found concealment. but nothing rewarded his search, until he suddenly found himself standing upon the bank of the creek, and saw before him the jolly-boat lying where the robbers had left it, and the schooner made fast to the bushes a little way from the shore. quick as a flash johnny dropped behind a log, and cautiously raised his head to survey the scene. "now look here," said he, digging his fingers into his head to stir up his ideas, "something has been going on. where's jackson? that's the question. he's been around, for here is the jolly-boat. i must find out what this means--i am going on board that schooner. if the crusoe men are there, i can't get into any worse scrapes than i have already been in to-night; and if they are not, i'll take the sweepstakes down the creek. that will cut off all chance of escape for the pirates, unless they steal a boat from some of the farmers; and i don't think they will attempt that in broad daylight." johnny was highly elated with the idea of capturing the schooner. what a fine thing it would be for him if he, alone and unaided, could run her out into the bay, and give her up to captain steele! but, after all, he was in no hurry to attempt it. there might be danger in it, and johnny did not care to run any risks. he remained in his concealment until he had satisfied himself that the sweepstakes had either been abandoned, or else that her crew was sound asleep; and then he stepped into the jolly-boat, and pushed it from the bank. armed with the club he had picked up in the cove, he walked over the deck without discovering the enemy, and after a long and careful examination of the cabin from the head of the companion ladder, he mustered up courage enough to descend into it. he looked into the bunks, and under the table, but there was no one there. then he tried the door which led into the hold, and nearly jumped from the deck, when a voice from the inside inquired: "who's that?" the only thing that restrained johnny from taking to his heels, and making the best of his way to the shore, was the thought that he recognized the voice, and that it did not belong to either of the robbers, nor to any member of the crusoe band. even if it was an enemy in the hold, he had nothing to fear from him, for the door was locked; and, while on deck, he had noticed that all the hatches were fastened down. "who's there, i say?" repeated the voice. "harding," replied johnny. "have you any thing to say to him?" "talk of your good genius, and you are sure to receive a visit from him. yes, we've a good deal to say to you. come in and release us. we're prisoners." johnny stood for an instant looking at the door in blank amazement, and then began to bustle about the cabin. he did not stop to ask any questions, for he recognized jackson's voice now. after a few desperate but unsuccessful attempts to open the door, he seized a handspike, with which he speedily demolished the lock; then, picking up his club again, he cautiously opened the door, and saw the three prisoners lying in a row on the floor of the hold. "what in the name of wonder are you doing there?" asked johnny. "now, do you suppose we would stay here if we could help ourselves?" demanded jackson. "i say, harding, we've good news for you. sam barton's got your money." "no!" exclaimed johnny, bringing his club against the door with a force that threatened to drive it from its hinges. "how do you know?" "we heard it from the burglars, who are out now somewhere hunting up the crusoe men. i'd like to know how much longer you are going to stand there looking at us." johnny was so astonished and delighted by the intelligence he had just received, that he forgot all about the prisoners, until these words of jackson recalled him to his senses. while he was releasing them, the lieutenant repeated what the robber had told him, which made the clerk so excited that he could scarcely stand still. he was in a great hurry to return to the storm king now, and so were the students; and in two minutes after johnny had freed them from their bonds, hasty preparations were being made to get the schooner under-way. "there is no possible chance for any backset this time," said the lieutenant. "the sweepstakes is our prize. the pirates can't escape now, for there is no cove here with secret passage ways for them to take refuge in. what's the matter, phillips?" "sink my tarry wig!" exclaimed the young sailor. "just see there, sir!" jackson looked toward the opposite side of the creek, and who should he discover but tom newcombe, crawling along almost on his hands and knees, and making all haste to get into the bushes out of sight. in his hand he carried the valise containing the seven thousand dollars. jackson and his friends looked at him a moment, then at one another, and made a simultaneous rush for the jolly-boat; and johnny harding was in so great a hurry that he shoved the boat from the schooner, almost before the others had time to jump into her. "oars! let fall! give way together!" commanded the lieutenant, in a fever of excitement, as soon as the jolly-boat was clear of the bushes. "stand by to jump out, and give chase the instant we touch the bank." "i don't think we'll have to give chase at all," said johnny. "what's the reason he doesn't run, i wonder? he is standing there in the bushes looking at us. we're after you, tom newcombe!" "o, now, what do you want with me?" drawled the captain of the crusoe band. "we want you and that money, and we're bound to have you, too. it's all up with you now." "i can't see it. you had better keep off, for you will find me a desperate man." as the skipper spoke he raised a club and shook it threateningly at the boat's crew. tom's subsequent actions greatly surprised the lieutenant. instead of taking to his heels he removed his coat and hat, deliberately placed them upon the ground beside the valise, rolled up his sleeves, tested the strength of his club across his knee, and acted altogether as if he were preparing for a desperate encounter. he kept one eye on the jolly-boat all the while, and the moment she touched the bank, and johnny harding sprang out, he caught up the valise and disappeared in the bushes. "what do you suppose he means?" asked jackson. "was he trying to frighten us?" "if he was, he didn't succeed," replied johnny, hurriedly. "we've got him at last. tom never was much of a runner, and i'll agree to catch him in two minutes by the watch. and for a sixpence i'll insure his capture and the recovery of the money." the boat's crew dashed into the bushes in pursuit of the flying skipper, and before johnny's two minutes had expired they were almost within reach of him. a few steps more would have brought them near enough to seize him by the collar, when, to their amazement, tom suddenly dropped the valise, faced about, and advanced furiously upon johnny with uplifted bludgeon; at the same instant sam barton and his band of outlaws arose from the bushes on all sides of them and rushed forward, brandishing their clubs, and yelling like young savages. tom had led the boat's crew into an ambush. "rally by fours!" shouted the lieutenant, whipping out his cutlass, which was instantly knocked from his grasp by a vicious blow from a club in the hands of will atkins. [illustration: the ambush.] "down with the 'cademy swells!" yelled the governor. "rush in on 'em! drop that cheese-knife, spooney, or down comes this yere stick right on top of your cocoa-nut." the attack was too sudden and furious to be successfully resisted. the crusoe men rushed to close quarters with the students, the light cutlasses of the latter, which were intended more for show than use, were beaten from their hands, and in scarcely more than five minutes from the time the fight began, johnny and his friends were prisoners. this was certainly a big "backset," and one they had not dreamed of. "well, sir, we done it, didn't we?" panted the governor, leaning on his club, and gazing down at his captives. "that was a splendid idea of your'n, cap'n, an' we've carried it out, too. you see," he added, by way of explanation, "we've been watchin' you ever since you come into the creek. we saw the bugglars capture you sailors, an' we were glad they done it, 'cause it saved us the trouble of doin' it ourselves. we knew when harding went aboard the schooner, an' when we saw that you were goin' to get her under-way, we studied up a plan to bring you ashore. we couldn't think of losin' our vessel, you know--she's got to take us to our island yet--so we hid ourselves in the bushes an' sent the skipper out on the bank with orders to show himself to you. we knew that the sight of him an' the money would fetch you over here, if any thing would, an' we knew, too, that if you did come, we six fellers were men enough to whip you four in a fair fight. wasn't it purty well done?" the young tars thought it was, and wondered that they had not suspected something of the kind. they might have known that tom, in spite of all his hostile demonstrations, had no intention of fighting them single handed. he was not the boy to put himself in the way of bodily harm if he could avoid it, and, now that it was too late, they were surprised that they had been deceived by so shallow an artifice. the skipper's boldness had blinded them completely. it led them to believe that he had become separated from the rest of the crusoe men, and that he was alone, and that, realizing his helplessness, and knowing that he could not escape from so swift a runner as johnny harding, he had resorted to the desperate expedient of trying to frighten the boat's crew. if the idea of bringing them into an ambush originated with him, it was certainly something for him to be proud of. "what do you intend to do with us, sam?" asked johnny. "we're just goin' to keep you with us, that's all," replied the governor. "we aint quite foolish enough to let you go back to your friends, 'cause they would come up here an' take our vessel, an' we want to use her to-night. as soon as it comes dark we are goin' to start on our cruise ag'in, an' when we are safe from the storm king an' all the tugs, we'll set you ashore on some island an' leave you to find your way back to the village as best you can." the day was a long one to the crusoe men and their prisoners. they were tired, hungry, sleepy, and thirsty. the creek flowed by within a hundred yards of their concealment, but the governor had issued positive orders that no one should venture near it. who could tell but that some of the students were sneaking about the island, or that the robbers were concealed among the bushes on the opposite bank, watching for them? the members of the band grumbled, as usual, but submitted--after will atkins, who declared that he was going to have a drink of water whether the governor was willing or not, had been taken down and thoroughly shaken--and between sleeping and watching the long hours passed slowly away. the lower the sun sank into the western horizon the longer the hours seemed to grow; but night came at last, and when it had grown quite dark, the governor picked up the valise, and gave the order to start. "untie the prisoners' feet, fellers," said sam, "an' let them walk to the boat. when we get aboard the schooner we'll pitch into the grub an' water, and then we'll be ready to start. xury, you take charge of the jolly-boat." the governor and tom, the former holding fast to the valise, were first carried across. they examined the schooner very closely before going on board, but her deck was deserted, and there was no one in the cabin, hold, or galley. the governor drew a long breath of relief. "there's no arthly use in my sayin' that i aint afraid of them bugglars," said he, "'cause i am. i thought sure we'd find 'em stowed away somewhere about the schooner, but they're ashore lookin' fur us, an' we're all right. didn't we say that we'd larn 'em a thing or two before we were done with 'em? they're the biggest dunces i ever saw. if they had any sense at all they would know that we wouldn't desert our vessel fur good. how could we get to our island without her, i'd like to know! now, xury, go back with the jolly-boat an' bring two of the prisoners across." while the jolly-boat was gone sam and tom made heavy inroads on the crackers and cheese, and drank a good portion of the small supply of water they had taken on board at the cove, and which was intended to last until they reached the elizabeth islands. they were in excellent spirits, and talked and laughed over their meal, telling wonderful stories of what they intended to do when they reached their island, and not forgetting to say a word or two concerning the robbers and the trick they had played upon them. the jolly-boat came back in due time, with johnny and the lieutenant, who were pulled over the rail, conducted into the cabin, and tumbled into the bunks--not, however, until their feet had once more been securely bound. johnny, especially, was very roughly handled by tom newcombe, who said to him, as he pushed him about: "i knew i'd have a chance to square yards with you. you will learn, before i am done with you, that a man never makes any thing by imposing upon me. don't you think i should be serving you right if i were to give you a good thrashing?" johnny, who was sitting on one of the bunks, looked down at tom, and watched him while he tied his feet, but had nothing to say. "you tormented me almost to death while i was in the village," continued the skipper. "if you passed me fifty times a day, you always had some question to ask about the crusoe band." "well, that was because i felt an interest in the society, and wanted to know how the members were getting on," said johnny. "do you know what i intend to do with you? i shall keep you on board this vessel until we arrive within a few miles of our island. lie down there, now, and keep quiet." as tom said this he pushed johnny into the bunk and went out, leaving him to his meditations. if the captain of the pirate vessel could have his own way, the prisoner certainly had a dreary prospect before him. he felt a good deal as did bob jennings, when he lay on the sofa in the cabin of the storm king, and xury was taking her down the harbor in the face of the tempest. but his situation was worse than the fisher-boy's, for he was to be kept a prisoner until the voyage of the sweepstakes was nearly ended. there was no sport in being obliged to remain in that hot cabin bound hand and foot; and when he remembered that the night promised to be very dark; that a black cloud hung threateningly in the horizon, and hoarse mutterings of distant thunder had been heard all the afternoon; that the navigation of the bay was at all times dangerous, and especially during a high wind; that tom was scarcely sailor enough to handle a sail-boat in calm weather--when johnny thought of all these things, it may be imagined that he was not very well pleased with his situation. the only consolation he could find was in the hope that the sweepstakes might be speedily captured. in half an hour all the prisoners had been stowed away in the bunks, the crusoe men had satisfied their appetites, and the governor was ready to perform another duty that had been on his mind all the afternoon. it was something he did not like to do; but the well-being of the loyal members of the band demanded it. "will atkins," said he, "you an' jack spaniard take some grub an' water to the prisoners." "atkins! atkins!" repeated the mutineer. "can't nobody in this band do nothing except atkins?" "silence!" commanded the chief, sternly. "do as you are told, to onct, an' without any more growlin'. i've give you one lesson to-day, an' if you don't mind your eye, i'll give you another. mark you, now. don't untie their hands, but feed 'em yourselves, an' give 'em all they want, too." the discontented members, fearing to disobey, sullenly gathered up an armful of crackers, filled a cup with water, and went into the cabin. the governor watched them suspiciously until they disappeared, and then, turning to xury, said: "well, was i right or wrong?" "you were right," answered the mate. "they are just spilin' to get their hands on that money, an' i told 'em that i'd help 'em. we've made up a plan to steal the valise when we stop at the elizabeth islands fur water." "i knew i couldn't be fooled easy," said the chief, "but i wanted to be sure. i'll fix 'em for that." the skipper and friday did not understand this conversation, but the governor in a few words explained. he said that ever since tom's new idea was communicated to the band, he had been suspicious that atkins and jack spaniard were watching their chance to desert the vessel, and make off with the valise--he had seen it in their eyes. in order to satisfy himself on this point, he had commissioned the mate to pump them. xury had acted his part well, and having succeeded in making the mutineers believe that he was dissatisfied with the way the affairs of the band were conducted, they had taken him into their confidence. the evidence against them was now conclusive, and the governor thought it high time they were secured and deprived of their power for mischief. the other members of the band thought _so_, too. the captain, as usual, was very indignant, and would have made a lengthy speech on the subject, had he not been interrupted by the chief, who informed him that it was a time for action, not words. "let each of us get a rope," said sam, "an' we'll go into the cabin an' make prisoners of 'em. friday, you an' xury pitch into jack spaniard, an' me an the cap'n will take care of atkins. don't waste no time, now, for it ain't best to give them too much show." the governor led the way into the cabin, where the mutineers were busy feeding the prisoners. atkins was holding a cup of water to johnny's lips. he started and turned pale when he saw the angry looks of the chief, and the rope he carried in his hand, and instead of pouring the water into the prisoner's mouth, he spilled it all down his neck. "now, look at that!" said johnny. "aha!" exclaimed the governor, "your looks are enough to tell the whole story. didn't i say that i knew you an' jack spaniard were up to something?" that was enough for atkins, who, knowing that he was betrayed, dropped his cup and bounded toward the ladder; but the governor, being on the alert, clasped him in his arms, and with the assistance of tom newcombe, secured him very easily. friday and xury attacked jack spaniard, who, seeing his companion helpless, surrendered without any attempt to resist them. "this is some of your work," said atkins, glaring fiercely at the mate. "well, i reckon i know that, don't i?" coolly replied xury. "an' you promised, honor bright, that you wouldn't never say a word to any body, an' you shook hands on it." "all them things go for nothing when a feller's actin' the part of a spy. you went back on me an' the cap'n when we were in trouble, an' now we are even with you." "chuck 'em into the bunks, fellers," said the chief. "we haint got so many men as we had a little while ago, but them that's left are true an' law-abidin'. cap'n, we'll get under-way, now." when the new prisoners had been disposed of, tom led the way to the deck, and after half an hour's hard work, the sweepstakes was got clear of the bushes, the sails were hoisted, and the crusoe men and their captives were moving swiftly down the creek toward the bay. while the governor and tom were coiling down the ropes and clearing up the deck, the latter repeated what he had said to johnny harding; and after a few objections from sam, who did not want to be bothered long with the prisoners, it was decided that johnny ought to be punished, and that the best way to do it would be to put him ashore on some desert island in the middle of the ocean, and leave him to take his chances of finding his way back to newport. the captain could not rest easy until he had communicated this decision to johnny; so when every thing was made snug, and friday had been stationed on the forecastle to act as lookout, he ran down into the cabin. at the foot of the ladder, he came to a sudden stop, and stood with his neck stretched out, his mouth open, and his eyes almost starting from their sockets. in the middle of the cabin was a small hatchway, which led into a little store-room where 'squire thompson kept his nets and other fishing-tackle stored away, and that hatchway was open, and a pair of evil looking eyes, that belonged to sanders the burglar, were peering over the combings. the crusoe men were not rid of the robbers after all. chapter xxi. conclusion. had the eyes that were peering at him over the combings of the hatchway belonged to his father instead of sanders, tom could not have been more astounded. his first impulse was to run on deck and report the matter to the governor, but when he had taken a second thought he knew that would be of no use, for, before the crew could be collected, the burglars would have ample time to come out of the store-room, and if they once gained a footing on deck they would soon square accounts with the crusoe men. the skipper knew that sanders must be driven back again at once, and that he must do it. "you young rascal!" said the burglar, placing his hands against the hatch, which he had lifted with his head, "we're going to settle with you now. i wouldn't be in your boots for a shilling." scarcely were the words out of his mouth when an incident happened that confounded the robber and not a little astonished the prisoners, who lay in their bunks interested witnesses of what was going on. tom, seeing that sanders was preparing to ascend into the cabin, took a step forward, sprang into the air like an antelope and alighted with both feet on the hatch, which crashed down upon the burglar's head, knocking him back into the store-room. the captain's heels, at the same time, flew up very suddenly, and he sat down on the hatch, holding it in its place. so unexpected was the movement, and so suddenly was it executed, that it was completely successful. sanders was stretched at full length on the floor of the store-room, and before he could recover his feet, tom had thrown the bar over the hatch, and secured it with the padlock, which lay close at hand. there were eight prisoners on board the sweepstakes now. "well, captain," exclaimed johnny harding, "if you are a crusoe man, i must say that was well done. the burglars are safe, and if mr. henry was here, i know he would thank you." the skipper sat on the hatch a long time, listening to the movements of the robbers below, and thinking over what he had done, and finally recovered himself sufficiently to go on deck and report the matter. the governor could scarcely believe his ears. he complimented tom highly for his promptness and decision, declared that it beat any thing that had happened in the band since he became governor, and ran down into the cabin to satisfy himself that the captain had securely fastened the hatch. the robbers were storming about in their narrow prison like caged hyenas, calling upon tom to raise the hatch at once, or they would take a terrible revenge upon him when they got out. they threatened to sink the vessel, to set fire to her, to shoot their revolvers through the deck, and to do many other desperate things, but they did not succeed in bringing any response from the crusoe men. they were thinking about something else. they were asking themselves what they should do with the burglars, now that they had secured them. they could not keep them in their prison forever, and it would be dangerous to let them out. if they were confined during the voyage they would starve to death, and if the crusoe men raised the hatch to pass provisions and water down to them, the robbers might use their revolvers. sam could see no way out of this new difficulty, and he heartily wished sanders and his companion a hundred miles from there. but he could not waste time in thinking about them when business of more importance demanded his attention. after a careful examination of the prisoners' bonds he went on deck with the captain, and found that the schooner was on the point of entering the bay, and that she had left the creek just in time to escape being blockaded. the yacht was in plain sight. "there's them spooneys again, cap'n," said xury. "let them come," replied tom, indifferently. "show them our heels, mr. mate." in obedience to the order xury turned the sweepstakes down the bay, the sheets were let out, and then began a race which did not end in one hour, nor two, but continued all night, and was carried on in the face of a tempest, which, although by no means as terrible as the one the storm king had weathered on another memorable occasion, was still severe enough to test the sea-going qualities of the little vessels, and the skill and judgment of their respective commanders. the cloud that had been hanging in the horizon all the afternoon gradually overspread the sky, shutting out the light of the stars, and shrouding the bay in intense darkness; the lightning flashed, the peals of thunder were almost incessant, the wind blew a gale, and at midnight both pursuers and pursued wished themselves safe in some snug harbor, out of reach of the storm. captain steele and his executive knew the bay as well as they knew their latin grammars, and it made little difference to them whether it was midnight or noon, so long as the wind was fair and the sea smooth. if the first lieutenant had been in command of the yacht, she never would have been caught out in that gale. harry would have found a safe harbor in the creek, and remained there until the storm was over, but the captain thought he was as skillful a sailor as tom newcombe or any other member of the band, and when he saw the sweepstakes standing boldly out to sea he filled away in pursuit of her. the light canvas was taken in, every thing made snug on board, two trusty men sent to the wheel, and, under a close-reefed jib and mainsail, the yacht dashed over the waves after the pirate. the hatches were battened down, all hands kept on deck, and the young commander, in his pea-jacket and tarpaulin, and with his speaking trumpet in his hand, stood on the quarter-deck, alert and watchful. every flash of lightning revealed the sweepstakes laboring heavily, and making but poor headway under the management of her ignorant and unskillful crew. on board the schooner things looked desolate and discouraging. as the cloud arose and the fierce gusts of wind began to ruffle the waters of the bay, causing the sweepstakes to careen wildly under her heavy canvas, captain newcombe felt his courage gradually oozing out at the ends of his fingers. it was a fine thing to be master of a vessel in calm weather, but, when a storm was brewing, the case was different. "skipper,", said the chief, "hadn't we better be doin' something? i think it would be a good plan to take them jibs and top-sails in before they take themselves out." tom cast a frightened glance around him--at the sails, the foam-capped waves, the angry clouds, and in a weak voice declared that it was utterly impossible for him to manage the vessel any longer. "there isn't one man in a hundred who could endure what i have been through since last night," said he, dolefully. "a fellow can't keep up long with no sleep, and nothing but crackers and cheese to eat. i'm sick, sam, and you or xury will have to take command." "now look a here, cap'n," exclaimed the chief, who became alarmed at the prospect of being obliged to assume so much responsibility, "can't you stand it just fur to-night, or fur an hour or two?" "no, nor for a single minute," drawled tom. "i'm awful sick. i turn the command over to you. carry as much or as little sail as you please, and if any thing serious happens, call me. i'm done for." and sam thought he was, for he let go the rail and sank down in a heap upon the deck. "well, if this yere don't beat all the world," exclaimed the governor, in dismay, hurrying aft to consult with xury. "here's the cap'n clean pegged out, a storm comin' up, every rag spread, them spooneys close at our heels, an' only three of us left to make things safe, an' to defend the vessel if we are ketched. what's to be done? can you be cap'n?" "i reckon," replied the mate. "if you'll stand at the wheel, an' be ready to spill the sails when i give the word, me an' friday will take 'em in." "be lively about it," said the governor, glancing uneasily toward the yacht, which, being kept in better trim than the schooner, was riding the waves as gracefully as ever, and gaining rapidly. "them spooneys aint wastin' no time." in twenty minutes the top-sails and jibs had been taken in and stowed away, the fore and main-sails close reefed, and the sweepstakes began to make better weather of it, but the work had delayed her considerably, and, when the new captain took his place at the wheel again, the yacht was scarcely two hundred yards distant. during the remainder of the night she kept close behind the schooner, and sam, watching her movements as the lightning revealed them to him, and noting the skill with which she was handled, told himself more than once that he had been sadly mistaken in the opinions he had formed concerning the students. he had hailed the approach of the storm with delight, believing that the young tars, rather than face it, would turn and run for the village; but there they were, following close in his wake, and showing no disposition to abandon the chase. the governor did not like to see so much perseverance exhibited by the students. it showed that they were determined to capture him. and how fared it with the prisoners all this while, and how must they have felt, tossed about in their bunks as the schooner labored through the waves? they would have possessed wonderful courage, indeed, if they had not been thoroughly alarmed at their situation. they passed the long, dreary hours in listening to the roar of the wind, the washing of the waves against the sides of the vessel, the despairing cries and appeals that came from the store-room under the deck, the frantic blows that resounded on the hatch, as the robbers made desperate but ineffectual attempts to escape from their prison, and waiting, with all the fortitude they could command, to feel the schooner sinking under them, or to hear the crash that would tell them she had been driven ashore in the darkness. how they struggled to free themselves from their bonds, and how they shouted to attract the attention of the schooner's crew, adding their cries to those of the robbers, and promising, if they were released, to assist in navigating the vessel, and to make no attempt at escape--promises that would have been faithfully kept, if the governor had heard and listened to them. it was a night never to be forgotten. daylight came at last, and, when objects in the cabin could be discerned, johnny harding with difficulty rolled out of his bunk and hobbled to one of the windows in the stern, and looked out. the waves still ran high, but the storm had passed away, the sky was clear, and the gale had subsided into a capital sailing wind. the headlands at the entrance to buzzard's bay had just been passed, and the schooner was in deep water. close behind her, and in plain view, came the storm king, lying almost on her side, dipping her huge mainsail into the waves now and then, and dashing the spray furiously about her sharp bows. as johnny looked at her he saw a couple of young tars mount the ratlines, and a moment afterward the flying-jib was run up, and the gaff-topsail given to the wind. captain steele thought he had followed the pirate far enough, and was now going to bring matters to an issue. "hurrah for us!" shouted johnny, in high excitement. "hurrah for the navy, captain steele, harry green, and every body, except the crusoe men! tumble up, fellows! come to the window if you can, and you will see a sight that will do your hearts good. here's the yacht." "hurrah!" yelled the students, rolling recklessly out of the bunks, and landing on the deck in one confused heap. "well, now, look here! i say! what's the row?" demanded sam barton, who at that moment entered the cabin to see that his prisoners were safe. "hallo, governor," said johnny. "how do you feel this fine morning? how are xury and the captain? how are your mother and your father? how's your uncle, and all the rest of the barton family?" "eh?" exclaimed sam, who did not know what to make of this salutation. he looked suspiciously at johnny, and stepped back and raised the handspike with which he had taken the precaution to arm himself before leaving the deck. "it's little good that club would do you if my hands and feet were free," said johnny. "but come here, governor, and tell me if you have seen that nice little vessel out there." "o, is that what the fuss is about? yes, i see her, but i won't see her in an hour from now, and neither will you. i can carry as much sail in this sea as she can, an' i've got every rag histed." "i believe you," said jackson, from the corner where he had been thrown by a sudden lurch of the vessel. "o dear! sam, untie my hands, so that i can rub my head." the governor, who had also been stretched at full length on the floor of the cabin, arose to his feet with an angry exclamation, and disappeared in the hold; and when he came out his arms were filled with provisions. johnny and his companions looked at him with hungry eyes; but the governor, having no time to waste upon them, and thinking more of himself and men than of the comfort of his prisoners, hurried on deck, and seating himself beside friday, who was at the wheel, prepared to enjoy his breakfast and watch his enemies at the same time. we ought to say that tom was again master of the sweepstakes. his illness passed away with the storm, and he was now so far recovered that he was able to do full justice to the crackers and cheese. the crew of the storm king fared as well as if they had been at the academy. during the previous day, they spoke the principal's tug, which supplied them with an abundance of cooked rations. part of them, too, were in better trim than the crusoe men; for, when the storm began to abate, about three o'clock, the starboard watch had gone below, and enjoyed two hours refreshing sleep. when the crew had eaten breakfast, and the mess-tables had been cleared away, the port watch were ordered to stand by their hammocks. they obeyed, and went below, but did not stay there long. they were too excited to sleep. they returned to the deck again, one after the other, and the captain raised no objections to it. he was a boy himself; and he knew that he would not turn in, while the pirates were in plain sight, for any body. all that forenoon the chase continued. the yacht sailed better in a heavy sea than the schooner, and the crusoe men could not shake her off. she followed them like an avenging spirit; but, as the waves began to subside, the sweepstakes gradually drew away from her, and might again have succeeded in effecting her escape, had not two tugs, loaded with students, suddenly come into view from behind one of the neighboring islands, where they had been snugly sheltered during the storm. a cheer, which came faintly to the ears of the storm king's crew, arose from the tugs, as they changed their course and steamed toward the pirate. the young tars growled lustily, and looked toward the captain, who stood with his hands behind his back, dividing his attention between the tugs and the schooner. the army and navy were now fairly matched, and tom newcombe was to determine the winning party. if he kept on out to sea, the military would bear off the honors; but if he ran toward the nearest island, which was scarcely a quarter of a mile distant, he would be captured by the navy. if he had never been cornered before, he was now. there was not the smallest chance for escape. captain steele leveled his glass at the schooner, and could see that there was great excitement among her crew. they were gathered about the wheel, flourishing their arms wildly, some apparently advising one thing, and some another; but the matter was finally settled by the skipper, who took his place at the helm and turned the sweepstakes toward the island. it was plain to them all that their cruise was ended at last. their vessel had served them faithfully, but she could be of no further use to them now. they must run her ashore and take to the woods. the storm king still followed close at the heels of the flying schooner. she seemed to glance over the waves without touching them; but, fast as she went, the tugs, which were following a course at right angles with her own, gained rapidly, rolling the smoke in dense volumes from their chimneys, and lashing the water furiously with their wheels. for a time it seemed that they would cut the schooner off from the island altogether; but tom gradually changed his course as he approached them, and ran into a little bay in the island, just as the nearest tug, which was scarcely fifty yards distant, stopped and began to use her lead-line. "hold on, tom newcombe!" yelled the major, as the schooner dashed by the tug. "you're my prisoner. stop, i tell you! captain, why _don't_ you go on? can't you see that yacht coming?" "yes, i see her," replied the master of the tug, "and i know she will capture the schooner. but i can't help it, for i can't run my vessel without plenty of water. there's a bar across the mouth of that bay, and i can't pass it." at this moment spencer's tug came up, and stopped near the other; and, while the impatient young officers and their men were crowding about the captains, and urging them to go ahead, whether there was water enough to float the tugs or not, the storm king swept by like the wind. there was no noise or confusion on her deck. the young tars were all at their stations; a party of boarders, under the command of harry green, stood on the forecastle; captain steele, a little pale with excitement, but quite self-possessed and confident, was perched on the rail, holding fast to the shrouds, and as his vessel bounded past the tugs he lifted his cap to his discomfited rivals. five minutes afterward the yacht's canvas was lying on her deck; her bowsprit was lashed fast to the schooner's foremast; harry green's boarders had released johnny harding and the jolly-boat's crew, and made prisoners of friday and xury just as they were on the point of leaping overboard; johnny had secured the valise, snatched an empty pistol from a sailor, opened the hatchway that led into the store-room, and compelled the burglars to pass up their revolvers, threatening to shoot them on the spot if they did not instantly comply with his demands; and a small skiff, which captain steele had picked up the day before, to supply the place of the jolly-boat, was in hot pursuit of the governor and tom newcombe, who were tossing about in the waves, and swimming lustily for the shore. sam was overtaken and secured in spite of his desperate struggles; and, during the delay he occasioned, tom reached the beach and disappeared in the woods. he was the only one of the crusoe band who escaped. the next morning, about ten o'clock, johnny harding, flushed with triumph and excitement, burst into the store where mr. henry was busy at his desk, and, with the air of one who did not think he had done any thing very remarkable, placed the valise containing the seven thousand dollars upon the counter, pulled a pair of navy revolvers from his pockets and laid them beside the valise, and then, seeing that the store had not yet been swept out, seized a broom and went to work. he did not say a word, and neither did mr. henry, until he had counted the money, when he came out from behind the counter and shook hands with his clerk so cordially that johnny dropped the broom and raised one knee almost up to his chin. "i never expected to see it again," said the grocer. "how shall i ever repay you, johnny? what do you want?" "i want something good to eat, and about forty-eight hours' sleep," replied the clerk. mr. henry told him to go home and get it, and johnny started, but it was an hour before he got out of the store. it soon became known throughout the village that the yacht and two of the tugs had returned with the robbers and some of the crusoe men, and the people wanted to hear all the particulars. some questioned the students, others came into the store, and johnny could not get off until he had recounted his exploits. he concluded by telling how he had come by the revolvers, and said if no one had a better claim to them than he had, he would keep them to remember the robbers by. it was a long time before the events of that night ceased to be a topic of conversation. every body was astonished, especially at the daring and vindictive spirit exhibited by tom newcombe, and many were the conjectures indulged in as to what had become of him. the trial of the "pirates," as the villagers soon learned to call them, came off in due time, and sanders and his companion went to the state's prison, and the crusoe men to the house of refuge. people wondered what would have been done with tom if he had been there. and where was tom all this while? when the students left the island, after spending the afternoon and a portion of the night in searching for him, the captain of the crusoe band came out from a hollow log where he had been concealed, and sat down upon it, to think over the past, and speculate upon the future. he was his own master now; he could go and come when he pleased, and there was no one to trouble him even with advice. how he had longed for this freedom, and, now that he had got it, how little he enjoyed it. homeless, friendless, penniless, a feeling of desolation he had never before experienced came over him, and tom would have given the universe, had he possessed it, to be able to live over the last three months of his life. how dreary seemed the world, now that he was alone in it, and how he would have appreciated his home could he have gone back there. he was now a wanderer upon the face of the earth, and he continued his life as he had begun it, flying from one thing to another, and searching for something he never found--perfect immunity from care and trouble. his adventures would fill a volume, but with them we have nothing to do. it only remains for us to see whether or not he accomplished any thing in the world. thirty-five years have passed since the scenes we have attempted to describe in this story were enacted, and during that time some great changes have taken place in newport. from a thriving village it has grown into a city of respectable size, and boasts of a mayor and councilmen. of the boys of our acquaintance some have passed away and been forgotten, others have grown to manhood, and now occupy the positions in business and society once held by their fathers, and another generation of youth has sprung up to take the places of our heroes of thirty-five years ago. the military academy is now the pride of the city, and boasts of a respectable navy. the storm king, after many a pleasant cruise, gave way to three small schooners, which are now anchored in the rear of the academy grounds. the students of the present day are as proud of them as ever captain steele was of his yacht, and their rigging is as faultless, and they are in every respect as well kept as is the saucy revenue cutter, moored a little way from them. business in mr. newcombe's old office is still carried on, but under a new proprietor, and with a different staff of clerks. the huge machinery in the elevator is rumbling, and a vessel at the wharf is being relieved of her cargo of wheat. a group of gentlemen are standing near, watching the operation, and conversing. one of them is in his shirt-sleeves, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and a pencil behind his ear. over a mass of thick, bushy whiskers peep forth a pair of eyes as sharp as those of a ferret and brim-full of fun and mischief that is johnny harding--councilman harding, with a fair prospect of becoming something more at the next election--a prosperous, hard-working business man, the owner of the largest grocery-store in the city, popular with every body, and as big a torment as ever. opposite to him stands another of our old acquaintances, a sailor on the face of him, although there is nothing about his dress to indicate his calling. his name is harry green, and he is the commander of the revenue cutter, lying at anchor near the academy squadron. at the examination following the famous cruise of the storm king, captain steele, much to his regret, was obliged to take a step backward and give place to harry, who assumed double honors--those of colonel of the battalion and captain of the yacht, both of which he held until he graduated. it was no easy task to lead a hundred smart, ambitious students, every one of whom cast longing eyes toward the shoulder-straps he wore, but harry was sensible enough to know that if any thing is worth having it is worth striving for, and he never wasted a minute, either in school or out. when he completed the course at the academy he obtained the appointment of third lieutenant in the revenue service, and slowly worked his way up to captain. he has experienced harder storms than those he weathered in the yacht, and on two occasions he led a party of boarders, when those who opposed him had something more formidable than boat-hooks and handspikes to fight with. he has smelt powder, heard the whistle of hostile bullets, and felt their force, too, but he says that he has seldom been more excited than he was when he stood on the storm king's rail as she was swinging toward tom newcombe's pirate vessel. harry often speaks of that cruise, and affirms that he shall never cease to be proud of the part he bore in it. the other gentleman of the group also answers to the title of captain, and no one could recognize in him the ragged, bare-footed fisher-boy of thirty-five years ago. but it is bob jennings, and he is to-day the proprietor of the office and elevator that formerly belonged to mr. newcombe. although he is not so large a ship-owner, he is wealthy, and his business is still increasing. the schooner discharging her cargo is named after his benefactor, j. m. evans, and the ship which is receiving it, and which is to take it to europe, is the go ahead. strangers think it an odd name for a vessel, but those who are acquainted with the history of her owner do not wonder at it. those who enter the office see over the captain's desk two mottoes in gilt letters, to the faithful observance of which he says he owes his success in life. we know that at one time bob lost faith in his first motto, but the experience of a life-time has convinced him that it can be depended upon. while captain jennings and his friends stood on the wharf conversing, a party of half a dozen students, all of them officers belonging to the academy squadron, came up. among them were the admiral, fleet captain, and the commanders of the vessels. the foremost, a boy about fifteen years of age, who carried in his hand a model of a full-rigged ship, with sails and ropes complete, wore an anchor and gold leaf in his shoulder-strap, and four stripes of gold lace and a star on each arm. he was bob jennings, junior, the second lieutenant of the zephyr. his brother george, two years younger, was the ranking midshipman on board the white cloud, the flag-ship, and the swiftest vessel in the squadron. the young officers appeared to be excited about something, for they were walking rapidly and talking very earnestly. "hallo!" exclaimed mr. harding, when the students had come within speaking distance. "what are you going to do with that ship, bob? do you intend to enter her at the next regatta to beat the white cloud?" "no, sir," replied the lieutenant. "i bought it to put on the mantle in my room. say, father, do you know there is a man in fishertown who hasn't had any thing to eat for two days?" "no," replied captain jennings, "i didn't know it. who is he?" "jack crosstree, that old fisherman." "he is a man-of-war's man, too," chimed in the midshipman, "and we're not going to stand by and see him suffer." "of course not," said mr. harding, with a merry twinkle in his eye, "you are old men-of-war's men yourselves, you know, and you must always be ready to assist a shipmate in distress." "that's our opinion exactly," said the admiral. "we're going up to the academy now to bring down a good dinner for him." "who is jack crosstree?" asked captain green, when the students had passed out of hearing. "no one around here knows much about him," replied the grocer. "he is a sea-faring man, and, if one might judge by his appearance, he has seen some hard times. he has been all over the world, spent the best part of his life in the navy, lost his leg during the war, and has settled down here in newport to pass the remainder of his days as a fisherman, but he doesn't seem to be making a paying business of it. suppose we go down and talk to him." jack crosstree, as he called himself, had been in newport about six months, and during that time he had shunned every body except the students, who paid frequent visits to his cabin to listen to his stories, when he happened to be in the humor to tell them, and to purchase specimens of his handiwork in the shape of models of yawls, jolly-boats, and full-rigged ships. he was a sullen and morose old fellow, too lazy to work, and had a great deal to say about the cruelty and injustice of the world. a few minutes walk brought the three friends to a dilapidated cabin on the beach, whose appearance and surroundings testified, in unmistakable language, to the poverty and shiftlessness of its occupant. a broken, leaky scow, that would have borne no comparison to bob jennings's old go ahead, was drawn up on the beach, a tattered sail leaned against the eaves, one side of the roof of the cabin was gone, and the door was so nearly off its hinges, that, when captain green rapped upon it with his cane, it fell down with a loud crash. "avast, there!" growled a hoarse voice, from the inside. "you've done it now, haven't you?" "beg pardon," said mr. harding; "but we had no idea that your door was in so shaky a condition, you know. why don't you get some hinges for it? and i believe, if you would put a few boards on that roof, you would sleep better of stormy nights." "ah, yes; it's all well enough for you to talk about boards and hinges--you, who, if you stand in need of such things, have only to go and buy them. but, with me, the case is different; although i've seen the time when i was better off than any of you. let the door alone, and go off about your business." mr. harding and his friends paid no attention to the ravings of the old fisherman. they raised the broken door and leaned it against the wall, and moved toward the corner from whence the voice proceeded. there, upon a miserable pallet, lay a gaunt and crippled form, partly concealed by a ragged blanket which was drawn over his head. captain green gently unclasped the withered fingers that were holding fast to it, and removed the blanket, revealing first a shock of gray, uncombed hair, and next a bronzed and weather-beaten face, on which the signs of a reckless and dissolute life were plainly visible. "go away, i tell you," cried the fisherman, striving to draw the blanket over his head again. "who asked you to come here? i know who you are, and i don't want any thing to do with you--i don't want to see you." something in the features, or the voice, must have struck captain green as being familiar, for he bent lower over the prostrate form, and when he straightened up, the face he turned toward his companions expressed the most intense amazement. "it is tom newcombe!" said he. "ay, it is tom newcombe--or, rather, all there is left of him--starving to death here in his native village, with no one, among all those who once pretended to be his friends, to lend him a helping hand. you can't assist me in my distress, but you can come here to torment me with your presence--to show me what _you_ are, and what _i might have been_. if i had only listened to the advice so often offered me, i might have been the equal of any of you," added the sailor, in a repentant frame of mind. "but it's too late now. why can't you go away and let me alone? i'll never trouble you, and i don't want you to bother me." he sank back upon the bed exhausted, and turned his face to the wall, while his visitors gazed down at him in silence. who could have told that there ever would have existed so great a difference between these four men, who were once boys together? three of them were beloved and respected by all who knew them, held positions of honor and trust, were cheerful, happy, and contented, and, better than all, could look back upon lives well spent; the other was a mere wreck of humanity, a feeble old man, when he ought to have been in his prime, living in that miserable hovel, friendless and alone, destitute of all comforts, dissatisfied with himself and every body, and reaping at last the reward of a dissipated, wasted existence. his bad habits had grown and strengthened, and prepared the way for others of a worse character, and now he did not possess the power, even if he had possessed the inclination, to shake them off. a man seldom if ever abandons his settled habits and modes of life at that age; and the helping hands that were extended to him, and the encouraging words he heard on every side, from the friends of his boyhood, could effect no change for the better in tom's condition. he is to-day a miserable, indolent, worthless being, subsisting principally upon the charity of captain jennings. his history is well known to the village boys, who see nothing in it that will induce them to follow in the footsteps of the rolling stone. the end. the john c. winston co.'s popular juveniles. jack hazard series. by j. t. trowbridge. jack hazard and his fortunes. the young surveyor. fast friends. doing his best. a chance for himself. lawrence's adventures. international bibles are known the world over for their clear print, scholarly helps and absolutely flexible bindings. they comprise every variety of readable type in every style of binding and include text bibles, reference bibles, teachers' bibles, testaments, psalms, illustrated bibles; also the "international" red letter testaments and red letter bibles with the prophetic types and prophecies relating to christ in the old testament printed in red, and the words of christ in the new testament printed in red; also christian workers' testament and christian workers' bible in which all subjects or the theme of salvation are indexed and marked in red. famous castlemon books. by harry castlemon gun-boat series. frank the young naturalist. frank on a gunboat. frank in the woods. frank on the lower mississippi. frank on a gunboat. frank before vicksburg. frank on the prairie. rocky mountain series. frank among the rancheros. frank in the mountains. frank at don carlos' ranch. sportsman's club series. the sportsman's club in the saddle. the sportsman's club afloat. the sportsman's club among the trappers. frank nelson series. snowed up. frank in the forecastle. the boy traders. boy trapper series. the buried treasure. the boy trapper. the mail-carrier. roughing it series. george in camp. george at the wheel. george at the fort. rod and gun series. don gordon's shooting box. the young wild fowlers. rod and gun club. go-ahead series. tom newcombe. go-ahead. no moss. forest and stream series. joe wayring. snagged and sunk. steel horse. war series. true to his colors. rodney the overseer. marcy the refugee. rodney the partisan. marcy the blockade-runner. 