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   :PG.Id: 35823
   :PG.Title: The Secret of the Reef
   :PG.Released: 2011-04-10
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Roger Frank
   :PG.Producer: the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
   :DC.Creator: Harold Bindloss
   :DC.Title: The Secret of the Reef
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1914
   :coverpage: images/cover.jpg

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The Secret of the Reef
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   This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
   almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
   re-use it under the terms of the `Project Gutenberg License`_
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      Title: The Secret of the Reef
      
      Author: Harold Bindloss
      
      Release Date: April 10, 2011 [EBook #35823]
      
      Language: English
      
      Character set encoding: UTF-8

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      \*\*\* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET OF THE REEF \*\*\*

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   “Clay Had Lost Control of His Limbs”

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   | :xl:`THE SECRET OF THE REEF`
   | 
   | By HAROLD BINDLOSS
   | 
   | :sm:`AUTHOR OF`
   | :sm:`“Thurston of Orchard Valley,” “By Right of Purchase,”`
   | :sm:`“Masters of the Wheatlands,” Etc.`
   | 
   | *With Frontispiece in Color*
   | 
   | A. L. BURT COMPANY
   | PUBLISHERS  NEW YORK
   |
   | :smc:`Published by Arrangement With Frederick A. Stokes Co.`
   | 
   | 
   | 
   | 
   | *Copyright, 1914, by*
   | :small-caps:`Frederick A. Stokes Company`
   | 
   | *All rights reserved*

.. contents:: CONTENTS
   :depth: 1

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   :xl:`THE SECRET OF THE REEF`

CHAPTER I—DISMISSED
===================

The big liner’s smoke streamed straight astern,
staining the soft blue of the sky, as, throbbing
gently to her engines’ stroke, she clove her way through
the smooth heave of the North Pacific. Foam blazed
with phosphorescent flame beneath her lofty bows and,
streaking with green and gold scintillations the long line
of hull that gleamed ivory-white in the light of a half
moon, boiled up again in fiery splendor in the wake of
the twin screws. Mastheads and tall yellow funnels
raked across the sky with a measured swing, the long
deck slanted gently, its spotless whiteness darkened by
the dew, and the draught the boat made struck faint
harmonies like the tinkle of elfin harps from wire
shroud and guy. Now they rose clearly; now they
were lost in the roar of the parted swell.

A glow of electric light streamed out from the
saloon-companion and the smoking-room; the skylights
of the saloon were open, and when the notes of a piano
drifted aft with a girl’s voice, Jimmy Farquhar, second
mate, standing dressed in trim white uniform beneath
a swung-up boat, smiled at the refrain of the old love
song. He was in an unusually impressionable mood;
and he felt that there was some danger of his losing
his head as his eyes rested admiringly on his companion,
for there was a seductive glamour in the blue
and silver splendor of the night.

Ruth Osborne leaned on the steamer’s rail, looking
forward, with the moonlight on her face. She was
young and delicately pretty, with a slender figure, and
the warm coloring that often indicates an enthusiastic
temperament. In the daylight her hair had ruddy
gleams in its warm brown, and her eyes a curious
golden scintillation; but now it arched in a dusky mass
above the pallid oval of her face, and her look was
thoughtful.

She had fallen into the habit of meeting Jimmy when
he was not on watch; and the mate felt flattered by
her frank preference for his society, for he suspected
that several of the passengers envied him, and that
Miss Osborne was a lady of importance at home. It
was understood that she was the only daughter of the
American merchant who had taken the two best deck
rooms, which perhaps accounted for the somewhat imperious
way she had. Miss Osborne did what she
liked, and made it seem right; and it was obvious that
she liked to talk to Jimmy.

“It has been a delightful trip,” she said.

“Yes,” agreed Jimmy; “the finest I recollect. I
wanted you to have a smooth-water voyage, and I am
glad you enjoyed it.”

“That was nice of you,” she smiled. “I could
hardly help enjoying it. She’s a comfortable boat,
and everybody has been pleasant. I suppose we’ll see
Vancouver Island late to-morrow?”

“It will be dark when we pick up the lights, but
we’ll be in Victoria early the next morning. I think
you leave us there?”

The girl was silent for a few moments, and in her
expression there was a hint of regret that stirred
Jimmy’s blood. They had seen a good deal of each
other during the voyage; and it was painful to the man
to realize that in all probability their acquaintance must
soon come to an end; but he ventured to think that his
companion shared his feelings to some extent.

“In a way, I’m sorry we’re so nearly home,” Ruth
said frankly; and added, smiling, “I’m beginning to
find out that I love the sea.”

Jimmy noted the explanation. He was a handsome
young Englishman of unassuming disposition, and by
no means a fortune-hunter, but he had been bantered
by the other mates, and he knew that it was not an altogether
unusual thing for a wealthy young lady to fall
in love with a steamboat officer during a long, fine-weather
run. Miss Osborne, however, had shown only
a friendly liking for him; and, as he would see no more
of her after the next day, he must not make a fool of
himself at the last moment.

“The sea’s not always like this,” he replied. “It
can be very cruel; and all ships aren’t mailboats.”

“I suppose not. You mean that life is harder in the
others?”

Jimmy laughed. He had been a *Conway* boy, but
soon after he finished his schooling on the famous old
vessel the death of a guardian deprived him of the
help and influence he had been brought up to expect.
As a result of this, he had been apprenticed to a firm
of parsimonious owners, and began his career in a
badly found and undermanned iron sailing ship. On
board her he had borne hunger and wet and cold, and
was often worked to the point of exhaustion. Pride
kept him from deserting, and he had come out of the
four years’ struggle very hard and lean, to begin almost
as stern a fight in steam cargo-tramps. Then,
by a stroke of unexpected luck, he met an invalid merchant
on one of the vessels, and the man recommended
him to the directors of a mail company. After this,
things became easier for Jimmy. He made progress,
and, after what he had borne, he found his present circumstances
almost luxuriously easy.

“Steam is improving matters,” he said; “but there
are still trades in which mates and seamen are called
upon to stand all that flesh and blood can endure.”

“And you have known something of this?”

“All I want to know.”

“Do tell me about it,” Ruth urged. “I am curious.”

Jimmy laughed.

“Well, on my first trip round Cape Horn we left the
Mersey undermanned and lost three of our crew before
we were abreast of the Falkland Isles; two of them
were hurled from the royal yard through the breaking
of rotten gear. That made a big difference, and we
had vile weather: gales dead ahead, snow, and bitter
cold. The galley fire was washed out half the time,
the deckhouse we lived in was flooded continually; for
weeks we hadn’t a rag of dry clothes, and very seldom
a plateful of warm food. It was a merciful relief
when the gale freshened, and she lay hove to, with the
icy seas bursting over her weather bow while we slept
like logs in our soaking bunks; but that wasn’t often.
With each shift or fall of wind we crawled out on the
yards, wet and frozen to the bone, to shake the hard
canvas loose, and, as it generally happened, were sent
aloft in an hour to furl it tight again. Each time it
was a short-handed fight for life to master the thrashing
sail. Our hands cracked open, and the cuts would
not heal; stores were spoiled by the water that washed
over everything, and some days we starved on a wet
biscuit or two; but the demand for brutal effort never
slackened. We were worn very thin when we squared
away for the north with the first fair wind.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Ruth. “It must have been a
grim experience. Didn’t it daunt you, and make you
hate the sea?”

“I hated the ship, her skipper, and her owners, and
most of all the smart managing clerk who had worked
out to the last penny how cheaply she could be run; but
that was a different thing. The sea has a spell that
grips you, and never lets go again.”

“Yes,” said Ruth; “I have felt that, though I have
seen it only in fine weather and from a liner’s saloon
deck.” She mused for a few moments before she went
on. “It will be a long time before I forget this voyage,
steaming home over the sunlit water, with the wind
behind us and the smoke going straight up, the decks
warm, everything bright and glittering, and the glimmer
of the moon and the sea-fire about the hull at
night.”

There was an opening here for an assurance that the
voyage would live even longer in his memory; but
Jimmy let it pass. He feared that he might say too
much if he gave the rein to sentiment.

“Were you not charmed with Japan?” he asked.

Ruth acquiesced in the change of topic, and her eyes
sparkled enthusiastically.

“Oh, yes! It was the time of the cherry-blossom,
and the country seemed a fairyland, quainter, stranger,
and prettier than anything I had ever dreamed of!”

“Still, you must have seen many interesting places.”

“No,” she said with a trace of graveness. “I don’t
even know very much about my own country.”

“All the Americans I have met seemed fond of
traveling.”

“The richer ones are,” she answered frankly. “But
until quite lately I think we were poor. It was during
the Klondyke rush that my father first became prosperous,
and for a number of years I never saw him.
When my mother died I was sent to a small, old-fashioned,
New England town, where some elderly relatives
took care of me. They were good people, but very
narrow, and all I heard and saw was commonplace and
provincial. Then I went to a very strict and exclusive
school and stayed there much longer than other girls.”
Ruth paused and smiled. “When at last I joined my
father I felt as if I had suddenly awakened in a different
world. I had the same feeling when I saw
Japan.”

“After all, you will be glad to get home.”

“Yes,” she said slowly; “but there’s a regret. We
have been very happy since we left; my father has been
light-hearted, and I have had him to myself. At home
he often has an anxious look, and is always occupied.
I have some friends and many acquaintances, but now
and then I feel lonely.”

Jimmy pondered, watching her with appreciative
eyes. She was frank, but not with foolish simplicity;
quite unspoiled by good fortune; and had nothing of
the coquette about her. Indeed, he wondered whether
she realized her attractiveness, or if the indifference she
had shown to admiration were due to pride. He did
not know much about young women, but he thought
that she was proud and of strong character.

“You must come to see us if you are ever near Tacoma,”
Ruth said cordially.

Jimmy thanked her, and soon afterward left her, to
keep his watch on the bridge. As they were still out of
sight of land he had no companion except the quartermaster
at the wheel in the glass-fronted pilot-house.
There was no sail or smoke trail in all the wide expanse
his high view point commanded. Rolling lazily
to port and starboard, the big boat cleft a lonely sea
that was steeped in dusky blue save where a broad belt
of moonlight touched it with glittering silver. The
voices and laughter gradually died away from the decks
below, the glow of light was lessening, and the throb
of the screws and the roar of flung-off water grew
louder. A faint breeze had sprung up, and the smoke
stretched out, undeviating, in a broad black smear over
the starboard quarter; Jimmy noticed this while he
paced to and fro, turning now and then to sweep a different
arc of horizon. The last time he did so he
stopped abruptly, for the smoke had moved forward.
For a moment he fancied that the wind had changed,
but a glance at the white-streaked wake showed him
that the vessel was swinging round. Then he sprang
to the pilot-house, and, looking in through the open
door, saw the quartermaster leaning slackly on the
small brass wheel. His face showed livid in the moonlight,
and his forehead was damp with sweat.

“What’s this, Evans?” Jimmy cried.

Pulling himself together with an effort, the man
glanced at the compass in alarm.

“Sorry, sir,” he said thickly, spinning the wheel.
“She’s fallen off a bit. Something came over me; but
I’m all right now.”

“It may come over you once too often. This isn’t
the first time,” Jimmy reminded him.

A shadow obscured the moonlight; and, turning abruptly,
Jimmy saw the captain in the doorway. The
skipper looked at the compass and studied the quartermaster’s
face; then he beckoned Jimmy outside. He
had come up in soft slippers which made no noise, and
Jimmy was keenly concerned to know how long he had
been there. Jimmy had never got on well with his captain.

“Evans had his helm hard over; was she much
off her course?” the captain asked with an ominous
calm.

“About thirty degrees, sir.”

“How long is it since you checked his steering?”

Jimmy told him.

“You consider that often enough?”

“I had my eye on the smoke, sir.”

“The smoke? I suppose you know a light breeze is
often variable?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy. “She couldn’t swing off
much without my noticing it.”

“One wouldn’t imagine so after what I discovered.
But I gathered that Evans had been seized in this way
during your watch before.”

“Yes, sir,” Jimmy repeated doggedly.

“Didn’t it strike you that your duty was to report
the matter? You knew that Evans has a weakness of
the heart that may seize him unexpectedly at any time.
If it did so when we were entering a crowded harbor or
crossing another vessel’s course, the consequences might
prove disastrous. In not reporting it you took upon
yourself a responsibility I can’t allow my officers.
Have you anything to say?”
Jimmy knew he could make no answer that would
excuse him. When, as is now usual, a fast vessel’s
course is laid off in degrees, accurate steering is important,
and he had been actuated by somewhat injudicious
pity. Evans was a steady man, with a family in England
to provide for, and he had once by prompt action
prevented the second mate’s being injured by a heavy
cargo-sling.

“Perhaps the best way of meeting the situation,” the
captain said curtly, “would be for you to voluntarily
leave the ship at Vancouver. You can let me know
what you decide when you come off watch.”

Jimmy moodily returned to his duty. He thought
his fault was small, but there was no appeal. He
would have no further opportunity for serving his present
employers; and mailboat berths are not readily
picked up. He kept his watch, and afterward went to
sleep with a heavy heart.

The next evening he was idling disconsolately on the
saloon deck when he saw Miss Osborne coming toward
him. He was standing in the shadow of a boat and
stayed there, feeling in no mood to force a cheerfulness
he was far from feeling. Besides, he had now
and then, when the girl was gracious to him, found it
needful to practise some restraint, and now he felt unequal
to the strain.

“I have been looking for you,” she said. “As I
suppose everybody will be busy to-morrow morning, I
may not see you then. But you seem downcast!”

Jimmy shrank from telling her that he had been dismissed;
and, after all, that was a comparatively small
part of his trouble. The girl’s tone was gentle, and
there was in her eyes a sympathy that set his heart beating.
He wished he were a rich man, or, indeed, almost
anything except a steamboat officer who would soon be
turned out of his ship.

“Well,” he said, “for one thing, the end of a voyage
is often a melancholy time. After spending some
weeks with pleasant people, it’s not nice to know they
must all scatter and that you have to part from friends
you have made and like.”

A faint tinge of color crept into Ruth’s face; but she
smiled.

“It doesn’t follow that they’re forgotten,” she replied;
“and there’s always a possibility of their meeting
again. We may see you at Tacoma; it isn’t very
far from Vancouver.”

Jimmy was not a presumptuous man, but he saw that
she had given him a lead and he bitterly regretted that
he could not follow it. Though of hopeful temperament,
stern experience had taught him sense, and he
recognized that circumstances did not permit of his
dallying with romance. There was nothing to be
gained and something to be lost by cultivating the girl’s
acquaintance.

“I may have to sail on a different run before long,”
he said.

She gave him a glance of swift but careful scrutiny.
The moonlight was clear, and he looked well in his
white uniform, which showed his solid but finely
molded figure and emphasized the clean brownness of
his skin. He had light hair and steady, dark blue eyes,
which had just then a hint of trouble.

“Well,” she responded, “you know best; but,
whether you come or not, my father and I are in your
debt. You have done much to make this a very pleasant
voyage.” She gave him her hand, which he held a
moment. “And, now, since you wish it, good-by!”

When she turned away, Jimmy leaned on the rail,
watching her move quietly up the long deck. He was
troubled with confused and futile regrets. Still, he
had acted sensibly: it was unwise for a dismissed
steamboat officer to harbor the alluring fancies he had
sternly driven from his mind.

CHAPTER II—A NEW VENTURE
========================

The sun had dipped behind a high black ridge
crested with ragged pines, when Jimmy, dressed
in brown overalls and a seaman’s jersey, sat cooking
supper on a stony beach of Vancouver Island. In
front of him the landlocked sea ran back, glimmering
with a steely luster, into the east; behind, where the
inlet reached the hillfoot, stood the City of the Springs,
which then consisted of a shut-down sawmill, a row of
dilapidated wooden houses, and two second-rate hotels.
Shadowed by climbing pinewoods, sheltered by the
rocks, the site was perhaps as beautiful as any in the
romantic province of British Columbia, though man’s
crude handiwork defaced its sylvan charm with rusty
iron chimney-stacks, rows of blackened fir-stumps, and
unsightly sawdust heaps. For all that, giant, primeval
forest rolled close up to it, and in front lay the untainted
sea. The air had in it a curious exhilarating
quality; the balsamic scent of the firs mingled with the
sharp odors of drying weed, tar, and cedar shavings
that lay about the camp; and Jimmy, stooping over his
frying-pan, sniffed the air with satisfaction. These
were odors that belonged to the sea and the wilds; and
he had lately renounced the comforts of civilization and
embarked upon an adventure that appealed to him.

Near him, a man with a rugged, weatherbeaten face
was engaged in fitting a plank into the bilge of a
hauled-up sloop. She was a small but shapely vessel
of about forty feet in length, and had been built after a
design adopted by a famous yacht club on the Atlantic
coast. Jimmy could see that she was fast; but she had
been put to base uses, and had suffered from neglect.
As a matter of fact, he never learned her history, and
had always some doubt as to whether the man from
whom he and his companion bought her had an indisputable
right to sell her.

Moran had been a Nova Scotian lobster catcher before
he came to British Columbia to engage in the new
halibut fishery, which had proved disappointing.
Bethune, who lay upon the shingle in garments much
the worse for wear, was a “remittance man,” with a
cheerful expression and a stock of unvarying good humor.
It was some time since he had engaged in any
exacting occupation, and now, after using the saw all
day, he was resting from his unaccustomed exertions
and bantering Moran.

Jimmy had met them both in a second-rate Vancouver
boarding-house, to which he had resorted after
failing to find a ship, and working on the wharf. He
might have sailed before the mast, but he knew that
when he next applied for a berth on board a liner he
must account for his voyagings, and the fact that he
had served as able seaman would not recommend him.
When there was no cargo to be handled, he worked in
the great Hastings mill; but he promptly discovered
that he would never grow rich by this means; and the
unrelaxing physical effort, demanded by foremen who
knew how to drive hard, began to pall on him. He
could have stood it had he come fresh from the sailing
ships, but he frankly admitted that it was trying to a
mailboat officer. He had, however, some small savings,
and when Bethune proposed a venture, in which
Moran joined, Jimmy agreed.

“Hank,” Bethune drawled, after watching Moran
for several minutes, “you Maritime Provinces people
are a hard and obstinate lot, but you won’t get the plank
in that way if you stick at it until to-morrow.”

Moran looked up with the sweat dripping from his
brow.

“I surely hate to be beat,” he admitted. “I can
spring her plumb up lengthways, but her edges won’t
bend into the frames.”

“Exactly. This isn’t a cod-fishing dory or a lobster
punt. Take your plane and hollow the plank up the
middle.”

After doing as he was instructed, Moran had not
much trouble in fitting it into place.

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” he asked.

“I’ve known you some time,” Bethune answered
with a grin. “There are people to whom you can’t
show the easiest way until they’ve tried the hardest
one and found it won’t do. It’s not their fault; I hold
you can’t make a man responsible for his temperament—and
it’s a point on which I speak feelingly, because
my temperament has been my bane.”

“How d’you know these things, anyway? I mean
about bending planks. You never allowed you’d been
a boatbuilder.”

“Do you expect a man to exhibit all his talents?
Here’s another tip. Don’t nail that plank home now.
Leave it shored up until morning, and you’ll get it dead
close then with a wedge or two. And now, if Jimmy
hasn’t burned the grub, I think we’ll have supper.”

The meal might have been better, but Moran admitted
that he had often eaten worse, and afterward
they lay about on the shingle and lighted their pipes.
Bethune, as usual, was the first to speak.

“The lumber, and the canvas Jimmy gets to work
upon to-morrow, have emptied the treasury,” he remarked.
“If we incur any further liabilities, there’s
a strong probability of their not being met; but that
gives the job an interest. Prudence is a cold-blooded
quality, which no man of spirit has much use for. To
help yourself may be good, but doing so consistently
often makes it harder to help the other fellow.”

“When you have finished moralizing we’ll get to
business,” Jimmy rejoined. “Though I’m a partner
in the scheme, I know very little yet about the wreck
you’re taking us up to look for. Try to be practical.”

“Moran is practical enough for all three of us. I’ll
let him tell the tale; but I’ll premise by saying that
when he found the halibut fishing much less remunerative
than it was cracked up to be, he sailed up the
northwest coast with another fellow to trade with the
Indians for furs. It was then he found the vessel.”

“The reef,” said Moran, “lies open to the south-west,
and I got seven fathoms close alongside it at low
water. A mile off, and near a low island, a bank runs
out into the stream, and the after-half of the wreck
lies on the edge of it, worked well down in the sand.
At low ebb you can see the end of one or two timbers
sticking up out of the broken water.”

“Is it always broken water?” Jimmy interrupted.

“Pretty near, I guess. Though there’s a rise and
fall on the island beach, the stream ran steady to the
northeast at about two miles an hour, the whole week
we lay sheltering in the bight, and the swell it brings
in makes a curling sea on the edge of the shoals.”

“Doesn’t seem a nice place for a diving job. How
did you get down to her?”

“Stripped and swam down. One day when it fell
a flat calm for a few hours and Jake was busy patching
the sail, I pulled the dory across. I wanted to find
out what those timbers belonged to, and I knew I had
to do it then, because the ice was coming in, and we
must clear with the first fair wind. Well, I got a turn
of the dory’s painter round a timber, and went down
twice, seeing bottom at about three fathoms with the
water pretty clear. The sand was well up her bilge,
but she was holding together, and when I swam round
to the open end of her there didn’t seem much in the
way except the orlop beams. I could have walked
right aft under decks if I’d had a diving dress; but I’d
been in the water long enough, and a sea fog was
creeping up.”

Moran apparently thought little of his exploit; but
Jimmy could appreciate the hardihood he had shown.
The wreck lay far up on the northern coast, where
the sea was chilled by currents from the Pole, and
Moran had gone down to her when the ice was working
in. Jimmy could imagine the tiny dory lurching
over the broken swell, and the half-frozen man
painfully crawling on board her with many precautions
to avoid a capsize, while the fog that might prevent
his return to his vessel crept across the water. It
was an adventure that required unusual strength and
courage.

“Why didn’t you take your partner out with you?”
he asked.

“I’d seen Jake play some low-down tricks when we
traded for the few furs we got, and I suspicioned he
wasn’t acting square with me. Anyhow, he allowed
he didn’t take much count of abandoned wrecks, and
when he saw I’d brought nothing back, he never asked
me about her.”

“But if she was lost on the reef, how did she reach
the bank a mile away?”

“I can’t tell you that, but I guess she shook her engines
out after she broke her back, and then slipped off
into deeper water. The stream and surge of sea may
have worked her along the bottom.”

“It came out that she had only a little rock ballast
in her,” Bethune explained. “There may not have
been enough to pin her down; but the important point
is that the strong-room was aft, and Hank says that
part is sound.”

Jimmy nodded.

“Suppose you tell me all you know about the matter,”
he said.

It was characteristic of both of them that when
they first discussed the venture the one had been content
with sketchily outlining his plans, and the other
had not demanded many details. The project appealed
to their imagination, and once they had decided
upon it the necessary preparations had occupied
all their attention.

Leaning back against a boulder, Bethune refilled
and lighted his pipe. His clothes were far from new,
and were freely stained with tar, but he spoke clean
English, and his face suggested intelligence and refinement.

“Very well,” he said. “When Hank mentioned
his discovery I thought I saw an opportunity of the
kind I’d been waiting for; and I took some trouble to
find out what I could about the vessel. She was an
old wooden propeller that came round Cape Horn a
good many years ago. When she couldn’t compete
with modern steamboats, they strengthened her for a
whaler, and she knocked about the Polar Sea; but she
burned too much coal for that business, and wouldn’t
work well under sail. It looked as if there wasn’t
a trade in which she could make a living; but the
Klondyke rush began, and somebody bought her
cheap, and ran her up to Juneau, in Alaska, and afterward
to Nome. There were better boats, but they
were packed full, fore and aft, and the crowd going
north was not fastidious: all it wanted was to get on
the goldfields as soon as possible. Well, she made
a number of trips all right, though I believe her owners
had trouble when the pressure eased and the
United States passenger-carrying regulations began
to be properly applied. It was probably because no
other boat was available that a small mining syndicate,
which seems to have done pretty well, shipped
a quantity of gold down from the north in her. Besides
this, she brought out a number of miners, who
had been more or less successful. Something went
wrong with the engines when she had been a day or
two at sea; but they got sail on her, and she drove
south before a fresh gale until she struck the reef
on a hazy night. It broke her back, and the after
hold was flooded a few minutes after she struck.
The strong-room was under water, there was no time
to cut down to it; but they got the boats away, and
after the crew and passengers were picked up, a San
Francisco salvage company thought it worth while
to attempt the recovery of the gold. It was late in
the season when their tug reached the spot, and the
ice drove her off the reef; the sea was generally
heavy, and after a week or two they threw up the
contract. The underwriters paid all losses, and that
was the end of the matter. It is only the drifting
of the stern half into shoal water that gives us our
chance. Now I think you know as much as I do.”

Jimmy sat thoughtfully silent for a few minutes,
realizing that it was a reckless venture he had undertaken.
The wreck lay in unfrequented waters
which were swept by angry currents that brought in
the ice, vexed by sudden gales, and often wrapped
in fog. The appliances the party had been able to
procure were of the cheapest description, and there
was a risk in making the long voyage in so small a
vessel as the sloop. Still, Jimmy’s fortunes needed a
desperate remedy, and he was not much daunted by
the difficulties he must face.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose we have some chance;
but I don’t quite see what made you so keen on taking
up the thing.”

“It’s explainable,” Bethune drawled, picking up a
pebble and lazily flipping it out over the water. “Victoria’s
a handsome city, and the views from it are
good. For all that, when you can find no occupation,
and have spent some years lounging about the waterfront
and the bars of cheap hotels, the place, to put
it mildly, loses its charm.”

“You could leave it. As a matter of fact, I met
you at Vancouver.”

“Oh, yes. I could leave it for a maximum period
of thirty days, because, with the exception of Sundays
and one or two holidays, I was required to present
myself at a lawyer’s office on the first of every
month. Then I was paid enough to keep me, with
rigid economy, for the next four weeks; but on the
first occasion I failed to come up to time the allowance
was to stop for good. It’s a system that has some
advantages for the people who provide the funds in
the old country, since it assures the payee’s stopping
where he is—but it has its drawbacks for the latter.
How can a man get a job and hold it anywhere outside
the town if he must return at a fixed hour every
month? When I was in Vancouver it cost me a large
share of the allowance to collect it.”

“And now, by going north, you throw it up?”

“Exactly,” said Bethune. “It should have been
done before, but, as I had never been taught to work
or go without my dinner, the course I am at last taking
needed some moral courage. It’s sink or swim
now.”

Jimmy made a sign of agreement. All the money
he possessed had been sunk in the undertaking; and
now, in order to get it back, he must succeed
where a well-equipped salvage expedition had failed.
Though the wreck had since changed her position, the
prospects were not very encouraging.

“Well,” he said, “we must do the best we can;
but I wish our funds had run to a better supply of
stores.”

“Hank can fish,” grinned Bethune. “In fact, he’ll
have to whenever there’s anything to catch. Fortunately,
fish is wholesome and sustaining. However,
as this job must be finished to-morrow, we had better
get to sleep early.”

Jimmy sat smoking for a few minutes after the
others went on board the sloop. It was getting dark,
but a band of pure green light still glimmered along
the crest of the black ridge to the west. The air
was cold and very still, and gray wood smoke hung
in gauzy wreaths above the roofs of the town. The
tall pines were growing blurred, but their keen, sweet
fragrance hung about the beach, and the smooth swell
lapped with a drowsy murmur upon the shingle.

Jimmy loved the sea; and now he was to go afloat
again, in his own vessel, bound by no restrictions except
the necessity for making the voyage pay. This
would not be easy; but there was a romance about the
undertaking that gave it a zest.

CHAPTER III—THE FURY OF THE SEA
===============================

In the evening of the day on which they saw the
last of Vancouver Island, Jimmy sat in the
*Cetacea’s* cockpit with a chart of the North Pacific
spread out before him on the cabin hatch. It showed
the tortuous straits, thickly sprinkled with islands of
all sizes, through which they had somehow threaded
their way during the last week, in spite of baffling
head winds and racing tides, and though Jimmy was
a navigator he felt some surprise at their having accomplished
the feat without touching bottom. Now
he had their course to the north plotted out along the
deeply fretted coast of British Columbia, and rolling
up the chart he rose to look about.

It was nine o’clock, but the light was clear, and
a long, slate-green swell slightly crisped with ripples
rolled up out of the south; to the northwest a broad
stripe of angry saffron, against which the sea-tops cut,
glowed along the horizon; but the east was dim, and
steeped in a hard, cold blue. Shadowy mountains
were faintly visible high up against the sky; and,
below, a few rocky islets rose, blurred by blue haze,
out of the heaving sea.

The sloop rolled lazily, her boom groaning and the
tall, white mainsail alternately swelling out and emptying
with a harsh slapping of canvas and a clatter of
shaken blocks. Above it the topsail raked in a wide
arc across the sky. Silky lines of water ran back
from the stern, there was a soft gurgle at the bows;
Jimmy computed that she was slipping along at about
three miles an hour.

“What do you think of the weather?” Bethune
asked, as he lounged at the steering wheel.

“It doesn’t look promising,” Jimmy answered. “If
time wasn’t an object, I’d like the topsail down.
We’ll have wind before morning.”

“That’s my opinion; but time is an object. When
the cost of every day out is an item to be considered,
we must drive her. Have you reckoned up what
we’re paying every week to the ship-chandler fellow
who found us the cables and diving gear?”

“I haven’t; his terms were daunting enough as a
whole without analyzing them. Have you?”

Bethune chuckled.

“I have the cost of everything down in my notebook;
although I will confess that I was mildly surprised
at myself for taking the trouble. If I’d occasionally
made a few simple calculations at home and
acted on them, the chances are that I shouldn’t be here
now.” Bethune made a gesture of disgust. “Halibut
boiled and halibut fried begins to pall on one;
but this is far better than our quarters in Vancouver,
and they were a big improvement on those I had in
Victoria. I daresay it was natural I should stick
to the few monthly dollars as long as possible, but it will
be some time before I forget that hotel. I never
quite got used to the two wet public towels beside
the row of sloppy wash-basins, and the gramophone
going full blast in the dirty dining-room; and the
long evening to be dawdled through in the lounge was
worst of all. You have, perhaps, seen the hard-faced
toughs lolling back with their feet on the radiator
pipes before the windows, the heaps of dead flies that
are seldom swept up, the dreary, comfortless squalor.
Imagine three or four hours of it every night, with
only a last-week’s *Colonist* to while away the time!”

“I should imagine things would be better in a railroad
or logging camp.”

“Very much so, though they’re not hotbeds of luxury.
The trouble was that I couldn’t come down
to Victoria and hold my job. Once or twice when
the pay days approximated, I ran it pretty fine; and
I’ve a vivid memory of walking seventy miles in two
days over a newly made wagon trail. The softer
parts had been graded with ragged stones from the
hillside, the drier bits were rutted soil—it needed a
surgical operation to get my stockings off.”

“It might have paid you better to forfeit your allowance,”
Jimmy suggested.

“That’s true,” said Bethune. “I can see it now,
but I had a daunting experience of clearing land
and laying railroad track. Dragging forty-foot rails
about through melting snow, with the fumes of giant-powder
hanging among the rocks and nauseating you,
is exhausting work, and handspiking giant logs up
skids in rain that never stops is worse. The logs have
a way of slipping back and smashing the tenderfoot’s
ribs. I suppose this made me a coward; and, in a
sense, the allowance was less of a favor than a right.
The money that provided it has been a long time in
the family; I am the oldest son; and while I can’t
claim to have been a model, I had no serious vices
and had committed no crime. If my relatives chose
to banish me, there seemed no reason why they
shouldn’t pay for the privilege.”

Jimmy agreed that something might be said for
his comrade’s point of view.

“Now I stand on my own feet,” Bethune went on,
with a carefree laugh; “and while it’s hard to predict
the end of this adventure, the present state of things
is good enough for me. Is anything better than being
afloat in a staunch craft that’s entirely at your command?”

Jimmy acquiesced heartily as he glanced about.
Sitting to windward, he could see the gently rounded
deck run forward to the curve of the lifted bows, and,
above them, the tall, hollowed triangle of the jib.
The arched cabin-top led forward in flowing lines,
and though there were patches on plank and canvas,
all his eye rested on was of harmonious outline. The
*Cetacea* was small and low in the water, but she was
fast and safe, and Jimmy had already come to feel
a certain love for her. Their success depended upon
her seaworthiness, and he thought she would not fail
them.

“I like the boat; but I’ve been mending gear all
day, and it’s my turn below,” he said.

The narrow cabin that ran from the cockpit bulkhead
to the stem was cumbered with dismantled diving
pumps and gear, but there was a locker on each
side on which one could sleep. It was, moreover,
permeated with the smell of stale tobacco smoke,
tarred hemp, and fish, but Jimmy had put up with
worse odors in the Mercantile Marine. Lying down,
fully dressed, on a locker, he saw Moran’s shadowy
form, wrapped in old oilskins, on the opposite locker,
rise above his level and sink as the *Cetacea* rocked
them with a rhythmic swing. The water lapped
noisily against the planks, and now and then there
was a groaning of timber and a sharp clatter of
blocks; but Jimmy soon grew drowsy and noticed
nothing.

He was awakened rudely by a heavy blow, and
found he had fallen off the locker and struck one of
the pump castings. Half dazed and badly shaken,
as he was, it was a few moments before he got upon
his knees—one could not stand upright under the
low cabin-top. It was very dark, Jimmy could not
see the hatch, and the *Cetacea* appeared to have fallen
over on her beam-ends. A confused uproar was going
on above: the thud of heavy water striking the
deck, a furious thrashing of loose canvas, and the
savage scream of wind. Bethune’s voice came faintly
through the din, and he seemed to be calling for help.

Realizing that it was time for action, Jimmy pulled
himself together and with difficulty made his way
to the cockpit, where he found it hard to see anything
for the first minute. The spray that drove across
the boat beat into his face and blinded him; but he
made out that she was pressed down with most of
her lee deck in the water, while white cascades that
swept its uplifted windward side poured into the cockpit.
The tall mainsail slanted up into thick darkness,
but it was no longer thrashing, and Jimmy was given
an impression of furious speed by the way the half
visible seas raced past.

“Shake her! Let her come up!” he shouted to the
dark figure bent over the wheel.

He understood Bethune to say that this would involve
the loss of the mast unless the others were ready
to shorten canvas quickly.

Jimmy scrambled forward through the water and
loosed the peak-halyard. The head of the sail swung
down and blew out to leeward, banging threateningly,
and he saw that the half-lowered topsail hung beneath
it. This promised to complicate matters; but
Moran was already endeavoring to change the jib
for a smaller one, and Jimmy sprang to his assistance.
Though the sail was not linked to a masthead stay,
it would not run in; and when Bethune luffed the
boat into the wind, the loose canvas swept across the
bows, swelling like a balloon and emptying with a
shock that threatened to snap the straining mast. It
was obvious to the men who knelt in the water dragging
frantically at a rope that something drastic must
be done; but both were drenched and half blinded and
had been suddenly roused from sleep. The boat was
large enough to make her gear heavy to handle, and
yet not so large as to obviate the need for urgent haste
when struck with all her canvas set by a savage squall.
Though they recognized this, Jimmy and his comrade
paused a few moments to gather breath. The jib,
however, must be hauled down; and with a hoarse
shout to Moran, Jimmy lowered himself from the bowsprit
until he felt the wire bobstay under his feet.

The *Cetacea* plunged into the seas, burying him to
the waist, but he made his way out-board with the
canvas buffeting his head until he seized an iron ring.
It cost him a determined effort to wrench it loose so
it could run in, and when, at last, the sail swept behind
him he felt the blood warm on his lacerated hand.
Then he crawled on board, and when he and Moran
had set a smaller jib it was high time to reef the mainsail;
but they spent a few moments in gathering
strength for the task.

She was down on her beam-ends, with the sea breaking
over her. Jimmy could not imagine what Bethune
was doing at the wheel. The foam that swirled past
close under the boom on her depressed side lapped
to the cabin top; it looked as if she were rolling over.
They felt helpless and shaken, impotent to master the
canvas that was drowning her. But the fight must be
made; and, rousing themselves for the effort, they
groped for the halyards. The head of the sail sank
lower; gasping, and straining every muscle, they hauled
its foot down, and then Jimmy, leaning out, buried
to the knees in rushing foam, with his breast on the
boom, knotted the reef-points in. It was done at last.
Rising more upright, she shook off some of the water.

Moran turned to Bethune, who was leaning as if
exhausted on his helm, and demanded why he had
not luffed the craft, which would have eased their
work. Then the dripping man showed them that the
boat they carried on deck had been washed against
the wheel so that he could not pull the spokes round.
They moved her, and when Bethune regained control
of the sloop, he told them what had happened, in disjointed
gasps.

“Wind freshened—but I—held her at it. Then
there was a—burst of rain and I—let the topsail go—thinking
the breeze would lighten again. Instead
of that—it whipped round ahead—screaming—and
I called for you.”

Conversation was difficult amid the roar of the sea,
with the spray lashing them and their words blowing
away, but Jimmy made himself heard.

“Where’s the compass?”

“In the cockpit, or overboard—the dory broke it
off.”

Moran felt in the water that washed about their
feet and, picking something up, crept into the cabin,
where a pale glow broke out. It disappeared in a
minute or two and he came back.

“Binnacle lamp’s busted,” he reported. “She’s
pointing about east.”

“Inshore,” said Jimmy. “When you’re ready,
we’ll have her round.”

She would not come. Overpowered by wind and
sea, she hung up for a few moments, and then fell
off on her previous course. They tried it twice, not
daring to wear her round the opposite way; and afterward
they sat in the slight shelter of the coaming,
conscious that there was nothing more they could
do.

“She may keep off the beach until daylight,” Jimmy
observed hopefully; “then we’ll see where we are.”

The glance he cast forward did not show him much.
The long swell had rapidly changed into tumbling
combers that rolled down upon the laboring sloop out
of the dark. As she lurched over them, the small
patch of storm-jib swept up, showing the sharply
slanted strip of mainsail; but the rest of her was hidden
by spray and rushing foam. She was sailing very
fast, close-hauled, and was rushing toward the beach.
Jimmy could feel her tremble as she pitched into the
seas.

Morning seemed a very long time in coming; but at
last the darkness grew less thick. The foam got
whiter and the gray bulk of the rollers more solid and
black, as they leaped, huge and threatening, out of the
obscurity. Then the sky began to whiten in the east,
and the weary men anxiously turned their eyes shoreward
as they shivered in the biting cold of dawn.
After a time, during which the horizon steadily receded,
a gray and misty blur appeared on the starboard hand,
and, now that they could see the combers,
they got the *Cetacea* round. As she headed offshore
a red flush spread across the sky, and rocks and pines
grew into shape to the east. Then a break in the
coastline where they could see shining water instead
of foam indicated an island; and, getting her round
again, they stood in cautiously, because she could make
nothing to windward through the steep, white seas
outshore. Reeling before them, with lee deck in the
water as she bore away, she opened up the sound, and
presently her crew watched the rollers crumble on a
boulder-sprinkled point. Moving shoreward majestically
in ordered ranks, the waves hove themselves
up when they met the shoal and dissolved into frothy
cataracts. It was an impressive spectacle, and the sloop
looked by contrast extremely small. Still, she drove
on, and Jimmy, standing at the wheel, gazed steadily
ahead.

“We’ll have to chance finding water, because the
lead’s no guide,” he said. “If there’s anything in the
sound, it will be a steep-to rock.”

She lurched in past the point, rolling, spray-swept,
with two rags of drenched canvas set. As Jimmy
luffed her into the lee of the island there was a sudden
change. The water, smoothing to a measured heave,
glittered with tiny ripples; the slanted mast rose upright;
and the sloop forged on toward a shelving beach,
through variable flaws. Then, as she slowed and the
canvas flapped, the anchor was flung over, and the rattle
of running chain sent a cloud of birds circling above
the rocks.

Half an hour later the men were busy cooking breakfast,
and soon afterward they were fast asleep; but
the night’s breeze had made a change in their relations.
Their mettle had been rudely tested and had
not failed. Henceforward it was not to be mere mutual
interest that held them together, but a stronger
though more elusive bond. They were comrades by
virtue of a mutual respect and trust.

CHAPTER IV—THE ISLAND
=====================

On a gray afternoon, with a fog hovering over
the leaden water, they sighted the island where
the wreck lay. What wind there was blew astern,
but it had scarcely strength enough to wrinkle the long
heave that followed the sloop; the tide, Jimmy computed,
was at half flood. This was borne out by the
way a blur on their port hand grew into a tongue of
reef on which the sea broke in snowy turmoil, and by
the quickness with which the long, gray ridge behind it
emerged from the fog. Sweeping it with the glasses,
Jimmy could distinguish a few dark patches that looked
like scrub-pines or willows. Then, as she opened up
the coastline, he noticed the strip of sloppy beach
sprinkled with weedy boulders, and the bare slopes of
sand and stones beyond. The spot was unlike the
islands at which they had called on their way up;
for they were thickly covered with ragged firs and an
undergrowth of brush and wild-fruit vines; this had
a desolate, forbidding look, as if only the hardiest vegetation
could withstand the chill and savage winds that
swept it.

The men were all somewhat worn by the voyage,
which had been long and difficult. Their clothes were
stiff with salt from many soakings, and two of them
suffered from raw sores on wrists and elbows caused
by the rasp of the hard garments. Their food had
been neither plentiful nor varied, and all had grown to
loathe the sight of fish.

“I’ve seen more cheerful places,” Bethune declared,
when Jimmy had handed him the glasses. “I suppose
we bring up under its eastern end?”

Moran nodded.

“Pretty good shelter in the bight in about two
fathoms. Watch out to starboard and the reef will
show you where she is.”

Jimmy turned his eyes in that direction, but saw
nothing for a minute. Then the swell, which ran
after them in long undulations nearly as smooth as oil,
suddenly boiled in a white upheaval, and a cloud of
fine spray was thrown up as by a geyser.

“One can understand the old steamboat’s breaking
her back,” he said. “Where’s she lying?”

“Not far ahead; but by the height of the water on
the beach, there’ll be nothing to be seen of her for the
next nine hours.”

“And it will be dark then!” Bethune said gloomily.
Jimmy shared his comrade’s disappointment. After
first sighting land they had felt keen suspense. There
was a possibility that the wreck had broken up or sunk
into the sand since Moran had visited her; and, after
facing many hardships and risks to reach her, they
must go back bankrupt if she had disappeared. The
important question could not be answered until the
next day.

“Couldn’t we bring up here and look for her in the
dory when the tide falls?” Jimmy suggested.

“It sure wouldn’t be wise. When you get your
anchor down in the bight you’re pretty safe; but two
cables wouldn’t hold her outside when the sea gets
up—and I don’t know a place where it blows oftener.”

“Then you had better take her in. I can’t say that
we’ve had much luck this trip; and we’ve been a fortnight
longer on the way than I calculated. It will be
something to feel the beach beneath our feet.”

They ran into a basin with gray rocks and stones
on its landward side, and a shoal on which the surf
broke to seaward; and, soon after dropping anchor,
they rowed ashore.

The island appeared to be two miles long, and nothing
grew on it except a few patches of scrub in the
hollows of its central ridge; but it had, as Moran
pointed out, two springs of good water. Birds
screamed above the surf and waded along the sand,
and a seal lolled upon a stony beach; but these were
the only signs of life, and the raw air rang with the
dreary sound of the sea.

When dusk crept in they went back on board, and
with the lamp lighted the narrow cabin looked very
cozy after the desolate land; but conversation languished,
for the men were anxious and somewhat depressed.
Daylight would show them whether or not
their work had been thrown away. With so much
at stake it was hard to wait.

“As soon as we’ve found if she’s still on the bank,”
Moran said, as they were arranging their blankets on
the lockers, “we’ll get out the net and all the lines we
brought; then I guess we had better keep the diving pump
in a hole on the beach.”

“I suppose we must fish and save our stores,”
Jimmy agreed; “though the worst beef they ever
packed in Chicago would be a luxurious change. But
what’s your reason for putting the pump ashore?”

Moran was not a humorous man, but he smiled.

“Well,” he said, “we certainly haven’t a lien on
the wreck, and if it was known where she’s now lying,
we’d soon have a steamboat up from Portland or Vancouver
with proper salvage truck. This island’s off
the track to the Alaska ports; but, so far’s my experience
goes, it’s when you least want folks around that
they turn up.”

“He’s right,” Bethune declared. “There’s no reason
why we should make our object plain to anybody
who may come along. I don’t know much about the
salvage laws, but my opinion is that the underwriters
would treat us fairly if we brought back the gold; and
if we couldn’t come to terms with them, the courts
would make us an award. Still, there’s need for caution;
we have nobody’s authority, and might be asked
why we didn’t report the find instead of going off to
get what we could on the quiet.”

They went to sleep soon after this, and awakening
in a few hours, found dawn breaking; for when the
lonely waters are free from ice there is very little night
in the North. A thin fog hid the land, leaving visible
only a strip of wet beach, and there was still no wind,
which Moran seemed to consider somewhat remarkable.
As the tide was falling, Jimmy suggested that
they should launch the dory and row off at once to look
for the wreck; but Moran objected.

“It’s a long pull, and we don’t want to lose time,”
he said. “S’pose we find her? We couldn’t work
the pump from the boat, and we’d have to come back
for the sloop. You don’t often strike it calm here, and
we have to get ahead while we can.”

The others agreed; and after a hurried breakfast
they hove the anchor and made a start, Moran sculling
the *Cetacea*, Jimmy and Bethune towing her in the
dory. They found the towing hard work, for stream
and swell set against them and the light boat was jerked
backward by the tightening line as she lurched over
the steep undulations. Then, in spite of their care,
the line would range forward along her side as she
sheered, and there was danger of its drawing her under.
Though the air was raw, they were bathed in perspiration
before they had made half a mile; and Bethune
paused a moment to cool his blistering hands in the
water.

“This kind of thing is rather strenuous when you’re
not used to it,” he grumbled.

Jimmy was glad of a moment’s rest; but immediately
there came a cry from Moran. “Watch out! Where
you going to?”

Looking round, they saw the *Cetacea’s* bowsprit
close above their heads as she lurched toward them
on the back of a smooth sea. Pulling hard, with the
hampering rope across her, they got the dory round,
and afterward rowed steadily, while their breath came
short and the sweat dripped from them. It was exhausting
work; but Bethune pointed out the fact that
they had not embarked on a pleasure excursion.

At last Moran dropped anchor; and, boarding the
sloop, the men spent an hour of keen suspense watching
the sea. The island had faded to a faint, dark
blur, and all round the rest of the circle an unbroken
wall of mist rested on the smoothly lifting swell. None
of them had anything to say; they smoked in anxious
silence, their eyes fixed on the glassy water which gave
no sign of hiding anything below.

Bethune impatiently jumped up.

“This is too tedious for me!” he exclaimed.
“Can’t we sweep for the wreck from the dory with the
bight of a line?”

“You want to keep fresh,” Moran warned him.
“If she’s there, she’ll show up before long.”

They waited, Jimmy quietly glancing at his watch
now and then; and at last Moran stretched out a pointing
hand.

“What’s that, to starboard?” he asked.

For a few moments, during which the tension set
their nerves on edge, the others saw nothing; and then
a faint ripple broke the glassy surface of the swell.
It smoothed out and the long heave swung undisturbed
across the spot for a time; but the ripple appeared
again, with a dark streak in the midst of it.

“Weed!” cried Bethune. “It must grow on something!”

“I guess so,” said Moran. “It’s fast to a ship’s
timber.”

Five minutes later the head of the timber was visible,
and in keen but silent excitement they took out a
line to it and hove the sloop close up. The diving
pumps were already rigged, and when they had lowered
and lashed a ladder, Moran coolly put on the
heavy canvas dress. He said that, as the show was
his, he would go down first. It was with grave misgivings
that his companions screwed on the copper
helmet and hung the lead weights about him, for neither
of them knew anything about the work except what
they had learned from a pamphlet issued by a maker
of diving apparatus. This they had diligently studied
and argued over on the voyage up, but there was the
unpleasant possibility that it might not contain all the
information needful, and a small oversight might have
disastrous consequences.

When the copper helmet sank below the surface
and a train of bubbles rushed up, Jimmy felt his heart
beat and his hand grow damp with perspiration. He
held the signal line and knew the code, as well as the
number of strokes to the minute that should give air
enough; but he had not much confidence in the pumps.
Though he had had to pay a heavy deposit on them,
and their hire was costly, they were far from new.
The bubbles moved, however, drawing nearer the weed-crusted
wood.

Suddenly the line jerked, and Bethune looked at
Jimmy sharply.

“More air!” he cried. “Give her a few more revolutions—he’s
all right so far.”

It was a relief to both when the bubbles moved back
toward the ladder, and when the diver crawled on
board they eagerly unscrewed the helmet. Moran
gasped once or twice and wiped his face before he
turned to them.

“It’s not too bad after the first minute or two,” he
said, and this was the only allusion he made to his
sensations. “Now, so far as I can make out, there’s
no getting into her from the deck. Poop’s badly
smashed, and you’d certainly foul the pipe or line
among the broken beams; but it looks pretty clear in
the hold. Guess we’ll have to break through the after
bulkhead; but it’s sanded up and there’s a pile of stuff
to move. You’re sure about the strong-room, Bethune?”

“I took some trouble to find out, and was told it
was under the poop cabin. I couldn’t get a plan of
her.”

“We’ll try the bulkhead.” Moran turned to
Jimmy. “If you’re going next, take the shovel and
see if you can shift some of the sand.”

Jimmy was not a timid man, but he felt far from
happy as his comrades encased him in the dress and
helmet. He found them an intolerable weight as he
moved toward the ladder and went down it, clinging
tightly to the rungs, and then, as a green mist crept
across the glasses, he was conscious of an unnerving
fear. Struggling with it, he descended, and was next
troubled by a pain in his head and an unpleasant feeling
of pressure. Something throbbed in his ears, his
breathing did not seem normal, and he stopped, irresolute,
at the foot of the ladder. He could see a short
distance, but it was like looking through dirty, greenish
glass, and the wavering light had puzzling reflections
in it. He watched the air globules rush to the surface
and the shadow of the sloop’s bottom move to and fro;
and then he fixed his eyes on a badly defined dark object
which he supposed was the wreck.

As he reluctantly let go the ladder he was surprised
by another change. Instead of carrying a crushing
weight, he felt absurdly light and, in spite of his
weighted boots, it was difficult to keep his balance.
His feet did not fall where he intended, and when he
moved the shovel he carried, the motion of his arm
was not perfectly controllable. It seemed to him that
if the stream were strong, he must hopelessly float
away; but he resolutely pulled himself together. He
had not spent all his money and made a daring
voyage to be daunted by a few unusual sensations.
It was his business to break into the wreck; and
he made his way cautiously toward her. Stopping
at the place where her after-half had broken off,
he saw in front of him a dark cavern, edged with
ragged planking and parted timbers and garlanded
with long streamers of weed. They uncoiled and wavered
as the sea washed in and out, and Jimmy felt a
strong reluctance to enter. The darkness might hide
strange and dangerous creatures; for a few moments
he allowed his imagination to run riot like that of a
frightened child.

This, however, must be stopped. Jimmy remembered
that he was supplied with an electric lamp. He
fumbled clumsily with the switch, and, as a wavering
beam of light ran through the water, he cautiously
entered the hold. Sand had filled up the hollows
among the stone ballast, and there was only a broken
orlop beam in his way. He began to feel easier, reflecting
that he was, after all, only a short distance
beneath the surface; though he would have preferred
more experienced assistants at the pumps. Making his
way aft beside the shaft tunnel, he presently reached a
bank of sand which ran up to the splintered deck.
The bulkhead shutting off the lazaret was obviously
behind it, and Jimmy began to use the shovel.

It proved difficult work. A vigorous movement upset
his unstable equilibrium, and he wondered whether
the weight he carried and the pressure applied were
adapted to the depth. This could be ascertained only
by experiment; and Jimmy feared to make it. Gripping
himself, however, he removed a few shovelfuls
of sand; and then the pain in his head got worse, and,
driving in the shovel deeper than before, he fell forward
with the effort. Instead of coming to the
ground, he made some ridiculous gyrations before he
recovered his footing; and then the signal line, which
he felt at to reassure himself, seemed tauter than it
should be.

Grabbing up the shovel, Jimmy commenced his retreat.
The line might be foul of something, and if
so there was a danger of the air pipe’s entanglement.
It was disconcerting to contemplate the result of that.
When he left the hull he felt a strong inclination to
kick off his leaded shoes and try to swim to the surface
instead of slowly mounting the ladder; but he
conquered it and climbed up.

When at last the glasses were unscrewed and the
air flowed in on his face, Jimmy was conscious of intense
relief. For a minute he sat limply on the cabin
top.

“I dare say we’ll get accustomed to the thing,” he
said slowly to Bethune; “but you’ll find out that one
mustn’t expect to do much at first.”

Bethune went down, and when he came up Moran
asked him dryly:

“How much of that sand did you shift?”

“Three good bucketfuls, which I imagine is more
than Jimmy did,” Bethune answered with a grin.
Then his face grew serious. “As there seems to be
forty or fifty tons of it, we’ll have to do better.”

“That,” agreed Moran, “is a sure thing.”

They were silent after this, and Jimmy lighted his
pipe. Though the day was chilly, it was pleasant to
lie on the open deck and breathe air at normal pressure.
The stream was not strong, the sea was as
smooth as he thought it likely to be, and all the conditions
were favorable to the work; but he shrank
from going down again, and he imagined that his companions
shared his unwillingness. Though he censured
himself for feeling so, he was glad when the
mist, which had grown thinner, suddenly streamed
away and revealed a dark line advancing toward them
across the heaving water.

“A breeze!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps we’d better
get back while we can. There won’t be much water up
the channel at lowest ebb.”

Bethune nodded agreement as a puff of cold air
struck his face, and while they shortened in the cable
small white ripples splashed against the bows. These
grew larger and angrier as they ran the mainsail up;
and, getting the anchor, they bore away for the bight
with the swell crisping and frothing astern. Before
they ran in behind the sheltering sands it was blowing
hard, and they spent the rest of the day lounging on
the cabin lockers, while the sloop strained at her cable
and the halyards beat upon the mast.

CHAPTER V—AN INTERRUPTION
=========================

For three days a bitter gale raged about the island,
blowing clouds of sand and fine shingle along
the beach and piling the big Pacific combers upon the
shoals. The air was filled with the saltness of the
spray, and even below deck the men’s ears rang with
the clamor of the sea. Then the wind fell, and when
the swell went down they set to work again and found
their task grow less troublesome. They learned the
pressure best suited to the very moderate depth, their
lungs got accustomed to the extra labor, and none of
them now hesitated about entering the gloomy hold.
Though they were interrupted now and then by the
rising sea, they steadily removed the sand. Their
greatest difficulty was the shortness of the time one
could remain below. There was no sign of the bulkhead
yet, and a gale from the eastward might wash
back the sediment they had laboriously dug out. If
this happened, they must try to break an opening
through the side of the hull; and none of them was
anxious to do that, because the timbers of a wooden
ship are closely spaced and thick.

For a while nothing but the weather disturbed them;
and then, one calm day when trails of mist moved
slowly across the water, Jimmy saw a streak of smoke
on a patch of clear horizon.

“Somebody farther to the east than he ought to
be,” he said, leaning on the pump-crank; and then he
fixed his eyes on the spot where the bubbles broke the
surface. Though he had grown used to the work, the
bubbles had still a curious fascination. It was difficult
to turn his glance from them as they traced a
milky line across the green water or stopped and
widened into a frothy patch. So long as they did
either, all was well with the man below.

An hour later, when the mist closed in again, Jimmy
lay smoking on the deck. He had gone down and
stayed longer than usual, and he felt tired and somewhat
moody. Of late he had been troubled by a bad
headache, which he supposed was the result of diving,
and during the last few days he had found the
sand unusually hard. The lower layers had been consolidated
into a cement-like mass by the action of
wave and tide. Moreover, the work was arduous even
when they were not down at the wreck. It was no
light task to tow the sloop out against the swell in the
calms; and when the sea rose suddenly, as it often did,
they were forced, if the tide was low, to thrash her
out for an offing and face the gale until there was
water enough to take them up the channel. Indeed,
at times they dare not attempt the entrance, and lay to
under storm canvas to wait for better weather. Then
they sat at the wheel in turn while the hard-pressed
craft labored among the frothing combers, and afterward
lay, wedged into place with wet sails and gear,
on the cabin lockers, while the erratic motion rendered
sleep or any occupation impossible. The *Cetacea* was
small enough to drift to leeward fast, and it sometimes
took them hours to drive her back to the island against
the still heavy sea when the wind began to lighten. It
was a wearing life, and Jimmy felt his nerves getting
raw.

Bethune had gone below and Jimmy was turning the
crank of the pump when a dull, throbbing sound came
out of the mist. Moran looked up sharply.

“That blame steamboat is coming here!” he cried,
diving into the cabin to get their glasses.

The measured thud of engines was plainly distinguishable
with the roar of water flung off the bows.
Jimmy supposed the clank of the pump had prevented
their hearing it before.

“She’s pretty close! Keep turning, but bring him
up; you have the line!” Moran exclaimed.

Bethune answered the signal; but as the bubbles
drew near the sloop, the steamer appeared in an opening
in the mist. Her white hull and small, cream funnel
proclaimed her an auxiliary yacht.

“There’s wind enough to move us, and we have to
light out of this as quick as we can,” Moran said, signaling
again to Bethune.

When the copper helmet came into sight, they
dragged Bethune on deck and then set to work to
shorten cable. The yacht was now plainly visible about
a mile off, and seemed to be moving slowly, which suggested
that soundings were being taken preparatory to
anchoring; but the sloop would not readily be seen
against the land. There was, however, a quantity of
heavy chain to get in before they hoisted sail, and
Jimmy in haste slipped the breast rope that held them
to the wreck. For convenience in picking it up, they
had attached its outer end to a big keg buoy.

Getting under way, they headed for the bight, and
presently saw a white gig following them.

“They won’t stay long,” said Bethune. “Want
fresh water, or, perhaps, a walk ashore; but it’s a pity
we have no time to land and hide the pumps. The
best thing we can do is to meet the party at the water’s
edge. It’s lucky the big net is lying there.”

Pulling ashore in the dory, they waited for the
yacht’s boat, which carried two uniformed seamen
and a young man smartly dressed in blue serge with
bronze buttons, and pipeclayed shoes. He had a good-humored
look, and greeted them affably, glancing at
the net.

“Glad to find somebody here; you’re fishing, I suppose?”
he said. “You’ll know where there’s water,
and ours is getting short. The engineer has had some
trouble with salting boilers and won’t give us any. I’ll
take some fish, if you can spare it.”

Bethune laughed.

“You can have all we’ve got,” he said. “Any we
keep we’ll have to eat, and we’re getting pretty tired of
the diet. There’s a good spring behind the ridge; we’ll
show you where it is.”

The man beckoned the seamen, who shouldered two
brass-hooped breakers, and the party set off up the
beach. When they reached the spring the seamen returned
with the breakers to empty them into the boat,
using her as a tank to carry the water off, and Jimmy
took the yachtsman into a hut they had roughly built
of stones between two big rocks. Here they sometimes
lived when wind or fog stopped their work. He
gave them some cigars and told them that the yacht
was returning from a trip to the North, where they
had explored several of the glaciers. He was a bit of a
naturalist and interested in birds, and that was why he
had come ashore; but the desolate appearance of the
island had deterred his friends, who were playing
cards.

“Have you noticed any of the rarer sea-birds here?”
he asked.

“There are a number of nests some distance off,”
Bethune answered. “I don’t know what kind they are,
but after making two or three attempts to eat them, I
can’t recommend the eggs.”

The yachtsman laughed.

“You may have made omelettes of specimens collectors
would give a good deal for. Anyway, I’d be
glad if you would show me the place. As we must
take off as much water as she’ll carry, the boys will be
busy for some time.”

“I’ll go with you in a minute,” Bethune said, giving
Jimmy a warning look. “Have you the ball of fine
seizing?” he asked his comrade. “There are some
hooks to be whipped on to the new line.”

Jimmy, understanding that Bethune wanted a word
with him in private, went out, and Bethune followed.

“Well?” Jimmy queried.

“What do you think of the weather?”

Jimmy looked round carefully. The sky was clear
overhead except for thin, streaky clouds, and the mist
was moving, sliding in filmy trails along the shore.

“It won’t be so thick presently, and we may have a
breeze.”

“That’s my opinion. Has it struck you that it will
be after half-ebb when our yachting friend leaves?
Besides, it would look inhospitable and perhaps suspicious
if we didn’t take him off to supper.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Jimmy. “The wreck will be
showing, the pumps are on board, and it’s unfortunate
we forgot to move our buoy.”

“Sure! There’s no reason for supposing the man’s
a fool, and I’ve no doubt he’ll draw conclusions if he
sees the diving truck and the buoy. It’s certain that
somebody on board the steamer has heard about the
wreck; and any mention of our doings in the southern
ports would lead to the sending up of a proper salvage
gang. We might finish before they arrived; but I’m
doubtful.”

“You’re right,” said Jimmy. “What’s to be
done?”

“The best plan would be for you and Hank to get
the pumps ashore while there’s fog enough to hide you.
Then you can slip the buoy and leave it among the
boulders abreast of the wreck. I’ll keep our friend
away from the water; but the high ground where the
nests are looks down on the beach and you’ll have the
steamer not far outshore of you.”

Turning at a footstep, Jimmy saw the stranger leave
the hut.

“My partner will take you to the nests,” he said.
“I have something to do on board.”

Beckoning Moran, Jimmy turned away, and as the
two went down to the beach he explained his object to
the fisherman. Moran agreed that if news of their doings
leaked out, they might as well give up the search.
They must, however, be careful, because there was a
chance of their being seen by anybody with good glasses
on board the yacht, which had moved close in to shorten
the journey for the boat. Now and then they could
see her white hull plainly, but it grew dim and faded
into the mist again.

Boarding the sloop, they dismantled the pumps, and
then found that with these, the lead weights, and the
diving helmet, the small dory had a heavy load. The
tide was, however, falling, and for some distance it carried
them down a smooth channel between banks of uncovered
sand. They had no trouble here, but when
they reached open water they found a confused swell
running against them. The fog had again thickened
and they could see only the gray slopes of water that
moved out of the haze. It was hard work rowing, and
care was needed when an undulation curled and broke
into a ridge of foam. If that happened before they
could avoid it, the dory might be overturned; and the
water was icy cold. They toiled across a broad shallow,
sounding with the oars, until they lost touch of the
bottom and pulled by guess for a spot where landing
was safe.

Soon it seemed that they had gone astray, for they
could see nothing of the beach and a harsh rattle broke
out close ahead. Moran stopped rowing.

“Tide has run us well offshore,” he said. “The
yacht skipper’s shortening cable or going to break out
his anchor. Guess he’s swung into shoaler water than
he figured on.”

While they waited and the tide carried them along,
the rattle of the windlass grew louder; and when it
stopped, a dim, white shape crept out of the fog. It
increased in size and distinctness; they could see the
sweeping curve of bow, the trickle of the stream along
the waterline, and the low deckhouse above the rail.
There was no avoiding the yacht by rowing away without
being seen, but the dory was very small and low in
the water.

“They’ve hove her short and found another fathom,
and I expect they’re satisfied,” Jimmy said; “but they’ll
keep good anchor watch. The best thing we can do is
to lie down in the bottom.”

They got down on the wet floorings, and Jimmy
looked over the gunwale. They were close to the
yacht, and he could make out a figure or two in front
of the house. As they drifted on, the figures grew
plainer, and it seemed impossible that they could escape
being seen. For all that, nobody hailed them, though
they were near enough to hear voices and the notes of a
piano. The vessel’s tall, white side seemed right above
them, but they were abreast of the funnel now, and the
ash hoist began to clatter; Jimmy saw the dust and
steam rise as the furnace clinkers struck the sea. Still,
they were drifting aft, a gray blotch on the water, and
were almost level with her stern when Jimmy saw a
man leaning on the rail. By the way his head was
turned he was looking toward the dory, and for several
anxious moments Jimmy expected his hail. It did
not come; the graceful incurving of the white hull
ended in the sweep of counter above the tip of a propeller
blade, and the dory drifted on into the mist
astern.

“Now we’ll have her round!” Moran exclaimed,
with relief in his voice. “I guess you’ve got to pull.”

It was difficult to prevent her heavy load from
swamping her as they approached the beach; but they
ran her in safely, and, after carrying up their cargo, set
off for the wreck. Their buoy was visible some distance
off, for the mist was now moving out to sea; and
their chief trouble was to get the awkward iron keg
ashore. They had hardly done so when the steamer
showed up plainly through a rift in the fog and a
draught of cold air struck Jimmy’s face.

“It’s coming!” he cried. “We’ve no time to lose in
getting back!”

The tide was beginning to ripple as they pulled off
the beach, and the yacht was plainly disclosed, shining
like ivory on the clear, green water. It did not matter
now that they could be seen; their one concern was to
get home before the freshening wind raised the sea.
In a short time the spray was flying about the dory
and frothing ridges ran up astern of her. These got
steeper as they reached the shoals, and the men had
hard work to hold her straight with the oars as she
surged forward, uplifted, on a rush of foam. They
had no time to look about, but they heard the steamer
whistle to recall her boat, and presently a gasoline
launch raced by, rolling wildly, through deeper water.

As they entered the channel into the bight, they met
the launch coming out more slowly with the boat in
tow, and somebody on board her waved his hand.
Then she disappeared beyond a projecting bank, and
Jimmy and Moran rowed on to the sloop.

“They were only just in time,” Bethune said as they
got on board. “I suppose you saw our friend go; but
if they don’t tow her carefully, it won’t be fresh water
when it gets into their tank.” He paused with a
laugh and showed them some silver coins. “Anyhow,
we have earned something this afternoon. The fellow
insisted on paying for the fish, and I thought I’d better
let him.”

“It was wise,” agreed Jimmy. “Moran and I have
done our share, so it’s up to you to get supper.”

While they ate it, they heard the rattle of a windlass;
and, looking out through the scuttle, they saw the yacht
steam away to sea.

CHAPTER VI—BLOWN OFF
====================

Though it was nearly eleven o’clock at night,
the light had not quite gone and the sea glimmered
about the sloop as she rose and fell at her moorings
by the wreck. To the north the sky was barred
with streaks of ragged cloud and the edge of the sea-plain
was harshly clear; to the east the horizon was hidden
by a cold, blue haze, and the tide was near the lowest
of its ebb. An angry white surf broke along the
uncovered shoals with a tremulous roar, and the swell,
though smooth as oil on its surface, was high and steep.
No breath of wind touched the water, but Jimmy agreed
with Moran that there was plenty on the way.

A light burned in the low-roofed cabin where the
men waited for the meal which Bethune was cooking.
They felt languid as well as tired and hungry, for
supper had been long deferred to enable them to continue
diving, and they had been under water much
oftener than was good for them during the day. The
bulkhead they strove to clear of sand was still inaccessible,
and, as bad weather had frequently hindered
work, they felt compelled to make good use of every
favorable minute. This was why they had held on to
the wreck, instead of entering the bight before the falling
tide rendered its approach dangerous. Moreover,
their provisions were running low, and Bethune was
experimenting with some damaged flour which had lain
forgotten in a flooded locker for several days while they
rode out a gale. The bannocks he turned in the frying-pan
had a sour, unappetizing smell.

“They may taste better than they promise,” he said
encouragingly. “If the sky had looked as bad at half-tide
as it does now, I’d have made you take her in. We
won’t get much done to-morrow.”

Moran stretched himself out listlessly on the port
locker.

“We ought to tie two reefs in the mainsail handy,
but I feel played out, and the breeze may not come before
morning. It strikes me the most important thing
is the question of grub. We can’t hang on much
longer if that flour’s too bad to eat. I can’t see how it
went so moldy in a day or two. You can leave a flour-bag
in the water for quite a while and then find the
stuff all right except for an inch on the outside.”

“That’s so,” Jimmy put in. “My notion is that the
flour was bad when we got it. The ship-chandler fellow
had a greedy eye. But when you deal with the
man who finds the money you can’t be particular.”

“He’s pretty safe,” grumbled Bethune. “With a
bond on the boat for his loan and a big profit on everything
he supplied, the only risk he runs is of our losing
her—though I’ll admit that nearly happened once or
twice. However, you can try the flour.”

Taking the frying-pan off the stove, he served out a
thick, greasy bannock and a very small piece of pork to
each of his companions. The food was too hot to eat,
and Jimmy, breaking his with his knife, waited with
some anxiety while it cooled. If they could use the
flour, it would enable them to remain a week or two
longer at the wreck; and he believed it would not take
many days to reach the strong-room. Failing this, it
looked as if he must return to his toil at the sawmill
and the dreary life in the cheap hotels.

He believed that he had learned on board the sailing
ships not to be dainty, but he sniffed at the food with
repugnance and then resolutely cut off a piece. When
he had eaten a bite of it he threw down his knife.

“It’s rank!” he exclaimed.

Moran, reaching up through the scuttle, threw his
bannock overboard.

“Very well!” said Bethune. “That shortens our
stay. Perhaps we had better get the pumps down into
the cockpit when you have finished the pork and tea.”

They did so, grumbling, and then lay on the lockers,
smoking and disinclined for sleep. There was a tension
in the air, and something ominous in the roar of
the surf, which seemed to grow louder and more insistent.

“Whether we’ll find the gold or not is doubtful; the
only thing certain is that we’ll have an opportunity for
doing a lot of work,” Bethune observed after a while.
“In a way, Hank’s more to be pitied than either of us.
He hadn’t the option of taking things easily when he
came out West.”

“The big lobsters were most killed off; you couldn’t
make your grub with the traps,” Moran explained.
“Then I got some little books showing it was easy to
get rich by fishing in British Columbia. Wish I had
the liars who wrote them out in a half-swamped dory
picking up a trawl.”

“I don’t see that I had much more option than he
had,” Jimmy objected.

“You could have stayed on board the liner, wearing
smart uniforms and faring sumptuously, with a
Chinese steward to look after you, if you’d exercised a
little tact and shown a proper respect for authority.
When the skipper disapproved of a man with heart
trouble steering his ship, as he had every right to do,
you should have agreed with him.”

“I’m glad I didn’t,” Jimmy said stubbornly. “Anyhow,
you’re no better off, even if you practise what you
preach.”

“That would be too much to expect; but then I
admit that I am a fool,” Bethune laughed. “If I
doubted it, the number of times it has been delicately
pointed out would have convinced me. After all, it’s
easy to conform outwardly, which is all that is required,
and you can do what you like in private. A
concession to popular opinion here and there doesn’t
cost one much.”

“If you mean I ought to have got the quartermaster
sacked after he’d prevented a ton of cargo from dropping
on my head, I’d rather starve.”

“There’s a risk of your doing so if you persist in
your foolishness. If you had stopped to reason, you
would have seen it was your duty to agree with your
skipper. Misguided pity is a dangerous thing.”

“Moralizing of this kind makes my headache
worse!” said Jimmy disgustedly. “Drop it and light
your pipe!”

“Let him alone; he has to talk,” Moran interposed.
“It doesn’t matter so long as you don’t worry about
what he means.”

“Well,” drawled Bethune, “I’ll conclude. Which
of you is going to wash up?”

Moran picked up the dirty plates and thrust them into
a locker.

“I’m played out and homesick! Wish I was back
East, where I did my fishing in the natural way—on
top of the water! But it’s a sure thing none of us will
be down at the wreck to-morrow.”

There was silence except for the rumble of the surf
and the occasional rap of a halyard against the mast.
The sound became more frequent as Jimmy got
drowsy, but he was used to the approach of bad
weather. Stretched out comfortably on the locker, he
soon fell asleep; and it was as dark as it ever is in the
North in summer when he was rudely awakened by a
terrific jar. The sloop seemed to be rearing upright,
and Moran’s hoarse shouts were all but drowned by the
rattle of chain on deck.

Scrambling out quickly, Jimmy saw the fisherman
stooping forward where the cable crossed the bits, and
a narrow stretch of smoking sea ahead. Individual
combers emerged from it, and the sloop alternately
reeled over them with a white surge boiling at her bows
and plunged into the hollows. Jimmy, however,
wasted no time in looking about; they had hung on to
their moorings longer than was prudent, and prompt
action was needed.

With Bethune’s assistance he close-reefed the mainsail
and got the shortened canvas up; then all three
were needed to break out the anchor, and Jimmy
crouched in the water that swept the forward deck as he
stowed it while his comrades hoisted a storm-jib.
After that she drove away before the sea, and the men
anxiously watched for the entrance to the channel.
Though dawn had not broken, it was by no means dark,
and they could see the streaky backs of the rollers that
ran up the shoals, and beyond them a broad, white band
of surf. Presently a break opened up, but it was narrow
and crooked, and it seemed impossible that the
sloop could get through. When they had run on for a
minute or two longer, Moran stood up on deck to command
a better view.

“We’d have about two feet under her at the bend,
and if she didn’t luff up handy she’d sure go ashore,”
he said. “Seems to me the chances are too blamed
steep.”

They might reach shelter by taking the risk, and to
refuse it meant a struggle with the sea; but Jimmy reluctantly
agreed with Moran.

“Yes,” he said; “we had better stand off. Look
out while I jibe her round.”

She swung on before the sea as he put up his
helm, followed close by a comber that reared its crest
astern, her boom flung on end with the patch of wet
mainsail swelling like a balloon. Moran and Bethune
were desperately busy with the sheet, for safety depended
on their speed. Jimmy moved his wheel another
spoke, and sail and heavy spar swung over, while
the *Cetacea*, coming round, buried her lee deck in the
sea. With a wild plunge she shook off the water, and,
while Bethune and his comrade flattened in the sheets,
drove out to windward away from the dangerous shoal.
Since they could not reach the bight, she would be safer
in open water.

When dawn broke, ominously red, the *Cetacea* was
hove to with a small trysail set, rising and falling with
a drunken stagger, as the long, white seas rolled up on
her weather bow. Though she shipped no heavy
water, she was drifting fast to leeward: the island had
faded to a gray streak on the horizon. It would be a
day’s work to beat back again, even if the wind abated,
and it showed no sign of doing so. By noon the land
was out of sight, and the sea had grown heavier. For
an hour or two there was misty sunshine, and the oncoming
walls of water glistened luminously blue beneath
their incandescent crests. Some of them curled
dangerously, and the trysail flapped, half empty, when
the *Cetacea* sank into the trough. She lay there a few
moments while her crew watched the comber that rose
ahead. With slanted mast and rag of drenched sail she
looked uncomfortably small; but somehow she staggered
up the slope before the roller broke. Jimmy
could not tell how far he helped her with the helm, but
the sweat of nervous strain dripped from his face as he
turned his wheel. Now and then she was a few seconds
slow in responding to it, and when her bows
swung clear her after-half was buried in a rush of
spouting foam. It sluiced off, however, and the sharp
swoop into the trough was repeated as comber after
comber swept upon them.

When Moran relieved him, Jimmy felt worn out.
He had had only an hour or two’s sleep after a day of
exhausting work; his breakfast had consisted of a
morsel of stale, cold fish, hurriedly torn with his fingers
from the lump in the pan; and they had had no opportunity
for cooking dinner.

“I’ll try to make some coffee,” he said, as he went
below.

It was difficult to light the stove. The cabin trickled
with moisture like a dripping-well. Grate and wood
were wet; and when at last the fire began to crackle,
Jimmy had to kneel on a locker as he held the kettle on,
in order to keep his feet out of the water which washed
up from the bilge. There seemed to be a good deal of
it.

“Can’t you start the pump?” he called to Bethune.

“I might. I don’t know that it would do much
good. The suction’s uncovered, and the delivery under
water half the time.”

“Then come in and cook, while I get at it!”

“Oh, I’ll try!” Bethune answered morosely; and
Jimmy resumed his watch on the kettle and left his
companion alone.

He knew the curious slackness which sometimes
seizes men exposed to the fury of the sea. It differs
from fatigue in being moral rather than physical, and
it is distinct from fear; its victim is overwhelmed by a
sense of the futility of anything that he can do. Determined
effort is its best cure, and Jimmy smiled as he
heard the clatter of the pump. He thought Bethune
would feel better presently.

He made the coffee, found a few of the tough cakes
Moran called biscuits, and recklessly opened a can of
meat. After the meal, which they all found a luxurious
change from fish, Jimmy lay down, wet through
as he was, on a locker, and, wedging himself fast with
parts of the dismantled diving pump, sank into broken
sleep.

It was midnight when he went up again to take the
helm. There was no moon, and gray scud obscured the
sea. Foam-tipped ridges came rolling out of it, and
the *Cetacea* labored heavily. Jimmy watched Moran
pump a while before he went below, and then he pulled
himself together to keep his dreary watch. The slow
whitening of the east brought no change. Dawn came,
and throughout another wearing day they still lay hove
to. The sloop did not give them much trouble, and
they could easily pump out all the water she shipped;
but toward evening they began to feel anxious. The
gale had increased. They must already have made a
good deal of leeway and they might be drifting near the
land; if so, she would not carry enough sail to drive her
clear, and there would soon be an end of her if she were
blown ashore.

Jimmy was on deck at dawn the next morning, but
saw nothing except a narrow circle of foaming sea and
the flying scud that dimmed the horizon. Toward
noon, however, it began to clear, and, getting out the
glasses, he waited eagerly during an hour or two of fitful
sunshine. The wind seemed to be falling, and the
haze had thinned. Slowly it blew away, and a high,
gray mass rose into view, four or five miles off.
Moran called out as he saw it, but Jimmy quietly
studied the land through his glasses.

“The head, sure enough!” he said. “If it had kept
thick, we’d have been ashore and breaking up long before
dark. Now we have to decide what it’s best to do.
She might stand a three-reefed mainsail.”

“It would take us a week to beat back to the island,
and we wouldn’t have many provisions left when we
got there,” Bethune pointed out. “I don’t feel keen
on facing the long thrash to windward.”

“She wouldn’t be long making Comox with this
breeze over her quarter,” Moran suggested. “We
might get somebody to grubstake us at one of the
stores.”

“Considering that there’s a bond on her, it isn’t
likely,” Jimmy replied.

They let her drift while they looked gloomily to
windward, where the island lay. It would need a stern
effort to reach it unless the wind should change; a
long stretch of foaming sea which the sloop must be
driven across close-hauled divided the men from the
wreck. They were all worn out and depressed; and
neither of Moran’s comrades protested when he got up
abruptly and slacked off the mainsheet.

“I guess we’ll go where there’s something to eat,”
he said. “You can square off for the straits while I
loose the mainsail.”

Jimmy put up his helm with a keen sense of relief,
and the *Cetacea* swung away swiftly for the south with
the sea behind her. It was nervous work steering, and
Jimmy advised Moran to leave the mainsail furled; but
the worst of the strain had passed, and rest and shelter
lay ahead.

CHAPTER VII—GRUBSTAKED
======================

A light wind faintly ruffled the landlocked water
when the *Cetacea* crept up to her anchorage off a
small lumber port on the eastern coast of Vancouver
Island. A great boom of logs was moored near the
wharf, and stacks of freshly cut lumber and ugly sawdust
heaps rose along the beach. Behind these were
tall iron chimney-stacks, clusters of wooden houses, and
rows of fire-blackened stumps; then steep, pine-clad
hillsides shut the hollow in. Though there were one or
two steamers at anchor, and signs of activity in the
streets, the place had a raw, unfinished look; but the
*Cetacea’s* crew were glad to reach it. Cramped by
their narrow quarters on board, it was a relief to roam
at large; and the resinous smell that hung about the
port was pleasant after the stinging saltness of the
spray.

But they had come there on business, and Bethune
presently stopped a man they met.

“Which is the best and biggest general store in the
town?” he asked.

“Jefferson’s; three blocks farther on. He’s been
here since the mills were started.”

“Is it necessary to go to the best store?” Jimmy
inquired as they went on.

Bethune laughed.

“Oh, no! Now that we’ve found out which it is, we
can try somewhere else. I’ve a suspicion that our business
won’t have much attraction for a prosperous dealer
who can choose his customers. It’s the struggling man
who’s readiest to take a risk.”

“We’ll leave it to you,” Jimmy said confidently.
Bethune had arranged their commercial transactions
with tact and shrewdness, and they had discovered that
it was far from easy to obtain supplies without paying
cash for them.

After strolling through the town, they entered a
small, wooden store, which had an inscription, “T.
Jaques: Shipping Supplied,” and found its proprietor
leaning idly on the counter. He was a young man with
an alert manner, but, although he was smartly dressed,
Bethune, studying him, imagined that he had not yet
achieved prosperity. Indeed, he thought he saw signs
of care in the man’s keen face.

Taking out his notebook, he enumerated the supplies
they wanted, and examined samples. The provisions
were good; the store was neatly kept and fairly well
stocked; but Jimmy, leaning on the counter and looking
about, thought the goods had been arranged with
some skill to make the biggest show possible, which implied
that the dealer had not much of a reserve. Then,
while the man talked to Bethune, Jimmy noticed a
woman approach the glass door at the back and stop a
moment as if she were interested in the proceedings.
All this suggested that his comrade had offered their
custom at the right place. The provisions would not
be a large item, but they needed ropes, chain, and marine
supplies, which would cost a good deal more.

“I can send the small stores off whenever you want,
but I can’t give you the other truck until the Vancouver
boat comes in, and that won’t be for four days,” Jaques
said. He looked rather eager as he added: “I guess
you can wait?”

“Oh, yes. I expect it will be a week before we get
off.”

“Then, I’ll wire the order. You’ll pay on delivery?”

“That,” answered Bethune, smiling, “is a point we
must talk about. I think I could give you ten dollars
down.”

The dealer’s face fell and he looked thoughtful.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’d certainly like this order.
What’s your proposition?”

“I don’t know that I have one ready. Perhaps I’d
better tell you how we stand and leave you to suggest
a way out of the difficulty.”

“Come into the back store and take a smoke,” invited
Jaques; and they followed him into an apartment
which seemed to serve as warehouse, general living
room, and kitchen. A young woman was busy at the
stove, and after looking up with a smile of welcome she
went on with her cooking; but Jimmy felt that she had
given him and his comrades a keen scrutiny.

Jaques brought them chairs and laid a few cigars on
the table.

“Now,” he said to Bethune, “you can go ahead.”

“First of all, I want your promise to keep what I
tell you to yourself.” Bethune glanced quietly toward
the woman.

“You have it, and you can trust Mrs. Jaques. Susie
does all her talking at home; and there’s a good deal of
her own money in this store. That’s why I brought
you in. I allow she’s sometimes a better judge than I
am.”

Bethune bowed to Mrs. Jaques; and then, to Jimmy’s
surprise, he began a frank account of their financial
difficulties and their salvage plans. When it came to
their doings at the wreck, he made a rather moving tale
of it, and Mrs. Jaques listened with her eyes fixed on
the speaker and a greasy fork poised in her hand.
Jimmy wondered whether Bethune was acting quite
judiciously in telling so much. The storekeeper leaned
an elbow on the table, his brows knitted as if in
thought; and Moran sat still with an expressionless
brown face. Except for Bethune’s voice it was very
quiet in the small, rudely furnished room, and Jimmy
surmised that the projected deal was of some importance
to its occupants. It was certainly of consequence
to his own party, for they could not continue operations
without supplies.

“There’s a bond on your boat already,” Jaques objected,
when Bethune paused.

“For about half her value. We could demand a
public sale if she were seized, and the balance would
clear your debt.”

“It’s hard to get full price for a vessel that’s too
small for a regular trade. You allowed you bought
her cheap?”

“We did,” Bethune carelessly answered. “Still,
one has to take a risk.”

They were interrupted by a knocking, and Jaques
went into the store and did not return for some minutes.

“Nolan, the river-jack,” he explained, as he came in.
“Wanted gum-boots, and I thought I’d better let him
have them; though he hasn’t paid for the last pair yet.”

“That,” Bethune smiled, “bears out my argument.”

Jaques looked at his wife, and she made a sign of assent,
as if she understood him.

“Supper’s nearly ready, and you had better stay,”
he said. “It’s plain fare, but you won’t find better biscuits
and waffles than Susie’s in the province. Besides,
it will give us time to think the thing over.”

They were glad to accept the invitation, and no more
was said about business while they enjoyed the well
cooked and daintily served meal. Jimmy was conscious
of a growing admiration for his neat-handed
hostess, with her bright, intelligent face, and her pretty
but simple dress, and he tried to second Bethune in his
amusing chatter. Jaques did not say much, but he
looked pleased. As for Moran, he steadily worked
his way through the good things set before him. His
one remark was: “If we strike grub like this, ma’am,
we’ll want to stop right in your town.”

“Then my husband will lose his order,” Mrs. Jaques
replied, and though she laughed, Jimmy thought her
answer had some significance.

When she cleared the table Jaques lighted a cigar
and smiled rather grimly when Jimmy inquired if
trade was good.

“Well,” he said, “it might be better—that’s one
reason why I’d like to make a deal with you. There’s
less money in keeping store than you might suppose.
I’ve been two years in this town, and my customers
are mostly of the kind the beginner gets—those who
can’t pay up in time, and those who don’t mean to pay at
all. The ones worth having go to the other man.”

“Where were you before?” Jimmy asked.

“In Toronto. But the wages I was making in a
department store were not enough to marry on. With
a few dollars Susie had left her and with what I’d
saved we thought we might make a start; but there’s
not much room for the small man now in the eastern
cities, and we came out West. It’s a pull all along; but
we’d make some progress if the blame bush settlers
would pay their bills.”

Jimmy felt sympathetic. The man did not look as
if he found the struggle easy.

“Have you got your business fixed?” Mrs. Jaques
asked, coming in from an adjoining room.

“Not yet,” Bethune answered. “I’ve a suspicion
that your husband was waiting for you; and I couldn’t
object, because I ventured to believe you would say
a word in our favor.”

Mrs. Jaques studied him keenly. He was a handsome
man, with graceful manners, and she thought
him honest; and it was difficult to associate duplicity
with Jimmy’s open face.

“Well,” she promised, “I’ll go as far as I can.”

“Then we’ll get down to business.” Jaques turned
to his guests. “You feel pretty sure you’ll find the
gold when you get back?”

“No,” said Jimmy frankly. “We hope so; but we
can’t even be sure we’ll find the wreck. The gale may
have broken her up and buried her in the sand.”

“Then, if your plan falls through, I won’t get
paid.”

“That’s taking too much for granted. There’ll be
something left over if we have to sell the boat, and
we’re able to earn more than our keep on the wharf or
in the mills. Your debt would have the first claim on
us.”

“It would take you a long time to wipe it off on what
you’d save out of two dollars a day.”

“Very true,” Bethune admitted. “To clear the
ground, I suppose you believe we’d try?”

“We’ll take it that you mean to deal straight with
me. Anyway, you believe you have a pretty good
chance of getting at the gold?”

“I think it’s a fair business risk. In proof of this,
we’re going back to do our best if you will give us
the supplies we want. We wouldn’t be willing to
incur the liability unless we had some hope of success.”

“Very well; you don’t suggest my letting you have
the truck and taking a partner’s share on the strength
of it?”

“No,” Bethune answered decidedly; “not unless you
press the point.”

Mrs. Jaques nodded as if she had approved of the
question and found the answer reassuring. It implied
that the adventurers thought the scheme good enough
to keep to themselves.

“I’d rather my husband stuck to his regular line,”
she said.

“Then,” said Bethune, “this is my proposition:
Give us the goods, and charge us ten per cent. interest
until they’re paid for. You’ll get it as well as the principal,
sooner or later.”

Jaques looked at his wife; and she made a sign of assent.

“Well, it’s a deal!”

A half-hour later, when they rose to go, Jimmy
turned to his hostess.

“While your husband has treated us fairly,” he said,
“we have to thank you, and that makes it a point of
honor to show you were not mistaken.”

He noticed now that there were wrinkles which suggested
anxious thought already forming about her eyes,
and that her hands were work-hardened; but she smiled
at him.

“One learns in keeping store that a customer’s character
is quite as important as his bank account.”

“That’s the nicest thing I’ve had said about me since
I came to British Columbia!” Bethune declared gaily.

Mrs. Jaques smiled.

“If you find the evenings dull before you sail, come
in and talk to us,” she said.

When they went outside, Bethune made a confession.

“I felt strongly tempted to take our custom somewhere
else. They’re nice people, and it looks as if they
found it hard enough to get along.”

“Whatever happens, they must be paid,” Jimmy declared.

“Yes,” agreed Moran, who seldom expressed his
opinion except on nautical matters; “that’s a sure
thing!”

“How would it do to ask them to a picnic on one of
the islands?” Bethune suggested. “It would be an
afternoon’s outing, and it’s generally smooth water
here. I shouldn’t imagine Mrs. Jaques gets many holidays.”

The others thought it a good idea; and when the
sloop was refitted and ready for sea, Bethune put his
suggestion into practice. His guests were pleased to
come, and with a moderate breeze rippling the blue
water, they ran up the straits in brilliant sunshine.
Jimmy laid a cushion for Mrs. Jaques near the wheel,
and her rather pale face lighted up when he asked if she
would steer. He saw that she knew how by the way
she held the spokes.

“This is delightful!” she exclaimed, as they sped
on swiftly. “I used to go sailing now and then at
Toronto, but all the time we have lived here I’ve never
been on the water.”

She glanced in a half-wistful manner at the sparkling
sea. A gentle surf made a snowy fringe along the
shingle beach, and beyond that dark pinewoods rolled
back among the rocks toward blue, distant peaks.
Overhead, the tall, white topsail swayed with a measured
swing across the cloudless sky. Silky threads of
ripples streamed back from the bows, and along the
*Cetacea’s* side there was a drowsy gurgle and lapping
of water.

“You’re to be envied when you sail away,” Mrs.
Jaques said, with something that was almost a sigh.
“Still, it isn’t all sunshine and smooth water in the
North.”

“By no means,” Jimmy assured her. “I can think
of a number of occasions when I’d gladly have exchanged
the sloop for your back room, or, for that matter,
for a yard or two of dry ground.”

“One can imagine it,” she laughed. “Well, you
have to face the gale and fog, while we try not to be
beaten by Jefferson and to meet our bills. I don’t know
which is the harder.”

Jimmy felt compassionate. She was young, but she
had a careworn look, and he surmised that she found
life difficult in the primitive wooden town. It seemed
to be all work and anxious planning with her; there was
something pathetic in the keen pleasure she took in her
rare holiday.

Late in the afternoon they dropped anchor in a rock-walled
cove with a beach of white shingle on which
sparkling wavelets broke. Dark firs climbed the rugged
heights above, and their scent drifted off across the
clear, green water. Bethune, who had been busy cooking,
brought up an unusually elaborate meal and laid it
out on the cabin top with the best glass and crockery he
had been able to borrow. His expression, however,
was anxious as he served the first course to his guests.

“I’ve done my best. I used to think I wasn’t a bad
cook; but after the supper Mrs. Jaques gave us, I’m
much less confident,” he said. “It’s easier to get
proud of yourself when you have nothing to compare
your work with, and your critics are indulgent.
Jimmy’s been very forbearing; and it’s my opinion
that Moran would eat anything that’s fit for human
food.”

“I’ve had to,” Moran retorted. “Anyway, I’ve
seen you set up worse hash than this.”

There were no complaints, and the appetite every one
showed was flattering. They jested and talked with
great good humor; until at last Moran indicated the
lengthening shadow of the mast which had moved
across the deck.

“It’s mighty curious, but we’ve been an hour over
supper, and there’s something left. Guess I never
spent more’n about ten minutes at my grub before.”

Bethune took a bottle from a pail of ice in a locker
and filled the borrowed glasses.

“To our happy next meeting!” he proposed. “Our
guests, who have made the trip possible, will not be forgotten
while we are away.”

The glasses were drained and filled again, and Mrs.
Jaques turned to her hosts with a cordial smile.

“May you win the success you deserve!” she responded;
and a few minutes afterward Bethune, beckoning
Moran, went forward to raise the anchor.

The light was fading when they hove the *Cetacea* to
near the wharf and a boat came off. With many good
wishes Jaques and his wife went ashore, and the sloop
stood away for the lonely North.

CHAPTER VIII—PUZZLING QUESTIONS
===============================

Hot sunshine poured into the clearing on the shore
of Puget Sound where Henry Osborne had his
dwelling. The pretty, wooden house, with its wide
veranda and scrollwork decoration, was finely situated
in a belt of tall pine forest. The resinous scent of
the conifers crept into its rooms; and in front a broad
sweep of grass, checkered with glowing flower-beds,
ran down to the shingle beach. Rocky islets, crested
with somber firs, dotted the sparkling sound, and beyond
them, climbing woods and hills, steeped in varying
shades of blue, faded into the distance, with behind
them all a faint, cold gleam of snow. The stillness of
the afternoon was emphasized by the soft splash of
ripples on the beach and the patter of the water which
the automatic sprinklers flung in glistening showers
across the thirsty grass.

Caroline Dexter, lately arrived from a small New
England town, sat in the shade of a cedar. She was
elderly and of austere character. The plain and badly
cut gray dress displayed the gauntness of her form,
and her face was of homely type; but her glance was
direct, and those who knew her best had learned that
her censorious harshness covered a warm heart. Now
she was surveying her brother-in-law’s house and garden
with a disapproving expression. All she saw indicated
prosperity and taste, and though she admitted
that riches were not necessarily a snare, she hoped
Henry Osborne had come by them honestly.

She had never been quite sure about him, and it was
not with her goodwill that he had married her younger
sister. She thought him lax and worldly; but after
his wife’s death, which was a heavy blow to Caroline,
she had taken his child into her keeping and tenderly
cared for her. Indeed, she ventured to believe that she
had molded Ruth Osborne’s character and won her affection.
The girl might have fallen into worse hands,
for, in spite of her narrow outlook, Caroline Dexter
was unflinchingly upright.

Sitting stiffly erect in the garden chair, she turned to
her niece, who reclined with negligent grace in a canvas
lounge. This, Caroline thought, was typical of the
luxurious indolence of the younger generation, but, for
all that, Ruth had some of the sterner virtues. The
girl was pretty, and though her aunt believed that
beauty is a deceptive thing, it was less dangerous when
purged of pride and vanity. Caroline hoped that the
strictness with which she had brought up her niece had
freed her of these failings.

“Well, dear,” she said, “this is a pretty place; and
your father’s affairs have evidently improved. It’s sad
your dear mother didn’t live to enjoy it.”

Though her dress and appearance were provincial,
the austere simplicity of her manner had in it something
of distinction, and her accent was singularly
clean.

Ruth looked up at her with an air of thoughtful regret.

“Yes; I often feel that, when I think of the hard
struggle she must have had. Though I was very
young then, I can remember the shabby boardinghouses
we stayed in, and my mother’s pale, anxious
face when she and my father used to talk in the evenings.
He seldom speaks about those days, but I know
he does not forget.”

“It is to his credit that he never married again,”
Miss Dexter remarked with a bluntness in which there
was nothing coarse. “He loved your mother, and one
can forgive him much for that.”

“But have you much to forgive? And, after all,
men do sometimes marry twice.”

“And sometimes oftener! No doubt they’re good
enough for the women who take them; but the love of a
true man or woman is stronger than death!”

There was a warmth in the voice of this apparently
unsentimental aunt that surprised Ruth.

“You seem to speak with feeling,” the girl said,
half mockingly.

A shadow crept into Miss Dexter’s eyes as she gazed,
unseeingly, at a seabird poised over the water; but almost
immediately she turned to her niece with her usual
matter-of-fact calm.

“We were talking of your father’s affairs,” she said.
“I notice a sinful extravagance here: servants you do
not need, a gasoline launch, and two automobiles.”

Ruth laughed.

“Father must get to town quickly, and cars sometimes
break down; besides, I believe he can afford
them all. I sometimes think you are rather hard on
him.”

“I’ll admit that I have often wondered how he got
his money. One cannot make a fortune quickly without
meeting many temptations. I suppose you know
your Uncle Charles had to lend him a thousand dollars
soon after you were born, and it was not paid back until
a few years ago? Does your father never tell you anything
about his business?”

“I haven’t thought of asking him,” Ruth answered
with some warmth. “He has always been very kind to
me, and I know that whatever he does is right.”

“A proper feeling,” her aunt commented. “No
doubt, he is no worse than the others; but men’s ideas
are very lax nowadays.”

Ruth was more amused than resentful. Though
she was her father’s staunch partisan, she believed her
aunt distrusted the makers of rapid fortunes as a class
rather than her brother-in-law in particular, and that
her frugal mind shrank with old-fashioned aversion
from modern luxury. For all that, Caroline Dexter
had roused the girl’s curiosity as to her father’s fortune
and she determined to learn something about his years
of struggle when opportunity offered.

A moving cloud of dust rose among the firs where
the descending road crossed the hillside, and a big gray
automobile flashed across an opening. Ruth knew the
car, and there was only one man of her acquaintance
who would bring it down the water-seamed dip at that
reckless speed.

“It’s Aynsley,” she said, with a pleased expression.
“I’ll bring him here.”

“And who is Aynsley?”

“I forgot you don’t know. He’s Aynsley Clay, the
son of my father’s old partner, and runs in and out of
the house when he’s at home.”

Turning away, she hurried toward the house, and as
she reached it a young man came out on the veranda.
He was dressed in white flannel, with a straw hat and
blue serge jacket, and his pleasant face was bronzed by
the sea.

“I came right through,” he said, holding out his
hand. “It was particularly nice of you to leave your
chair to meet me.”

“I’m glad to see you back,” Ruth responded. “Did
you have a pleasant time? When did you get home?”

“Left the yacht at Portland yesterday, and came
straight on. Found the old man out of town, and
decided I’d stop at Martin’s place. I’m due there this
evening.”

“But it’s twenty miles off over the mountains, and
this isn’t the nearest way.”

Clay laughed, with a touch of diffidence that became
him.

“What’s twenty miles, even on a hill road, when
you’re anxious to see your friends?”

He watched her as closely as he dared, for some hint
of response, but he was puzzled by her manner.

“It isn’t a road,” she laughed. “Some day you’ll
come here in pieces.”

“I wonder whether you’d be sorry?”

“You ought to know. But come along—I believe
my aunt is curious about you.”

When he was presented, Miss Dexter gave him a
glance of candid scrutiny. Aynsley was marked by a
certain elegance and careless good humor, which were
not the qualities she most admired in young men, but
she liked his face and the frankness of his gaze. If he
were one of the idle rich, he was, she thought, a rather
good specimen.

“What is your profession?” she asked him bluntly,
when they had talked a few moments.

“It’s rather difficult to state, because my talents and
pursuits are varied. I’m a bit of a naturalist, and
something of a yachtsman, while I really think I’m
smart at handling a refractory automobile. When I
was younger, it was my ambition to ride a raw cayuse,
but now one grapples with the mysteries of valves and
cams. The times change, though one can’t be sure that
they improve.”

“Then you don’t do anything?”

“I’m afraid you hold my father’s utilitarian views,
but there’s room for a difference of opinion about what
constitutes hard work. To-day, for instance, I spent
two hours lying on my back beneath the car and fitting
awkward little bolts into holes; then I drove her fifty
miles in three hours over a villainous road, graded with
rocks and split fir-trees. As I’ve another twenty miles
to go, my own opinion is that I’ll have done enough for
any ordinary man when I get through.”

“And how much better off is the community for
your labors?”

“It’s some consolation that nobody’s much the
worse, but I’ve known the community suffer when it
was slow in getting out of the way.”

Though she shook her head disapprovingly, there was
a gleam of amusement in Miss Dexter’s eyes.

“I suppose you’re a product of your age, and can’t
be blamed for the outlook your environment has forced
upon you. After all, there are more harmful toys than
cars and yachts; enjoy them strenuously while you can.
It may fit you for something sterner when you lose your
taste for them. And there’s something in your look
which makes me think that time may come.”

A half-hour later Ruth and Aynsley were strolling
together through a grove of pines by the water’s
edge.

“What did you think of my aunt?” she asked.

“I think Miss Dexter is a very fine lady. What’s
more, I begin to see where you got something I’ve noticed
about you. I suppose you know that you and
she are not unlike?”

Ruth smiled. Her aunt was hard-featured and very
badly dressed; but she knew that these were not the
points which had impressed him.

“The good impression seems to have been mutual,”
she said; “and to tell the truth, I was slightly surprised.
She’s generally severe to idlers.”

“I knew she’d spot me by my clothes, and I played
up to the part. It pleases people when you fall in with
the ideas they form about you. But speaking of idlers
reminds me that before I went away the old man was
getting after me about wasting my talents; opined it
was time I did something, and said he’d stand for the
losses I’d no doubt make in the first two years if I’d run
the Canadian mill he’s lately bought. I pointed out
that it might cost him more than the boats and cars,
and he answered that he’d consider it as a fine for the
way he brought me up. However, we won’t talk about
that. It’s too fine a day.”

This was characteristic of him and Ruth laughed.
He was careless and inconsequent, but they had been
friends for a long time and she liked him. It was perhaps
curious that she had never troubled herself about
his feeling for her, and had gone on taking his unexacting
friendship for granted. It was seldom that he became
sentimental, and then she had no trouble in checking
him.

“Well,” she said, “you have told me nothing about
your voyage. You must have seen something of interest,
and had a few adventures.”

“It’s a good rule to avoid adventures when you can,
and we followed it. Perhaps the most interesting
thing was my meeting with three men who were fishing
on a lonely island far up to the north.”

“Fishing? That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

They sat down where an opening in the pines gave
them a view of climbing forests and sparkling sound,
and Aynsley lighted a cigarette.

“That’s what they seemed to be doing, but I’ve
had my suspicions about it since. If they caught anything,
it would be a long way from a market, and,
though they were dirty and ragged enough, two of
them hadn’t the look of regular fishermen. One
rather amusing fellow was very much of the kind
you’d meet at a sporting club, and the other had the
stamp of a navy or first-class mailboat man. He was
English.”

Ruth looked up quickly. Jimmy had often been in
her thoughts since she had last seen him; although, as
he had shown no anxiety to avail himself of her invitation,
she had made no inquiries about him. Osborne,
however, had visited Vancouver, and, seeing
the vessel at the wharf, had inquired about Farquhar
and learned that he had left the ship on her previous
voyage. Ruth resented his silence, but she could not
forget him.

“What was the man like?” she asked.

“Which of them?”

“The last one; the navy man.” She found it
slightly embarrassing to answer the question.

Aynsley gave her a keen glance.

“So far as I can recollect, he had light hair, and his
eyes were a darker blue than you often see; about my
age, I think, and unmistakably a sailor, but he had a
smart look and the stamp of command. Do you know
anybody like that?”

Ruth did not answer with her usual frankness; although
she did not doubt that this was the second mate
with whom she had spent many evenings on the big
liner’s saloon deck.

“Oh, of course, we met several steamboat officers,
and they’re much of a type,” she answered in an indifferent
tone.

Aynsley saw that she was on her guard. Girls, he
understood, often had a partiality for mailboat officers
who were generally men of prepossessing appearance
and manners. However, he kept his
thoughts to himself, for he was usually diffident with
Ruth. Although he had long admired her, he knew
that he would not gain anything by an attempt to press
his suit.

“Anyway,” he said, “they were pleasant fellows,
and seemed to be having a hard time. Between the
ice and gales and fog, it’s by no means a charming
neighborhood.”

“Wasn’t it on one of those islands that my father
was wrecked, and lost the gold he was bringing
down?”

“Somewhere about there. Islands are plentiful in
the North.” Aynsley paused and laughed. “Still,
as my respected parent had some interest in the gold,
I shouldn’t imagine they lost much. Losing things
is not a habit of his. I believe he had a share in the
vessel, too.”

“But she went down.”

“That wouldn’t matter. The underwriters would
have an opportunity for paying up—probably rather
more than she was worth. Considering my parentage,
it’s curious I have no business talent.”

“Your father and mine have had dealings for a
long time, haven’t they?”

“They have stood by each other for a good many
years. It looks as if you and I were destined to be
friends; but I sometimes think you don’t understand
just what your friendship is to me.”

“Of course, we are good friends,” Ruth said carelessly;
“but you have plenty others.”

“I have a host of acquaintances; but you’re different
from the rest. That doesn’t sound very original,
but it’s what I feel. There’s an intangible something
that’s very fine about you; something rare and old-fashioned
that belongs more to the quiet corners of
the New England States than to our mushroom cities.
It comes of long and careful cultivation, and isn’t to
be found in places that spring up in a night.”

“Both my father’s and my mother’s people lived
frugally in a very provincial Eastern town.”

“It proves my point. I know the kind of place:
a ‘Sleepy Hollow,’ where nothing happens that hasn’t
happened in the same way before, left as it was when
the tide of American life poured West across the
plains. One can imagine your mother’s people being
bound by old traditions and clinging to the customs
of more serious days. That, I think, is how you got
your gracious calm, your depth of character, and a
sweetness I’ve found in no one else.”

Ruth rose with a smiling rebuke, and firmly turned
the conversation into another channel.

“Yes, I know,” Aynsley said despondently. “I’m
not to talk like that. When I play the good-natured
idiot people applaud, but they put me down smartly
when I speak the truth.”

“You are never in the least idiotic,” Ruth smiled.
“But if you are to cross the hills before dark, it’s
time we gave you something to eat.”

He turned to her, half resigned and half indignant.

“Oh, well! If the auto jumps a bushman’s bridge
or goes down into a gulch, you’ll be sorry you snubbed
me.”

“We won’t anticipate anything so direful,” Ruth
responded; then, with a sudden change of tone, she
added: “Take that post in your father’s mill, Aynsley;
I think you ought.”

He studied her a moment and then made a sign of
assent.

“All right! I’ll do it,” he said.

An hour later she watched him start the car, and
then sat down among the pines to think, for there
were questions which required an answer. Aynsley
was very likable. Beyond that she did not go. Her
thoughts turned to Farquhar, and she wondered why
she so resented his dropping out of sight. She knew
little about him, but she could not forget the evenings
when they leaned on the rails together as the great
ship went steadily across the moonlit sea. Now, for
she believed he was the man Aynsley had met, he was
in the desolate North, and she wondered what he
was doing there, and what perils he had to face. It
cost her an effort to banish him from her mind; but
there was another question which had aroused her
curiosity. How had her father spent the years when
she was in her aunt’s care, before he had grown rich?
He had told her nothing about his struggles, but she
must ask. Sometimes he looked careworn and she
could give him better sympathy if it were based on
understanding. And how had his riches been gained,
so quickly? Ruth had the utmost confidence in her
father, which even her aunt’s doubts could not shake;
nevertheless, she resolved to question him.

CHAPTER IX—THE MINE AT SNOWY CREEK
==================================

Osborne was sitting on his veranda one hot evening
while Ruth reclined in a basket-chair, glancing
at him thoughtfully. Of late she had felt that she
did not know her father as well as she ought: there
was a reserve about him which she had failed to penetrate.
He had treated her with indulgent kindness
and had humored her every wish since she came to
him; but before that there had been a long interval,
during which he had sent her no word, and these years
had obviously left their mark on him. She felt compassionate
and somewhat guilty. So far, she had
been content to be petted and made much of, taking
all and giving nothing. It was time there should be
a change.

Osborne was of medium height and spare figure,
and slightly lame in one foot. On the whole, his appearance
was pleasing; though he was not of the type
his daughter associated with the successful business
man. There was a hint of imaginative dreaminess
in his expression, and his face was seamed with lines
and wrinkles that spoke of troubles borne, Ruth had
heard him described as headstrong and romantic in
his younger days, but he was now philosophically acquiescent,
and marked by somewhat ironical humor.
She wondered what stern experiences had extinguished
his youthful fire.

“Aynsley was talking to me a few days ago,” she
said. “I understand that he means to take charge of
the Canadian mill.”

“Then I suppose you applauded his decision. In
fact, I wonder whether he arrived at it quite unassisted?
The last time Clay mentioned the matter he
told me the young fool didn’t seem able to make up
his mind.”

Ruth grew somewhat uneasy beneath his amused
glance. Her father was shrewd, and she was not
prepared to acknowledge that she had influenced Aynsley.

“But don’t you think Aynsley’s right?” she asked.

“Oh, yes; in a sense. We admire industrial enterprise,
and on the whole that’s good; but I’ve sometimes
thought that our bush ranchers and prospectors,
who, while assisting in it, keep a little in advance of
civilized progress, show sound judgment. It’s no
doubt proper to turn the beauty of our country into
money and deface it with mining dumps and factory
stacks; but our commercial system’s responsible for
a good deal of ugliness, moral and physical.”

The girl was accustomed to his light irony, and was
sometimes puzzled to determine how far he was serious.

“But you are a business man,” she said.

“That’s true. I’ve suffered for it; but it doesn’t
follow that our methods are much better because I’ve
practised them.”

“Where did you first meet Aynsley’s father?” Ruth
asked. She preferred personal to abstract topics.

Osborne smiled reminiscently.

“At a desolate settlement in Arizona a number of
years ago. The Southern Pacific had lately reached
the coast, and I was traveling West without a ticket.
When it was unavoidable I walked; but railroad hands
were more sympathetic in those days, and I came most
of the way from Omaha inside and sometimes underneath
the freight cars. Down under them was a dusty
position in the dry belts.”

Glancing round from the pretty wooden house,
which had been furnished without thought of cost,
across the wide stretch of lawn, where a smart gardener
was guiding a gasoline mower, Ruth found it
hard to imagine her father stealing a ride on a freight train.
But another thought struck her.

“Where was I then?” she asked.

“With your aunt, or perhaps you had just gone to
school. I can’t fix the exact time,” Osborne answered
unguardedly; and the girl was filled with a confused
sense of love and gratitude.

The school was expensive, and her mother’s relatives
were by no means rich, but she knew that her father
had been the recipient of a small sum yearly under
somebody’s will. It looked as if he had turned it all
over for her benefit while he faced stern poverty.

Ruth impulsively pulled her chair nearer to her
father, and her cool little fingers closed over one of
his big hands.

“I understand now,” she said softly, “why there
are lines on your forehead and you sometimes look
worn. Your life must have been very hard.”

“Oh, it had its brighter side,” Osborne answered
lightly. “Well, Clay was also engaged in beating his
passage, and I found him enjoying a long drink from
the locomotive tank. We were confronted with the
problem how to cross about a hundred miles of arid
desert on a joint capital of two dollars. Clay got
over the first difficulty by making a water-bag out of
some railroad rubber sheeting which he borrowed,
while I went round the settlement in search of provisions.
I got some, though prices were ruinously
high, and at midnight we hid beside the track, waiting
for a freight train to pull out. The brakemen had
a trick of looking round the cars before they made a
start. Though the days were blazing hot, the nights
were cold, and we shivered as we lay behind a clump
of cacti near the wheels. A man almost trod on
us as he ran along the line, but just afterward the engine
bell rang, and Clay sprang up to push back one
of the big sliding doors while I held the food and
water. The runners were stiff, the train began to
move; when he opened the door a few inches I had
to trot; and by the time he could crawl through, it
was too late for me to get up. Then, with a hazy
recollection that he had a long way to go, I threw the
food and water into the car.”

“That was just like you!” Ruth exclaimed with a
flush of pride.

“I imagine it was largely due to absence of mind.
I felt very sorry for myself when I stood between
the ties and watched the train vanish into the dark.
What made it worse, was that of the joint two dollars
only fifty cents was his.”

“When did you meet him again?”

“Several years afterward in San Francisco. He
seemed to be prospering, and my luck had not been
good. Through him, I entered the service of the
Alaska Commercial Company. That, of course, was
before the Klondyke rush, and the A.C.C. ruled the
frozen North.”

“It was in Alaska that you were first fortunate,
wasn’t it? You have never told me much about the
mine you found.”

Osborne looked as if the recollection was unpleasant,
but he saw that she was interested, and he generally
indulged her. Though she believed in and was
inclined to idealize him, Ruth was forced to admit
that there was nothing in his appearance to suggest
the miner. His light summer clothes were chosen
with excellent taste, and there was a certain fastidiousness
in his appearance and manners which was
hardly in keeping with his adventurous past.

“Well,” he said, “it was an unlucky mine from
the beginning—and I was not the first to find it.
I had been some years in the company’s service when
I was sent as agent to one of their factories. It was
situated on a surf-beaten coast, with a lonely stretch
of barrens and muskegs rolling away behind, and the
climate was severe. There were no trees large enough
to break the savage winds, and for six months the
ground was covered deep with snow. A small bark
came up once or twice a year, and my business was to
trade with the Indians and the Russian half-breeds for
furs. In winter we had only an hour or two’s daylight,
but I got books from San Francisco, and read
them by the red-hot stove while the blizzards shook
the factory. Even in those days, it was suspected
that there was gold in Alaska; but the A.C.C. did not
encourage prospecting, and the roughness of the country
made it almost impossible for a stranger to traverse.
Still, a few prospectors somehow made their
way into it, and probably died, for they were seldom
seen after their first appearance. I can recollect two
or three, hard-bitten men who stayed a day or two
with us and then vanished into the wilds.

“It was late in the fall when one arrived with two
Aleut Indians in a skin canoe. I never learned where
he came from nor how he got so far, for there was no
communication with the North except by the company’s
vessels, but he told us he meant to locate a
mine he had heard about and thought he could get
back before winter set in. He went off with the
Aleuts and a few provisions he bought, and that was
the last we saw of him until the following summer.
Then I made a journey inland to visit a tribe which
had brought in no furs, and one night we made camp
among a patch of willows. When we were gathering
wood I saw that the larger bushes had been hacked
down, and thought it had been done by a white man.
The next morning we found an empty provision can
of the kind we kept, and, later on, bits of charred
sticks where a fire had been lighted. That led us to
follow up the creek we had camped by; and presently
we found the man who had made the fire.”

“Dead!” Ruth exclaimed.

“He had been dead for months. All that was left
was a clean-picked skeleton bleached by the snow and
a few rags of clothes. The significant thing was that
the breast-bone was cut through: sharply cleft, as if
by an ax.”

“How dreadful! You think the Indians killed the
man?”

“It looked like it. There may have been a fight
over the last of the provisions, which the Aleuts carried
off, because I found very few cans and only one
small empty flour-bag; but the tools indicated that it
was the same man who had visited the factory. I
had not even heard his name, and if he had any friends
they never learned his fate; but he died rich.”

“He had found the gold?” Ruth’s eyes were large
with excitement.

“Yes,” said Osborne. “Not far away, where the
creek had changed its bed, there was a shallow hole,
part of it filled with ashes, but as the scrub was three
or four miles off it was easy to imagine how the man
must have worked carrying the half-dry brush to keep
a big fire going.”

“But why did he want a big fire?”

“To soften the ground. It never thaws deeper
than a foot or two beneath the surface, and there
were signs that the early winter had surprised him at
work. It was obvious that he was a stubborn man,
and meant to hold on until the last moment.”

“Do you think his companions murdered him for
the treasure?”

“No; in those days the Indians cared nothing for
gold, though they might have killed the man for a
silver fox’s skin: furs were our currency. If there
was a quarrel it probably began because he insisted
on staying when winter was close at hand and the
food almost done. For all that I couldn’t find the
gold he must have got, because there was plenty in
the wash-dirt he had left—tiny rounded nuggets as
well as grains. It was a rich alluvial pocket that a
man could work with simple appliances, and I made up
my mind to go back to Snowy Creek some day.”

“But you were not alone! What about your companions?”

“I had two half-breeds with Russian blood in them;
good trappers, but, except for that, with little more
intelligence than the animals they hunted. Gold had
no value to them; their highest ambition was to own
a magazine rifle.”

“But couldn’t you have washed out some of the
gold?”

“I got a small quantity; but I was the company’s
servant, and had its business to mind, and we had
only provisions enough for the trip. The A.C.C.
found the fur-trade more profitable than mining, and
did not want its preserves invaded; and nobody suspected
how rich the country really was. Anyway,
soon after my return, I had a dispute with the chief
factor and, fearing trouble, said nothing about my
discovery. The office supported the fellow, and I left
the A.C.C. with my secret and three or four hundred
dollars.”

“What did you do then?”

“I’m afraid an account of all my shifts and adventures
would be monotonous. Sometimes I had two
or three hundred dollars in hand, sometimes I had
nothing but a suit of shabby clothes; but when things
were at the worst some new chance always turned up,
and I wandered about the Pacific slope until I fell in
with Clay again.”

“Then you didn’t go to him when you left the
A.C.C.?”

“No; he had done me one good turn, and I couldn’t
be continually asking favors.” Osborne paused and
his face turned graver. “Besides, there were respects
in which we didn’t agree; and in those days I had an
independent mind.”

“Haven’t you now?”

“I’ve learned that it’s sometimes wiser to reserve
your opinions,” said Osborne dryly. “You can best
be independent when you have nothing, because it
doesn’t matter then whom you offend.”

“Was Clay prosperous?” Ruth asked.

“He was getting known as a man who would have
to be reckoned with; but he was short of money and
was ready for a shot at anything that promised a few
dollars. Clay never shirked a risk, but I believe he
was honestly glad to see me, and in a moment of expansion
I told him about the Snowy Creek mine and
the gold that would be waiting for me when I could return.”

“Ah! I was waiting until you came to that again.
I felt its importance. It was the mine that made you
rich and surrounded me with a luxury I was half
afraid of at the beginning, wasn’t it?”

Miss Dexter came toward them along the terrace
and Osborne smiled as he indicated her.

“Your aunt has always been inclined to disapprove
of my doings, and I don’t suppose she’d be interested
in my prospecting experiences. We’ll let them stand
over till another day.”

Ruth agreed, but she had a puzzling suspicion that
her father was relieved by the interruption. When
Miss Dexter joined them Ruth was forced to follow
his lead and confine herself to general conversation.
This, however, did not keep her from thinking, and
she wondered why her aunt, whose love for her she
knew, had shown herself so hypercritical about her
father. Caroline was narrow, but she was upright,
and it seemed impossible that she could find any serious
fault with him. For all that, Ruth wished that his
connection with Clay were not quite so close. Clay
was not a man of refinement or high principles, and,
to do him justice, he did not pretend to be. Ruth
had heard his business exploits mentioned with indignation
and cynical amusement by men of different
temperament. There were, she supposed, envious people
who delighted to traduce successful men; but Clay
was certainly not free from suspicion, and she would
have preferred that her father had chosen a different
associate.

CHAPTER X—THE WRECK OF THE *KANAWHA*
====================================

Ruth had time to ponder her father’s unfinished
story, for a week elapsed before she could persuade
him to continue it. Osborne was away for
a few days, and when he came home his preoccupied
manner suggested that he had business of importance
on hand, and Ruth refrained from questioning him.
The subject, however, had its fascination for the girl.
She had been too young to retain more than a hazy
recollection of her father in his struggling days, and
she had fallen into the way of thinking of him as
the polished and prosperous gentleman whom she had
rejoined after a long separation. Now it was difficult
to readjust her ideas and picture him as a needy
adventurer, taking strange risks and engaging in occupations
of doubtful respectability. She was, she
hoped, not hypercritical, but she found it hard to reconcile
the two sharply contrasted sides of his character.

At last, one evening, when they strolled across the
lawn as dusk was falling, she determinedly led up to
the subject, regardless of the smile with which he
evaded her first questions.

“I don’t know why you should be so bent on hearing
about the mine,” he said. “On the whole, I’d rather
forget the thing, because good luck never followed the
gold that was taken from Snowy Creek. There
seemed to be a curse upon it.”

They sat down on a bench beneath a tall, ragged
pine, and Osborne lighted a cigar.

“Well,” he began, “some time after the Klondyke
rush started, when gold had been found freely on
American as well as Canadian soil, I went up to
Alaska to re-locate the mine. Clay had gone north
before this, but not as a miner—he said it was cheaper
to let somebody else dig the gold for him. He had
a share in a wooden steamboat, started a transport service
to several mining camps, and financed prospectors
who made lucky finds. Everything he touched prospered,
and the man was popular where the canvas
towns sprang up; so I was not surprised when I found
him unenthusiastic about my project. However, after
much persuasion, he agreed to come, and we set off
with two hired packers and supplies enough to give
us a good chance of success.

“Summer was late that year, and we hauled the
hand-sledges two hundred miles over the snow; but
I needn’t tell you about our journey. We made it
with some trouble, and one afternoon came down to
the creek, wet and worn out, plowing through belts
of melting snow and soft muskegs made by the sudden
thaw. I had hide moccasins which were generally
soaked and they had given out under the fastenings
of the snowshoes. My foot, which had been frost-bitten
on the march when I first found the mine, was
cut deep, and it cost me a pretty grim effort to hold
out for the last few miles. I made it because I
couldn’t let another night come before I learned my
luck. All I had was in the venture, and if it failed I
must go back to camp destitute.”

“One can understand that you were anxious.”

“It was hard to keep cool, but weariness and pain
steadied me. I believe I showed no excitement, but
I envied the others’ calm. I can picture them now:
Clay, shuffling along in his old skin-coat and torn gum-boots;
the two packers, grumbling at the slush and
bent a little by their loads. All round us a desolate
wilderness ran back to the skyline; gray soil and rocks
streaked with melting snow, out of which patches of
withered scrub stuck forlornly. Well, we struck the
creek, by compass, near where I intended, for soon
afterward I picked up one landmark and Clay another.”

“Clay? But he hadn’t been there before!”

“You’re keen,” Osborne observed. “We had
often talked over my plans, and he must have known
nearly as much about the place as I did. Then one
couldn’t mistake a prominent strip of rising ground,
though it was some distance off when Clay saw it.”

“But the mine?”

“We made the spot in the evening, and I got there
first, though it hurt me badly to put down my foot,
and I’ve sometimes thought Clay held back to let
me pass. Then I had to get a stern grip on my self-control,
and for a few moments I stood there with
my hands clenched, unable to speak. Where I had
left a small hole there was a large one, and a great
pile of tailings was thrown up in the bed of the creek.
It was obvious that we had come too late.”

“How dreadful!” Ruth exclaimed. “After all
you had gone through, it must have been almost too
hard to bear. What did you do?”

“I can’t remember. Clay was the first to speak
and I can recall his level voice as he said, ‘It looks as
if somebody has been here before us, partner!’”

“But how inadequate and commonplace! Didn’t he
do anything?”

“He sat down on his pack and lighted a cigar; but
he was always cool in time of strain. All I remember
of my own doings was that some time afterward
I fired a stick of dynamite at the bottom of the hole
and dug out the bits and half-thawn dirt until it was
dark. I knew it was wasted labor, because whoever
had found the pocket wouldn’t have stopped until he
had cleaned it up. Then I threw down my tools and
lay among the stones, limp and shivering, while Clay
began to talk.”

“But who had found the mine?” Ruth interrupted.

“I never learned. But Clay dealt with the situation
sensibly. After all, he said, it was only a pocket;
a small alluvial deposit. The stream which had
brought the gold there had, no doubt, left some more
in the slacker eddies, and it might be worth while to
look for the mother-lode, where the metal came from.
We had food enough to last while we prospected the
neighborhood. The next morning we set about it,
and, following up the creek, we found gold here and
there; but our provisions threatened to run out before
we came to the watershed.”

“Were any of the pockets as rich as the stolen
one?” Ruth asked.

“No,” her father answered with a hint of reserve.
“Still, we found some gold and got back safely to
the coast. For a while I helped Clay, and then he
told me he must go south before the ice closed in.
We sailed in the vessel that he and some of his friends
had bought, and when we rowed off to her one misty
day through a heavy surf I did not look forward to
a comfortable trip. She was an old wooden steamer
that had been whaling, with tall bulwarks and cut-down
masts, and the topsail yards she still carried gave
her a top-heavy look. The small, dirty saloon and
part of the ’tween-decks were crowded with successful
miners and others who were at least fortunate in having
money enough to take them out of the country
before winter set in. None of them, I think, wished to
see the North again, and nobody who knew it could
blame them. Those who had gold had earned it by
desperate labor and grim endurance; those who had
none were going back broken men—frost-bitten,
crippled by accidents, and ravaged by disease.

“We had some trouble in getting to sea. Several
of the crew had deserted, and the rest were half-mutinous
because they had been forcibly kept on board.
They struck me as a slipshod, unsailorly lot. To
make things worse, it was blowing fresh on-shore,
and she lay, straining at her cables and dipping her
bows, in the long roll, in an open roadstead. They
broke a messenger chain that drove the rickety windlass
in getting the stream anchor up, and the miners
had to help with tackles before they could bring the
kedge to the bows. Then she crawled slowly out to
sea under half steam, and, although there was not
much prospect of it, I hoped she would make a quick
passage. The young first mate and one of the engineers
seemed capable men, but there was nothing
to recommend the rest, and the skipper was slack and
too convivial in his habits. He was a little, slouching
man, with an unsteady look.”

“How did such an old ship get passengers, and why
didn’t they engage a better crew?” Ruth wanted to
know.

“Passengers were not particular during the gold
rush, and good seamen were scarce on the Pacific
slope. All who were worth anything had gone off
to the diggings.”

“Oh! Where was the gold she carried kept?”

“In a strong-room under the floor of the stern
cabin; that is, the gold that was formally shipped by
her, because I believe some of the miners carried as
much as possible on their persons and stowed the rest
under their bunks. Anyway, you saw men keeping
watch while the bedroom stewards were at work, and
I imagine it would have been dangerous to mistake
one’s berth at night. I generally struck a match to
make sure of my number. However, for the most
part, the passengers seemed an honest lot, and I had
more confidence in them than I had in the crew.

“Our troubles began on the first day out, for she
burst a pipe in the engine room; but there was no excitement
when she stopped and a cloud of steam rushed
out of the skylights. Men who had faced the Alaskan
winter in the wilds and poled their boats through the
rapids when the ice broke up were not easily alarmed.

“‘The blamed old boiler’s surely blowing. Guess
that means another day or two on the road,’ one remarked,
and the fellow he spoke to coolly lighted his
pipe.

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘they’ve got some sails up there.
She’ll make it all right if you give her time.’

“She lay a good many hours in the trough of the
sea, rolling so wildly that nobody could keep his feet,
while a miner and the second engineer strapped the
pipe with copper wire and brazed the joint; but the
next accident was more serious. She was steaming
before a white sea with two topsails set when there
was a harsh grinding and the engines stopped with a
bang. A collar on the propeller shaft had given way,
the bolts had broken, and until it could be mended
there was nothing to connect the engines with the
screw.

“They set more sail while the engineers got to work;
and some hours later Clay and I were sitting in the
captain’s room. Clay took the accident lightly, but
the skipper had a nervous look and had been drinking
more than was good for him. There was a bottle in
the rack, and Clay was filling a glass when a miner
came in. He was a big man with a quiet, brown face
and searching eyes.

“‘Can your engine crowd fix this thing, Cap?’ he
asked.

“‘They’re trying,’ said the skipper shortly. ‘It
may take some time.’

“‘What are you going to do while they’re at the
job?’

“‘Head south under sail.’ The skipper began to
look angry. ‘Is there anything else you want to
know?’

“‘Just this—do you reckon you can handle her
all right with the boys you have?’

“The skipper got up with a red face, and I expected
trouble, but Clay glanced at the miner and
pulled the skipper down.

“‘You had better answer him,’ he said.

“‘If the wind holds, I can keep her on her course
until the engines start. That should be enough for
you.’

“‘Certainly,’ said the miner. ‘If you’d found the
contract too big, we’d have found you boys to help
with the shaft or get sail on her. Anyway, if you
want them later, you can let me know.’ Then he went
out and the skipper drained his glass. It was a thing
he did too often.”

“But could the miner have done what he promised?”
Ruth interrupted.

“It’s very likely. In fact, I think if we had wanted
a doctor, an architect, or even a clergyman, we could
have found one among the crowd on board. The fellow
certainly found two or three mechanics, and once
I crawled into the shaft tunnel to watch them at work.
As it was impossible to get the damaged length out,
they worked at it in place, crouching awkwardly in
an iron tube about four feet wide while they cut slots
in the iron. There was hardly room to use the hammer
and hold the chisel; black oil washed about the tunnel
mixed with salt-water that had come in through a
strained gland. Open lamps smoked and flickered
close above their heads as she rolled and the air was
foul; but they kept it up in turns with the ship’s engineers
for several days while the weather got worse
and the boat lurched along before an angry sea with
her canvas set. The decks were wet because the big
rollers that came up astern splashed in across her
rail. It was bitterly cold and a gray haze shut in the
horizon. As the captain could get no sights, he had
to make his course by dead reckoning, which is seldom
accurate.”

“You must have felt anxious with all your gold on
board,” Ruth said.

“No,” replied Osborne, with a moment’s hesitation,
which she missed. “Clay had insured the vessel
and his shipments by her on a kind of floating policy.
I believe he had some trouble to effect it, but he managed
to get the thing arranged through a broker with
whom he had a little influence.”

“Clay seems to have a good deal of influence,” Ruth
thoughtfully remarked. “How does he get it?”

“It’s a gift of his,” Osborne answered, with a curious
smile. “However, to go back to my tale, I knew
the gold was insured, because, as joint owner, I had
to sign a declaration about its value, which would go
by another vessel with the bill of lading. To tell
the truth, I was getting more anxious about my personal
safety, for the cold and mist and wild weather
were wearing on the nerves. At last, the gale blew
itself out; but the haze got thicker as the sea began
to fall; and one night I was awakened by a shock that
threw me out of my berth. As I got a few clothes on I
felt her strike again, and when I ran out on the deck,
half dressed, it was clear that she had made her last
voyage. She lay, canted over, across the sea, with
her after-part sinking and the long swell which still
ran breaking over her. You could see the smooth
slopes of water roll out of the dark and melt into foam
that covered half the deck, while the planking crushed
in with a horrible sound as the reef ground through
her bilge. There was, however, no panic. The miners
quietly helped to swing the boats out; and, seeing
that she was holding together, I went with Clay and
two seamen to open the strong-room. It was reached
through a trap in the cabin floor, but some beams in
breaking had jambed this fast, and we attacked the
deck with bars and axes.

“It was sharply slanted, the poop heaved and
worked as the swell roared about it, and a big lamp
that still burned hung at an extraordinary angle with
the bulkhead. I remember that a maple sideboard
which had wrenched itself away and slipped down to
leeward, lay, smashed to pieces, in a pool of water;
but there was no time to lose in looking about. We
all worked well, but Clay did more than any of us.
He was half dressed, his face was savage and dripping
with sweat, and he swung his ax in a fury, regardless
of the rest. In fact, his mood puzzled me afterward.”

“But his gold was below!” said Ruth.

“It was fully insured,” Osborne explained. “I
didn’t think Clay was likely to make such desperate
efforts for the benefit of the underwriters; and he was
not acting a part, because when the slant of floor got
steeper and we were warned to come out before she
slipped off the reef, he shouted reckless offers of money
to the men to encourage them to keep on. We might
have broken through if we had had a few more minutes,
though the strong-room must have been already
flooded, but the lamp fell as she reeled when a roller
struck her, and we were left in darkness with the
water washing about our feet. It drove us out and she
was obviously going down when we waded across the
after-deck. A boat lay under the quarter, but it was
swept clear as soon as I dropped on board, and as we
lurched away on the long swell there was a heavy
crash. Then a blue light flared up and showed us
other boats, and only half the wreck left, looming black
amid spouting foam.

“It seemed that nobody had been left behind, and
those who could row took the oars in turns through
the dreary night. In the darkness we missed an island
which lay not far off, and it was two days later when
we landed on a desolate mainland beach. We were
there a fortnight, living, for the most part, on shellfish,
and then, fortunately, a Canadian sealing schooner
ran into a neighboring inlet for water. She took us
on board, and, as we filled her up, it was a relief when
she transferred us to a wooden propeller off the northern
end of Vancouver Island.”

“Then the gold was lost?”

“All that was in the strong-room; the miners saved
most of theirs. Nobody was blamed for the wreck,
the underwriters paid, and when a salvage expedition
failed to recover anything, there was an end of the
matter. The gold lies at the bottom of the sea, and
though I don’t know that I’m superstitious, I think
that’s the best place for it. From the beginning, it
brought nobody luck.”

“It had a tragic story,” Ruth agreed. “I wonder
what would happen if somebody fished it up?”

Osborne laughed.

“There’s not much fear of that. The wreck must
have slipped off the reef soon after we left, because
the salvage people found both halves of her in deep
water; but the strong tides and the bad weather prevented
them from working and they declared that she
would be buried in the sand before another attempt
could be made.”

He turned to her with a smile in his eyes.

“Now, little girl,” he said, “you know all about
it, and I hope you’re satisfied.”

“I found it very interesting,” Ruth replied with a
thoughtful air. “In reality, it was the insurance payment
that gave you a start?”

“In a sense.” Osborne’s tone was grave. “Still,
it was not what I’d now consider a large amount, and
I’ve sometimes felt that I wouldn’t be sorry for an excuse
to give it back.”

“I don’t suppose Clay ever felt that way,” Ruth
said.

“One wouldn’t imagine so. What Clay gets he
keeps. He’s not the man to let his imagination run
away with him.”

Osborne rose and strolled across the lawn, but Ruth
sat still in the gathering dark. It was a curious story
she had heard, but she thought she could understand
her father’s feeling regarding the gold. It had brought
him bitter disappointment and permanent lameness, as
well as hardships and suffering. There was, however,
something puzzling in Clay’s determined attempt
to break into the strong-room while the ship was going
to pieces. He was insured against all loss, and
he was not the man to take undue personal risks.
Then Ruth’s thoughts returned to the gold, which had
a fascination for her. After all, it was, perhaps, not
impossible that it should be recovered. A spell of unusually
fine weather or a change in the currents might
make another attempt easier. Treasure often had been
taken from vessels long after they had sunk. Ruth
thought of Jimmy Farquhar, engaged in some mysterious
occupation on an island in the North. It
seemed extravagant to suppose that he had found the
wreck; but it was not impossible. It would be a curious
thing if he should bring up from the depth what
her father had lost. But her father had said the gold
brought bad luck in its train.

The darkness crept up across the lawn and hovered
round the girl, enshrouding her, as she thought of
Jimmy Farquhar on the lonely island in the North and
puzzled over his connection with the ill-fated gold.

CHAPTER XI—FATHER AND SON
=========================

Osborne did not go to town on Saturdays, and
he and Ruth were sitting in a shady corner of
the lawn during the hot afternoon when a cloud of dust
whirled up among the firs. The speed with which it
streaked the climbing forest had its significance to Ruth,
but when a big gray car flashed across an opening her
expression changed.

“There’s no mistaking Aynsley’s trail,” Osborne
laughed. “He blazes it on the bodies of straying
chickens and hogs; but I imagine you noticed that he
wasn’t alone.”

“I did; and I would have been quite as pleased if
he had left his father at home.”

“So I surmised.” Osborne smiled. “It seems to
be what the older generation is intended for; but Clay’s
not the man to take kindly to the shelf and, everything
considered, you couldn’t blame him. Aynsley’s the
more ornamental—a fine figure of a man as he sits
at the wheel; but his father’s the driving force that
makes the machine go. So far, his son hasn’t made
much of anything unless the material was put ready to
his hand.”

“At least, he has done no harm.”

“That’s a very negative virtue. It isn’t thought
highly of in this country.”

“I told him not long ago that he ought to work,”
Ruth replied in unguarded confidence.

“It will be interesting to see if he follows your advice.
His friends have been urging the course for several
years without much effect.”

“He means to take charge of the Canadian mill;
but, of course, he may have a number of reasons for
doing so,” Ruth added hastily.

Osborne made no comment. Of late, he had begun
to wonder where her friendship for Aynsley would
lead, and although it would not have displeased him had
she shown any tenderness for the man, he could discover
no sign of this.

He went forward to meet his guests, and when
they came out of the house a few minutes later Aynsley
went straight across the lawn to greet Ruth and Miss
Dexter, who had joined her niece, while Clay and Osborne
followed a path which led through the pines.
Clay was strongly made and burly, with very dark
hair and eyes and a somewhat fleshy face. He looked
as if he enjoyed good living; but the alertness of his
expression redeemed it from sensuality. He had an
air of rakish boldness which rather became him, and
his careless dress added to this effect. In white Panama
hat, well-cut clothes negligently put on, with a
heavy gold watch-chain, diamond studs, and a black
silk band round his waist, Clay looked more of a swashbuckler
than a sober business man. His appearance
was not altogether deceptive, for, although he used
modern methods with great shrewdness, he had habits
and characteristics more in keeping with the romantic ’49.

“Have you held on to those Elk Park building
lots?” he asked.

Osborne nodded. “Yes.”

“Still got an option on the adjoining frontage?”

“I believe so; the offer wasn’t quite formal.”

“Then wire and clinch the deal. Do it right now.”

“Ah! The municipal improvement scheme is going
through?”

“Sure. I got the tip by ‘phone as I was leaving.
Whatcom serves me pretty well, but there are other
fellows to take a hand in the game, and the news will
leak out some time this evening. We’re an hour or
two ahead—that’s all. Here, write your message.”

Taking a telegram blank from his pocket, he handed
it to Osborne; and then swung off his hat with ceremonious
gallantry as he came suddenly upon the others
through an opening in the pines. Ruth gave him
a rather cold bow, for his voice carried well, and she
had heard enough to disturb her. She did not expect
much from Clay; but it looked as if her father were
abetting him in a conspiracy to take an unfair advantage
of some civic improvements. She had no
justification for questioning either of them; but her
aunt, who was seldom diffident, proceeded to deal with
the matter boldly when Osborne joined them after dispatching
the telegram.

“What’s this I hear, Henry?” Miss Dexter asked.

“I can’t say. You were not intended to hear anything,”
Osborne replied with a patient air.

“Then your friend should talk lower. Have you
been buying up property the city needs?”

“It’s a fairly common practice. I suppose you
don’t approve of it?”

“Need you ask?” Miss Dexter bristled with Puritanical
indignation. “Have you any moral right to
tax the people because they want a healthier and cleaner
town? Is this the example you would set your daughter?”

Osborne smiled tolerantly.

“It’s hardly likely that Ruth will feel tempted to
speculate in real estate. Besides, the tax is optional.
The people needn’t pay it unless they like.”

“That’s a quibble,” Miss Dexter replied shrewdly.
“They wouldn’t buy your lots at an extravagant price
if there was another site available.”

“It’s unwise to jump at conclusions. As a matter
of fact, there are two better sites in the market.”

Miss Dexter looked puzzled.

“If that’s true,” she declared, “the matter’s more
suspicious than before. There’s something not
straight.”

“I’m afraid there often is,” Osborne responded
good-humoredly. “Still, while I can’t hope for your
approval of all my doings, I don’t think you have much
reason to question my veracity.”

“I have none. I beg your pardon, Henry,” Miss
Dexter said with some dignity. “I’m glad to say
that I’ve always found your word reliable.”

“That’s something to my credit, anyway.” Osborne
turned to Clay. “My sister-in-law has no admiration
for our modern business ethics.”

“There she shows sense,” Clay answered with a
smile. “I’m old-fashioned enough to believe, ma’am,
that the less women have to do with business the better.”

“Why?” Miss Dexter demanded sternly.

“You have a better part in life; we look to you to
raise the national tone, to protect the family morals,
and keep the home clean.”

Osborne looked amused, and Aynsley undutifully
grinned, but Miss Dexter’s expression hinted at rather
grim astonishment.

“How is it to be done?” she asked. “What’s the
use in our cleaning when you men are allowed to muss
up things?”

“That sounds logical,” Aynsley put in. “I’m afraid
we really need reforming.”

“You do,” Miss Dexter replied with an air of dry
amusement which somewhat surprised her niece.
“Idle men in particular are bound to make trouble.”

“It was the busy ones I was thinking of. My
idea is that a man’s most dangerous when he’s making
money.”

“What’s that?” Clay turned upon his son sternly.

“I believe I heard you agree with Miss Dexter, sir,
when she condemned our commercial morality?”

“There’s a difference; she’s a lady,” Clay replied in
a decided tone.

Aynsley laughed and turned away with Ruth, who
was in a thoughtful mood, for what she had heard deepened
her distrust of Clay and made her anxious about
his influence on her father. She admitted that, in her
inexperience she could not presume to judge what was
right for him, but she felt troubled.

“Have you told your father you will take over the
mill?” she asked Aynsley.

“Yes; and I believe he was immensely gratified,
though he only said he was glad to see I was coming to
my senses. However, on thinking it over, I half regret
my decision. The old man has money enough for
both of us, and, to my mind, driving a car or sailing a
yacht is much less risky work than trying to get ahead
of the people you deal with.”

“But is that necessary? Can’t you carry on a business
without taking advantage of your rivals and customers?”

“I’m hardly in a position to judge, but from what
I’ve heard it seems difficult. When I take up the mill
I’ve got to make it pay. It would be a bad shake-up
for the old man if I only lost the money he put in.
He’d feel himself disgraced, and it would be a heavy
strain on his affection. Though he tells me I’m a fool
pretty often, he’s really fond of me.”

“Yes,” said Ruth; “I’ve noticed that, and I like
him for it. After all, you need some sympathy. The
situation’s complicated.”

“That’s so. I’m half afraid I’m not smart enough
to grapple with it. Of course, there is such a thing
as compromise: you can do your best all round, but
make a small concession here and there.”

“I’m not sure that would work. Isn’t there a risk
of the concessions becoming too numerous? It would
be safer not to give way at all.”

“It sounds a drastic rule. The trouble is that my
relatives and friends expect too much of me, and I suspect
that some of them are pulling opposite ways.”

Ruth felt sorry for him. Though he was careless,
he was honest, and she thought he would shrink from
anything that was mean and savored of trickery.
Now, however, he had to stand a searching test: he
would be expected to make the sawmill pay, and Clay
would not be satisfied with a small profit. Ruth felt
that she had assumed some responsibility in persuading
him to undertake an uncongenial task; for if he proved
unfitted for it, his troubles would be numerous. For
all that, she could not believe that it was impossible to
get rich uprightly.

“After all,” she said, “you will have every advantage.
The best assistants and the latest machinery.”

“That’s true. But they’re liabilities. I mean
they’ll be scored against me, and I’ll have to prove I’ve
made the most efficient use of them. In a way, I’d
rather make a start with poorer tools.”

“That sounds weak; and you’re not often so hesitating.”

“It’s something to know your limitations,” Aynsley
answered. “Besides, I feel that I have to do you and
the old man credit after the rather reckless confidence
you have both shown in me.”

“I am sure mine was justified,” Ruth said softly.

Aynsley turned to her quickly. She was wonderfully
attractive with her slender figure in light summer
drapery outlined against the darkness of the surrounding
pines; and the dusky background emphasized her
fine coloring. Her face, however, was quietly grave.
He could see no trace of the tender shyness he longed
for, not even a hint of coquetry, which might have
warranted some advance. He sometimes thought that
Ruth did not know her power and had not quite awakened
yet; but it was obvious that she had spoken in
mere friendly kindness, and he must be content with
that.

“Thank you,” he answered in a voice that was
slightly strained. “I’ll certainly have to pull myself
together and see what I can do.”

They heard his father calling and, turning back to
the lawn, they found Clay ready to go. He had, he explained
to Miss Dexter, only called for a word with
Osborne, though he found it hard to tear himself away.
She heard him with a twinkle in her eyes, and afterward
watched him cross the lawn with his jaunty air.
Somehow he made a more romantic figure than his
handsome son.

“A man of many talents, I think,” she said. “One
wonders whether he makes the best use of them.”

“That depends on one’s point of view; and it’s not
our affair,” Osborne remarked.

“It is certainly not mine. How far it may be yours,
I can’t tell, but a man of that kind doesn’t walk alone.
Where he goes he drags others after him.”

Osborne laughed as the hum of the car rushing along
the hillside came back to them.

“The pace he sets is generally hot,” he admitted;
“but I imagine his son is at present gratifying his love
of speed.”

As a matter of fact, Clay was then leaning back on
the cushions, with his hat jammed tightly on, while he
watched Aynsley, whose face was presented to him in
clearly cut profile. The car was traveling very fast
along one of the rough dirt-roads of the country,
throwing up red dust and withered needles and bouncing
among the ruts. High overhead there hung a roof
of somber foliage, pierced by shafts of glittering light
and supported by the columnar trunks of great Douglas
firs. There were holes in the uneven surface of the
road deep enough to wreck the machine, and though
boggy stretches had been laid with small, split logs,
these left bare, broad spaces where the wheels sank in
the soft soil. Aynsley never slackened speed. He
avoided the dangers with judgment and nerve, while
the car lurched as it twisted in and out, now clinging
to the edge of the bank with tires that brushed the fern,
now following a devious track made by wagon wheels.
It was an exhibition of fine driving; and Clay, who was
a shrewd judge of men, noticed the coolness, courage,
and quick decision his son displayed. He took risks
that could not be avoided, but he was bold without being
rash, and this appealed to his father, who studied
him with a puzzled feeling. Considering his strength
of character, it was strange that Aynsley had done
nothing yet; and Clay was, perhaps, not altogether mistaken
in deeming no occupation of importance, unless
it was connected with the earning of money. He held
that a calling which enriched a man was generally of
some benefit to his country.

“I had a letter from Vancouver this morning,” he
said, as they climbed a hill and the slower pace made
conversation possible. “They’re putting the new engine
in and expect to start the mill in a fortnight.”

“I’ll be ready then,” said Aynsley.

Clay noticed that, although his tone conveyed no
hint of eagerness, his expression was resolute. If the
boy’s task was not quite congenial, he meant to undertake
it, which was satisfactory.

“There’s another matter I want to talk about.
That’s a nice girl of Osborne’s, though I guess you
might do better.”

Aynsley turned his head so he could see his father.

“The remark is obviously absurd, sir.”

Clay chuckled.

“It’s a proper feeling. I find no fault with it.
Anyway, I’m glad to see that this time you’re looking
nearer your own level. I felt a bit worried about you
some years ago.”

Taken by surprise, as he was, the blood crept into
Aynsley’s face. He had been infatuated with a girl
in a cigar store, and it was disconcerting to learn that
his father had known all about the affair. Clay had
said nothing, but Aynsley had no doubt that he would
have acted had he thought it needful.

“Well,” he said with some confusion, “I was at a
sentimental age, but I wasn’t so foolish as you seem to
think. Miss Neston was quite good enough for me,
and I’d like you to remember it, since you have mentioned
the matter.”

“We’ll let it go,” Clay answered dryly. “I guess
you have a different idea of your value now. But
you don’t seem to be making much progress with Ruth
Osborne. I suppose you really want her?”

They had passed the steepest pitch of the hill, but
Aynsley threw in the lowest gear and turned quietly
to his father.

“You have a rather crude way of putting things;
but you can take it that I want her more than anything
in the world.”

“Very well. I can get her for you.”

Aynsley made an abrupt movement, and then said
slowly, “I think not. This is a matter in which you
can’t help me; I want you to understand it.”

His resolute manner puzzled Clay, who had not often
found him so determined.

“It seems to me that needs an explanation.”

“Then I’ll try to give you one. You have given me
many things for which I’m grateful, and now that you
have bought me the sawmill, I’ll do the best I can with
it. I’ve allowed you to choose my career; but I think
I’m justified in choosing my wife myself.”

“You’re young,” laughed Clay, “or you’d have
learned that it’s very seldom a man with red blood
chooses his wife; in fact, it much oftener happens the
other way about. He meets her and that settles him.
If you’d been capable of going round with a list of
qualifications looking for a girl who could satisfy them,
you’d be no son of mine. However, I’m not dictating
what you call your choice. I don’t object to it; that’s
all.”

“It’s enough. How would you get Miss Osborne if
I gave you permission?”

Though the question was awkward, Clay smiled.
The boy was shrewder than he thought.

“Oh,” he said, “I have some influence with Osborne.
He owes me several favors.”

“A man wouldn’t give up his daughter in return for
a favor. What is your hold on him?”

“I don’t see much reason why you should know.”

“You may be right.” Aynsley’s tone was determined
as he continued: “Let’s try to understand each
other. If Miss Osborne marries me because that’s her
wish, I’ll be a very fortunate man; but it’s unthinkable
that she should be forced to do so. I can’t have any
pressure put upon her father.”

“When I want a thing, I get after it the best way I
can.”

“I believe that’s true,” Aynsley answered with a
smile. “In this case, however, the way’s important.
I must ask you to leave it alone.”

“Very well,” acquiesced Clay. “As usual, though,
I’ll be around if you should want me. I guess I
haven’t failed you yet.”

“You have not, Dad,” Aynsley replied in an affectionate
tone. “Sit tight; I’m going to stir up the machine.”

CHAPTER XII—READY FOR THE FRAY
==============================

The train was held up on its way to the Canadian
frontier by a wash-out farther along the track.
Devereux Clay stood in the noon sunshine talking to
Osborne at a small wayside station while groups of impatient
passengers strolled about the line, stopping now
and then to glance at a gap in the somber firs where the
rails gleamed in the strong sunshine; the engineer, leaning
out from his cab, had his eyes turned in the same
direction. There was, however, nothing to be seen
but climbing trees, whose ragged spires rose one behind
the other far up the steep hillside, and the fragrance
the hot noon sun drew out from them mingled with the
sharp smell of creosote from the ties. Except for the
murmur of voices and the panting of the locomotive
pump, it was very quiet in the narrow clearing, and the
sound of falling water came up faintly from a deep
hollow where a lake glittered among the firs.

Clay leaned against the agent’s wooden shack, with
his watch in his hand, for time was of value to him just
then.

“Twenty minutes yet, from what that fellow said,”
he grumbled. “Give me a cigar—I’ve run out—and
you needn’t wait.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry,” said Osborne, glancing toward
his automobile, which stood outside the station.
“I suppose it’s the labor trouble that’s taking you to
Vancouver?”

“You’ve hit it,” Clay answered in a confidential
tone. “I’m a bit worried about things; but I’ve spent
the last two days wondering whether I’d go or not.”

He was seldom so undecided, but Osborne thought
he understood.

“It looks as if the unions meant business,” he said,
“and in this agitation against alien labor they seem to
have public sympathy. Have you any Japs at the
mill?”

“I believe so. That’s partly why I’m going. Until
I read the papers this morning I thought I’d stay away.
I figured it might be better to let the boy worry through
alone and see what he could make of it.”

“Let him win his spurs?”

“That’s right. I told him to sit tight, and so long as
he made good I’d foot the bill; but after the big row in
Vancouver yesterday, I thought I’d go along. Still,
my notion is to keep in the background unless I find I’m
badly wanted.”

His manner was half apologetic, and Osborne smiled.
Clay was not addicted to hovering in the background
when things were happening; but Osborne knew the affection
he bore his son.

“It might be wiser for you to be on the spot; the
white mob seems to be in an ugly mood,” he said.
“How is Aynsley getting on?”

“Better than I expected. The boy has the right
grip and he’s taking hold.” Clay turned abruptly and
fixed Osborne with his eyes. “I was a bit puzzled
about his making up his mind all at once that he’d run
the mill. Do you know of anything that might have
helped to persuade him?”

“Since you ask, I have a suspicion,” Osborne answered.

“So have I; I guess it matches yours. It’s like
the young fool that a word from a girl who knows less
than he does should have more effect than all the reasons
I gave him.”

“It’s not unnatural,” Osborne smiled.

“Then suppose we’re right in our idea of what this
points to? You know my boy.”

“I like him. Perhaps I’d better say that if I found
that Ruth shared my good opinion, I shouldn’t object.
But I can’t guess her views on the matter.”

“I know Aynsley’s,” Clay said dryly. “We had a
talk not long ago, and I offered to see what I could
do.”

Osborne gave him a searching glance and his expression
changed. He looked on his guard.

“So far, you have been able to get your son everything
he wished for; but you must understand that you
can’t dispose of my daughter. Ruth shall please herself.”

Clay’s eyes gleamed with rather hard amusement.

“It’s curious that my boy said much the same thing.
In fact, he warned me off. He knows how I’ve indulged
him and seemed to think I might put some pressure
on you.”

“In the present instance it wouldn’t have much effect;
but what you say gives me a better opinion of
Aynsley than I already had.”

“That’s all right,” Clay rejoined, dropping his hand
on the other’s arm in a friendly manner. “We certainly
can’t afford to quarrel, and I don’t know that it’s
unfortunate our children are more fastidious than we
are. Anyway, we don’t want them to find us out. I’d
feel mean if my son disowned me.”

Osborne winced at this allusion.

“Aynsley stands prosperity well,” he said.

“In my opinion, it’s considerably less damaging than
the other thing. I’m thankful I’ve done the grubbing
in the dirt for him. I’ve put him where it’s easier to
keep clean. So far as I can fix it, my boy shall have a
better time than was possible for me. I’ve put him into
business to teach him sense—I don’t know a better
education for any young man than to let him earn his
bread and butter. He’ll learn the true value of men
and things; and when he’s done that and shown he’s
capable of holding his own, he can quit and do what
pleases him. I’ve no near relations, and there was a
time when my distant connections weren’t proud of me.
Everything I have goes to the boy; and if your daughter
will take him, I’d know he was in good hands. If
she won’t, I’ll be sorry, but he must put up with it.”

Osborne felt reassured. Clay had his good points,
though they were not always very obvious, and perhaps
the best was his affection for his son. Before Osborne
could reply, Clay glanced again at his watch and resumed
his usual somewhat truculent manner.

“If they get me into Vancouver after the trouble begins,
I’ll see the road bosses in Seattle and have the
superintendent of this division fired!” he announced.

At that moment the telegraph began to tick in the
shack, and shortly afterward the agent came up to
Clay.

“They’re through. We’ll get you off in five minutes,
and I have orders to cut out the next two stops,”
he said.

While he gave the conductor his instructions a shrill
whistle rang through the shadows of the pines and a
big engine with a row of flat cars carrying a gravel plow
and a crowd of dusty men came clattering down the
line. As they rolled into the side-track Clay climbed
to the platform of his car, and almost immediately the
train started. His face grew hard and thoughtful
when he leaned back in a corner seat; and he had emptied
the cigar-case his friend had given him before he
reached Vancouver, where he hired the fastest automobile
he could find.

-----

While his father was being recklessly driven over a
very rough road which ran through thick bush, Aynsley
sat on a pile of lumber outside the mill with his
manager. It was getting dark, the saws which had
filled the hot air all day with their scream were still,
and the river bank was silent except for the gurgle of
the broad, green flood that swirled among the piles. A
great boom of logs moored in an eddy worked with the
swing of the current, straining at its chains; there was
a red glimmer in the western sky, but trails of white
mist gathered about the thinned forest that shut the
clearing in. Only trees too small for cutting had been
left, but the gaps between them were filled with massive
stumps. Tall iron stacks, straggling sheds, and sawdust
dumps took on a certain harsh picturesqueness in
the fading light; and the keen smell of freshly cut cedar
came up the faint breeze. But Aynsley had no eye for
his surroundings. He was thinking hard.

After a brief experience, he had found, somewhat to
his surprise, that his work was getting hold of him.
The mechanical part of it in particular aroused his keen
interest: there was satisfaction in feeling that the
power of the big engines was being used to the best advantage.
Then, the management of the mill-hands and
the care of the business had their attractions; and Aynsley
ventured to believe that he had made few mistakes
as yet, though he admitted that his father had supplied
him with capable assistants. Now, however, he must
grapple with a crisis that he had not foreseen; and he
felt his inexperience. There was, he knew, an easy
way out of the threatened difficulties, but he could not
take it. He must, so far as possible, deal effectively
with an awkward situation, and, at the same time, avoid
injustice, though that would complicate matters. The
problem was not a novel one: he wanted to safeguard
his financial interests and yet do the square thing.

“You think the Vancouver boys will come along and
make trouble for us to-night, Jevons?” he asked presently.

The young manager nodded.

“That’s what I’m figuring on; and it’s quite likely
the Westminster crowd will join them. They’ve been
making ugly threats. I found this paper stuck up on
the door when I made my last round.”

Aynsley read the notice.

    *This is a white man’s country. All aliens warned
    to leave. Those who stay and those who keep them
    will take the consequences.*

“I suppose our keeping the Japs on is their only
quarrel with us?”

“It’s all they state.”

“Well,” Aynsley said slowly, “if we give way in
this, I dare say they’d find something else to make
trouble about. When you begin to make concessions
you generally have to go on.”

“That’s so,” agreed Jevons. “It looks to me as if
the boys were driving their bosses, who can’t pull them
up; but those I’ve met are reasonable men, and when
the crowd cools off a bit they’ll get control again.
They’d give us leave to run the mill if you fired the
Japs.”

Aynsley frowned.

“I have received their deputations civilly, and during
the last week or two I’ve put up with a good deal.
We pay standard wages and I don’t think there’s a man
about the place who’s asked to do more than he’s able.
But I can’t have these fellows dictating whom I shall
employ!”

“You have some good orders on the books for delivery
on a time limit,” Jevons reminded him.
“You’ll lose pretty smartly if we have to stop the mill.”

“That’s the trouble,” Aynsley admitted. “I’d hate
to lose the orders; but, on the other hand, I hired these
Japs when I couldn’t get white men, and I promised
their boss I’d keep them until we’d worked through the
log boom.”

“You might call him up and ask what he’d take to
quit. It might work out cheaper in the end.”

Aynsley pondered this. Though he had not suspected
it until lately, he had inherited something of his
father’s character. He had seldom thought much
about money before he entered the mill, but since then
he had experienced a curious satisfaction in seeing the
balance to his credit mount up, and in calculating the
profit on the lumber he cut. Now he found the suggestion
that he should throw away part of his earnings
frankly impossible. It was, however, not so much
avarice as pride that influenced him. He had taken to
business seriously, and he meant to show what he could
do.

“No,” he said decidedly. “I don’t see why I should
let the mob fine me for being honest. I’d rather fight,
if I’m forced to; and I’m afraid you’ll have to stand
in.”

Jevons laughed.

“I don’t know that I’m anxious to back out. I tried
to show you the easiest way, as a matter of duty; but
there’s a good deal to be said for the other course. I
don’t think there are any union boys still in the mill,
and my notion is that the rancher crowd don’t mean to
quit.”

Labor had been scarce that year, and Aynsley had
engaged a number of small ranchers and choppers, who,
as often happens when wages are high, had come down
from their homesteads in the bush. They were useful
men, of determined character, and were content with
their pay.

“Well,” he said, “we may as well ask what the
Japs think of doing; but they’re stubborn little fellows,
and seem to have some organization of their own.
Anyway, they whipped the mob pretty badly in Vancouver
a day or two ago.”

Their leader, being sent for, explained in good English
that, as their honorable employer had hired them
to do certain work which was not yet completed, they
meant to stay. On being warned that this might prove
dangerous, he answered darkly that they had taken precautions,
and the danger might not be confined to
them. Then, after some ceremonious compliments, he
took his leave; and Aynsley laughed.

“That settles the thing! They won’t go and I can’t
turn them out. I have some sympathy with the opposition’s
claim that this is a white man’s country; but
since they couldn’t give me the help I wanted, I had to
get it where I could. Now, we’ll interview the white
crowd.”

They found the men gathered in the big sleeping-shed
where the lamps had just been lighted. They
were sturdy, hard-looking fellows, most of whom
owned small holdings which would not support them in
the bush, and they listened gravely while Aynsley spoke.
Then one got up to reply for the rest.

“We’ve seen this trouble coming and talked it over.
So long as you don’t cut wages, we’ve nothing much to
complain of and see no reason for quitting our job.
Now, it looks as if the Vancouver boys were coming
to turn us out. We’ll let them—if they can!”

There was a murmur of grim approval from the rest;
and Aynsley, dividing them into detachments, sent
them off to guard the saws and booms and engine-house.
Then he turned to the manager with a sparkle
in his eyes.

“I think we’re ready for anything that may happen.
You’ll find me in the office if I’m wanted.”

On entering it he took down a couple of books from
a shelf and endeavored to concentrate his attention on
the business they recorded. It was the first serious
crisis he had had to face, and he felt that hanging idly
about the mill while he waited for the attack would be
too trying. Somewhat to his surprise, he found his
task engross him, and an hour had passed when he
closed the books and crossed the floor to the open window.

It was a calm, dark night, and warm. A star or two
glimmered above the black spires of the pines, but the
mist that drifted along the waterside blurred the tall
stacks and the lumber piles. There was no sign of the
men; and the deep silence was emphasized by a faint
hiss of steam and the gurgle of the river.

Leaning on the sill, Aynsley drank in the soft night
air, which struck on his forehead pleasantly cool. He
admitted that he was anxious, but he thought he could
keep his apprehensions under good control.

As he gazed into the darkness, a measured sound
stole out of the mist, and, growing louder, suggested a
galloping horse. It approached the mill, but Aynsley
did not go down. If anybody wanted him, it would be
better that he should be found quietly at work in his
office; and he was seated at his table with a pen in his
hand when a man was shown in. The newcomer was
neatly dressed except that his white shirt was damp and
crumpled. His face was hot and determined.

“I’ve come to prevent trouble,” he explained.

“I’m glad to hear it, because, as we both have the
same wish, it ought to simplify things,” Aynsley responded.
“Since yours is the party with a grievance,
you’d better tell me what you want.”

“A written promise that you won’t keep a Jap here
after to-morrow morning.”

“I can’t give it,” said Aynsley firmly. “I’ll undertake
to hire no more and to let these fellows go when
they have finished the work I engaged them for, if that
will do.”

“It won’t; I can’t take that answer back to the boys.
You must fire the Japs right off.”

Aynsley leaned forward on the table with a patient
sigh.

“Don’t you understand that when two parties meet
to arrange terms they can’t both have all they want?
The only chance of a settlement lies in a mutual compromise.”

“You’re wrong,” said the stranger grimly. “The
thing can be settled straight off if one of them gives
in.”

“Is that what you propose to do?”

“No, sir! I don’t budge an inch! The boys
wouldn’t let me, even if I thought it wise.”

“Then, as I can’t go as far as you wish, there’s no
use in my making a move,” Aynsley answered coolly.
“It looks as if we had come to a standstill and there
was nothing more to be said.”

“I’ll warn you that you’re taking a big responsibility
and playing a fool game.”

“That remains to be seen. I needn’t keep you,
though I’m sorry we can’t agree.”

He went down with the man, and as they crossed the
yard the fellow raised his voice.

“Come out from the holes you’re hiding in, boys!”
he cried. “Are you going to back the foreigners and
employers against your friends?”

Aynsley touched his shoulder.

“Sorry, but we can’t allow any speeches of that
kind. You have an envoy’s privileges, so long as you
stick to them, but this is breaking all the rules.”

“How will you stop me?” the fellow demanded
roughly.

“I imagine you had better not satisfy your curiosity
on that point,” Aynsley answered. “The man yonder
has your horse. I wish you good-night.”

The envoy mounted and rode away into the darkness;
and Aynsley sought his manager.

“I suspect his friends are not far off,” he said.
“We had better go round again and see that everything’s
ready.”

CHAPTER XIII—THE REPULSE
========================

The night was dark and the road bad, and Clay
leaned forward in the lurching car, looking fixedly
ahead. The glare of the headlamp flickered across
wagon ruts and banks of tall fern that bordered the
uneven track, while here and there the base of a great
fir trunk flashed suddenly out of the enveloping darkness
and passed. Where the bush was thinnest, Clay
could see the tiny wineberries glimmer red in the rushing
beam of light, but all above was wrapped in impenetrable
gloom. They were traveling very fast
through a deep woods, but the road ran straight and
roughly level, and talking was possible.

“You had trouble in the city lately. How did it
begin?” Clay asked the driver. “I’m a stranger, and
know only what’s in your papers.”

“The boys thought too many Japs were coming in,”
the man replied. “They corralled most of the salmon
netting, and when there was talk about prices being
cut, the white men warned them to quit.”

He broke off as the car dropped into a hole, and
it was a few moments later when Clay spoke.

“The Japs wouldn’t go?”

“No, sir; they allowed they meant to hold their job;
and the boys didn’t make a good show when they tried
to chase them off. Then, as they were getting other
work into their hands, the trouble spread. The city’s
surely full of foreigners.”

“You had a pretty big row a day or two ago.”

“We certainly had,” the driver agreed, and added,
after a pause during which he avoided a deep rut,
“The boys had fixed it up to run every blamed Asiatic
out of the place.”

“I understand they weren’t able to carry their program
out?”

“That’s so. I’ve no use for Japs, but I’ll admit they
put up a good fight. Wherever the boys made a rush
there was a bunch of them ready. You couldn’t take
that crowd by surprise. Then they shifted back and
forward and slung men into the row just where they
were wanted most. Fought like an army, and the boys
hadn’t made much of it when the police whipped both
crowds off.”

“Looks like good organization,” Clay remarked.
“It’s useful to know what you mean to do before you
make a start. Have the boys tried to run off those who
are working at the outside mills?”

“Not yet, but we’re expecting something of the
kind. They’d whip them in bunches if they tried that
plan.”

This was what Clay feared; it was the method he
would have used had he led the strikers. When a general
engagement is risky, one might win by crushing
isolated forces; and Aynsley’s mill was particularly
open to attack. It stood at some distance from both
Vancouver and New Westminster, and any help that
could be obtained from the civic authorities would
probably arrive too late. There was, however, reason
to believe that the aliens employed must have recognized
their danger, and perhaps guarded against it.
Clay knew something about Japs and Chinamen, and
had a high respect for their sagacity.

He asked no more questions, and as the state of the
road confined the driver’s attention to his steering,
nothing was said as they sped on through the dark.
Sometimes they swept across open country where
straggling split-fences streamed back to them in the
headlamps’ glare and a few stars shone mistily overhead.
Sometimes they raced through the gloom beside
a bluff, where dark fir branches stretched across
the road and a sweet, resinous fragrance mingled with
the smell of dew-damped dust. The car was traveling
faster than was safe, but Clay frowned impatiently
when he tried to see his watch. It was characteristic
that although he was keenly anxious he offered the
driver no extra bribe to increase the pace. He seldom
lost his judgment, and the possibility of saving a few
minutes was offset by the danger of their not arriving
at all.

Presently they plunged into another wood. It
seemed very thick by the way the hum of the engine
throbbed among the trees, but outside the flying beam
of the lamps all was wrapped in darkness. Clay was
flung violently to and fro as the car lurched; but after
a time he heard a sharp click, and the speed suddenly
slackened.

“Why are you stopping?” he asked impatiently.

“Men on the road,” explained the driver. “I’m
just slowing down.”

Clay could see nothing, but a sound came out of
the gloom. There was a regular beat in it that indicated
a body of men moving with some order.

“Hold on!” he cautioned, as the driver reached out
toward the horn. “Let her go until we see who they
are. I suppose there’s no way round?”

“Not a cut-out trail until you reach the mill.”

“Then we’ll have to pass them. Don’t blow your
horn or pull up unless you’re forced to.”

The car slid forward softly and a few moments
later the backs of four men appeared in the fan-shaped
stream of light. As it passed them another four were
revealed, with more moving figures in the gloom beyond.
Most of them seemed to be carrying something
in the shape of extemporized weapons, and their
advance was regular and orderly. This was not a
mob, but an organized body on its way to execute
some well-thought-out plan. As the car drew nearer
a man swung round with a cry, and the rearmost fours
stopped and faced about. There was a murmur of
voices farther in front; and, seeing no way through,
the driver stopped, though the engine rattled on.

“Let us pass, boys; you don’t want all the road,” he
called good-naturedly.

None of them moved.

“Where are you going?” one asked.

“To the Clanch Mill,” answered the driver before
Clay could stop him.

The men seemed to confer, and then one stood forward.

“You can’t go there to-night. Swing her round and
light out the way you came!”

Clay had no doubt of their object; and he knew
when to bribe high.

“They’ll jump clear if you rush her at them,”
he said softly. “A hundred dollars if you take me
through!”

The car leaped forward, gathering speed with every
second; and as it raced toward them the courage of
the nearest failed. Springing aside they scrambled
into the fern, and while the horn hooted in savage
warning the driver rushed the big automobile into the
gap.

For a few moments it looked as if they might get
through. There was a confused shouting; indistinct,
hurrying figures appeared and vanished as the shaft
of light drove on. Some struck at the car as it passed
them, some turned and gazed; but the men ahead were
bolder, or perhaps more closely massed and unable
to get out of the way in time.

“Straight for them!” cried Clay.

A man leaped into the light with a heavy stake in
his hand.

The next moment there was a crash, and the car
swerved, ran wildly up a bank, and overturned.

Clay was thrown violently forward, and fell, unconscious,
into a brake of fern. When he came to, he
was lying on his back with a group of men standing
round him. He felt dazed and shaky, and by the
smarting of his face he thought it was cut. When
he feebly put up his hand to touch it he felt his fingers
wet. Then one of the men struck a match and bent
over him.

“Broken any bones?” he asked.

“No.” Clay found some difficulty in speaking. “I
think not, but I don’t feel as if I could get up.”

“Well,” the man said, “it was your own fault; we
told you to stop. Anyhow, you had better keep still
a bit. If you’re here when we come back, we’ll see
what we can do.”

Glancing quickly round, Clay saw the driver sitting
by the wrecked car; and then the match went out.
In the darkness the nearest men spoke softly to one
another.

“What were you going to the mill for?” one man
asked him.

“I had some business there,” Clay answered readily.
“I buy lumber now and then.”

The men seemed satisfied.

“Leave them alone,” one suggested; “they’ll make
no trouble and it’s time we were getting on.”

The others seemed to agree, for there was some
shouting to those in front, and the men moved forward.
Clay heard the patter of their feet grow
fainter, and congratulated himself that he had obviously
looked worse than he felt. Now that the
shock was passing, he did not think he was much injured,
but he lay quiet a few minutes to recover before
he spoke to the driver.

“How have you come off?” he asked.

“Wrenched my leg when she pitched me out; hurts
when I move it, but I don’t think there’s anything out
of joint.”

“As soon as I’m able I’ll have to get on. How far
do you reckon it is to the mill?”

“About two miles.”

Clay waited for some minutes and then got shakily
up on his feet.

“You’ll find me at the C.P.R. hotel to-morrow if
I don’t see you before,” he said; and, pulling himself
together with an effort, he limped away along the
road.

For the first half-mile he had trouble in keeping
on his feet; but as he went on his head grew clearer
and his legs steadier, and after a while he was able
to make a moderate pace. There was no sign of the
strikers, who had obviously left him well behind, but
he pushed on, hoping to arrive not very long after
them, for it was plain that he would be wanted. He
was now plodding through open country, but there
was nothing to be seen except scattered clumps of
trees and the rough fences along the road. No sound
came out of the shadows and all was very still.

At last a dark line of standing timber rose against
the sky, and when a light or two began to blink among
the trees Clay knew he was nearer the mill. He
quickened his speed, and when a hoarse shouting
reached him he broke into a run. It was long since
he had indulged in much physical exercise, and he
was still shaky from his fall, but he toiled on with
labored breath. The lights got brighter, but there
was not much to be heard now; though he knew that
the trouble had begun. He had no plans; it would
be time to make them when he saw how things were
going, for if Aynsley could deal with the situation
he meant to leave it to him. It was his part to be on
hand if he were needed, which was his usual attitude
toward his son.

An uproar broke out as he ran through an open gate
with the dark buildings and the lumber stacks looming
in front. Making his way to one of the huge
piles of lumber, he stopped in its shadow, breathing
hard while he looked about.

The office was lighted, and the glow from its windows
showed a crowd of men filling the space between
the small building and the long saw-sheds. They
were talking noisily and threatening somebody in the
office, behind which, so far as Clay could make out,
another body of men was gathered. Then the door
opened, and he felt a thrill as Aynsley came out alone
and stood where the light fell on him. He looked
cool and even good-natured as he confronted the hostile
crowd; nothing in his easy pose suggested the
strain Clay knew he must be bearing. As he fixed
his eyes on the straight, handsome figure and the
calm face, Clay felt that his son was a credit to him.

“I’d hate to see you get into trouble for nothing,
boys,” Aynsley said in a clear voice. “If you’ll think
it over, you’ll see that you have nothing against the
management of this mill. We pay standard wages
and engaged foreigners only when we could get nobody
else. They’ll be replaced by white men when
their work is done.”

“We’ve come along to see you fire them out to-night!”
cried one of the strikers.

“I’m sorry that’s impossible,” Aynsley replied
firmly.

“See here!” shouted another. “We’ve no time for
foolin’, and this ain’t a bluffin’ match! The boys
mean business, and if you’re wise, you’ll do what they
ask. Now, answer straight off: Have we got your
last word on the matter?”

“Yes,” said Aynsley; “you can take it that you
have.”

“That’s all right,” said the spokesman. “Now we
know how we stand.” He raised his voice. “Boys,
we’ve got to run the blasted Japs off!”

There was a pause and a confused murmuring for
nearly a minute. Clay, remaining in the shadow of
the lumber, wondered whether it might not have been
wiser had he struggled back to Vancouver in search
of assistance; but, after all, the police had their hands
full in the city, and he might not have been able to
obtain it. Besides, he had been used to the primitive
methods of settling a dispute in vogue on the Mexican
frontier and in Arizona twenty years ago, and,
shaken, bruised, and bleeding, as he was, his nerves
tingled pleasantly at the prospect of a fight.

When the strikers began to close in on the office
Clay slipped round the lumber stack, and was fortunate
in finding Jevons, the manager.

“Mr. Clay!” exclaimed Jevons, glancing at his lacerated
face.

“Sure,” said Clay. “Don’t mention that I’m here.
My boy’s in charge so long as he can handle the situation.”

“It’s ugly,” declared Jevons. “Are you armed?”

“I have a pistol. Don’t know that I can afford to
use it. What’s the program?”

Before Jevons could answer, there was a rush of
dark figures toward the office, and a hoarse shout.

“The Japs first! Into the river with them!”

“Steady, boys!” Aynsley’s voice rang out. “Hold
them, saw gang A!”

A confused struggle began in the darkness and raged
among the lumber stacks. Groups of shadowy figures
grappled, coalesced into a fighting mass, broke
apart, surged forward, and were violently thrust back.
There was not much shouting and no shots were fired
yet, but Clay was keenly watchful as he made his way
from place to place, where resistance seemed weakest,
and encouraged the defenders, who did not know him.
With rude generalship he brought up men from the
less threatened flank and threw them into action where
help was needed; but he realized that the garrison was
outnumbered and was being steadily pushed back.

They were, however, making a stubborn fight, and
the conflict grew fiercer. Yells of rage and pain now
broke through the sound of scuffling feet, stertorous
breathing, and shock of blows; orders and threats were
shouted, and Clay’s face grew stern when one or two
pistols flashed. He had found a big iron bar and was
satisfied with it, but if forced to shoot he would not
miss, as he thought the rioters did.

A red glow leaped up from the end of a shed. The
blaze spread quickly; there was a sharp crackling,
louder than the turmoil it broke in upon, and a cloud
of pungent smoke hung above the struggling men.
Clay could see their faces now: Japs and white men
bunched together, but slowly giving ground, with his
son in the midst of the surging, swaying cluster that
bore the brunt of the attack.

It struck Clay, as he paused for a moment, that the
little, sallow-faced aliens were remarkably cool, though
it must be obvious to them that they were not holding
their own. He wondered whether they had some
plan in reserve. There was, however, no time to ponder
this, for a pistol flashed among the rioters. The
group that Aynsley led gave back and then drove forward
again with a savage rush, while hoarse shouts
went up.

“Stand them off while we take him out! Sock
the fellow with the pistol; he’s plugged the boss!”

Clay suddenly was filled with murderous fury.
There was a good deal of the barbarian in him and
he had led a hard, adventurous life. His son was
shot. The brutes who had brought him down would
suffer!

“I’m his father, boys!” he cried. “Follow me and
drive the damned hogs into the river!”

The boldest closed in about him, a knot of determined
men, small ranchers and prospectors who had
long fought with flood and frost in the lonely hills.
They were of sterner stuff than the city millhands,
and, led by one who would go on until he dropped,
they cleft the front of the mob like a wedge. The
man with the pistol fired almost in their leader’s face,
and missed; but Clay did not miss with the bar, and
he trod on the fellow’s body as he urged on the furious
charge.

It was a forlorn hope. Though for a time the men
could not be stopped, the rioters closed in behind them,
cutting off support. They could not keep up the rush,
and presently they gained only a foot or two by desperate
struggling. Clay knew their position was now
dangerous. The strikers’ passions were unloosed and
no mercy would be shown; but this did not matter so
long as he could leave his mark on some of his foes
before they got him down. He fought with a cold
fury that helped him to place his blows, and the long
bar made havoc among the strikers; but soon he was
hemmed in, with his back to a lumber pile, and he
knew the end was near. Bruised, dazed, and bleeding,
he stood wielding his weapon and sternly watching for
a chance to strike.

Suddenly the crowd which pressed upon him gave
back and he heard a rush of feet and alarmed shouts.
There was a yell that was not made by white men;
short, active figures, lithe and fierce as cats, fell with resistless
fury upon the retreating foe. The retreat
turned into a rout: the strikers were running for their
lives, with a swarm of aliens in savage pursuit.

Clay saw that they outnumbered all the Japanese
at the mill; but where they came from was not a matter
of much consequence. He must rouse himself to
take part in the chase, and exact full vengeance from
the fugitives. The rioters fled along the bank, scrambled
across the log booms, and took to the water; and
Clay laughed harshly as he drove some of the laggards
in. Whether they could swim or not was their
own affair.

He went back to the office with an anxious heart,
and a few minutes later he stood beside a camp bed
in his son’s quarters. He had lost his hat, his city
coat was torn to rags, and his white shirt was stained
with blood from the gash in his cheek; but he was
unconscious of all this. Aynsley lay there, breathing
feebly, with a drawn, white face and a small blue mark
on his uncovered breast, while an ominous red froth
gathered about his lips.

Clay placed his hand on the damp forehead, and the
boy half opened his eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” his father asked.

“Sure!” Aynsley smiled feebly. “You said you
wouldn’t fail me. I suppose you whipped them?”

He turned his head and coughed, and Clay beckoned
Jevons.

“Help me raise his shoulders a bit, and then I guess
we’d better put some wet bandages on him. As they’ve
cut the ’phone wires, send somebody to the nearest
ranch for a horse to bring a doctor from Vancouver.”

“I’ve done so,” Jevons told him.

“Then send another man to Westminster, and we’ll
take the first doctor who gets through or keep them
both.”

They placed Aynsley in a position in which he could
breathe more easily, and Clay gently wrapped him
round with wetted rags.

“I don’t know if this is the right thing, but it’s all
I can think of,” he said. “We want to keep down any
internal bleeding.”

After this they waited anxiously for the doctor.
Jevons presently crept out to restore order and to see
that the fire had been extinguished; and Clay was left
alone with his boy. There was no sound in the room
where he sat, sternly watching over the unconscious
form that lay so still on the bed.

After what seemed an interminable time Jevons
opened the door softly.

“Has the doctor come?” Clay asked eagerly.

“Not yet. Any change?”

“None,” said Clay. “He can’t hear—I wish he
could. Who were those fellows who came to the rescue?”

“City Japs, so far as I can learn. It seems they’re
pretty well organized, and suspecting a raid would be
made on their partners here their committee sent a
body out. I’ve been round the mill, and it looks as if
a thousand dollars would cover—”

“Get out of here!” Clay exclaimed roughly. “I
can’t talk about the damage now. Watch for those
doctors and bring them in right off!”

Jevons was glad to get away, but it was nearly daybreak
when he returned with a surgeon from Vancouver.
Shortly afterward the Westminster surgeon
arrived, and the two doctors turned Clay out of the
room. He paced up and down the corridor, tensely
anxious. His own weakness, the ugly gash on his
face—everything was forgotten except the danger in
which his boy lay. After a while his head reeled, and
he stopped and leaned on the rude banister, unconscious
of the dizziness.

The first streaks of daylight were sifting into the
room when Clay was permitted to enter. Aynsley lay
in a stupor, but the doctors seemed satisfied.

“We got the bullet,” one of them reported; “but
there’s still some cause for anxiety. However, we’ll
do our best to pull him through. Now you’d better
let me dress your face: it needs attention.”

Clay submitted to his treatment and then sat down
wearily in a room below to wait for news.

CHAPTER XIV—FIGHTING FOR A LIFE
===============================

Aynsley lay in danger for a long time; and
Clay never left the mill. At last, however, the
boy began to recover slowly, but when he grew well
enough to notice things the scream of the saws and
the throb of the engines disturbed him. The light
wooden building vibrated with the roar of the machinery;
and when the machinery stopped the sound of the
river gurgling about the log booms broke his sleep. He
grumbled continually.

“How long does the doctor mean to keep me here?”
he asked his father one day.

“I can’t say, but I understand that you can’t be
moved just yet,” Clay answered. “Aren’t you comfortable?”

“Can you expect me to be, with the whole place
jingling and shaking? If I’m to get better it must be
away from the mill.”

“I’ll see what the doctor thinks; but there’s the difficulty
that I don’t know where to take you. You
wouldn’t be much quieter in Seattle. It’s curious,
now I think of it, that I haven’t had a home for a good
many years, though I didn’t seem to miss it until this
thing happened.”

Aynsley made a sign of languid agreement. He
could not remember his mother, and his father had
not kept house within his recollection. For the last
few years he had rented luxurious rooms in a big hotel
which Aynsley shared with him when not away visiting
or on some sporting trip; but Aynsley now shrank
from the lack of privacy and the bustle that went on
all day and most of the night. There was not a restful
nook in the huge, ornate building, which echoed
with footsteps and voices, the clang of the street-cars,
and the harsh grinding of electric elevators.

“I want to go somewhere where it’s quiet,” he said.

“Then I guess I’ll have to hire a bushman’s shack
or take you to sea in the yacht. It never struck me
before, but quietness is mighty hard to find in this
country. We’re not a tranquil people.”

“I couldn’t stand for a voyage,” Aynsley grumbled.
“She’s a wet boat under sail if there’s any breeze, and
I don’t want to crawl about dodging the water. Then
the fool man who designed her put the only comfortable
rooms where the propeller shakes you to pieces when
the engines are going.”

On the whole, Clay felt relieved, particularly as
Aynsley’s hardness to please implied that he was getting
better. He had spent some time at the mill and
had a number of irons in the fire. It would damage
his business if they got overheated or perhaps cooled
down before they could be used.

“Well,” he suggested, “perhaps Osborne would take
us in.”

Aynsley’s eyes brightened. Osborne’s house was
the nearest approach to a home he had ever known.
It was seldom packed with noisy guests like other
houses he visited, and one was not always expected to
take part in some strenuous amusement. The place
was quiet and beautiful and all its appointments were
in artistic taste. He thought of it with longing as a
haven of rest where he could gather strength from the
pine-scented breezes and bask in Ruth’s kindly sympathy.

“That would be just the thing! I feel that I could
get better there. Will you write to him?”

“First mail,” Clay promised with a twinkle; “but
I’m not sure that Ruth’s at home. Anyway, I’ve a
number of letters to write now.”

“I expect I’ve been pretty selfish in claiming all
your time; but, if Osborne will have me, it will give
you a chance of going up to town and looking after
things.”

“That’s so,” Clay replied. “As a matter of fact,
some of them need it.”

The doctor rather dubiously consented to his patient’s
being moved, and Clay neglected no precaution
that might soften the journey. As he feared that the
jolting of the railroad cars might prove injurious, a
special room was booked on a big Sound steamer, and
it was only Aynsley’s uncompromising refusal to enter
it that prevented his bringing out an ambulance-van
to convey him to the wharf. He reached the vessel
safely in an automobile, and as she steamed up the
Sound he insisted on throwing off his wraps and trying
to walk about. The attempt fatigued him, and he
leaned on the rail at the top of a stairway from a lower
deck when the steamer approached a pine-shrouded
island.

A tide-race swirled past the point, flashing in the
sunshine a luminous white and green, and Aynsley
took his hand from the rail and stood unsupported
watching the shore glide by. As he was facing, he
could not see an ugly half-tide rock that rose out of
the surging flood not far ahead, and he was taken off
his guard when the helm was pulled hard over. The
fast vessel listed with a sudden slant as she swung
across the stream, and Aynsley, losing his balance, fell
down a few stairs and struck a stanchion with his
side. He clung to it, gasping and white in face, and
when Clay ran down to him there was blood on his lips.

“I’m afraid the confounded thing has broken out
again,” he said.

They carried him into the saloon, and Clay summoned
the captain, who came docilely at his bidding.
It appeared that there was no doctor among the passengers,
and the boat was billed to call at several places
before she reached Seattle. None of these stops could
be cut out, and the captain suggested that it would be
better to land the injured man as intended, and send
for assistance by fast automobile. Aynsley nodded
feebly when he heard this.

“Put me ashore,” he murmured. “I’ll be all right
there.”

An hour later the call of the whistle rang among the
pines that rolled down to the beach, and as the side-wheels
beat more slowly a launch came off across the
clear, green water. Aynsley, choking back a cough,
feebly raised himself.

“If Ruth’s on board that boat, she mustn’t be
scared,” he said. “I’m going down as if there was
nothing wrong.”

“You’re going down in the arms of the two biggest
seamen I can get,” Clay replied. “If that doesn’t
please you, we’ll lower you in a slung chair.”

Aynsley submitted when he found that he could not
get up; and Ruth, sitting with her father in the stern
of the launch, started as she saw him carried down
the gangway. His face was gray and haggard when
they laid him on a cushioned locker, and the girl was
moved to pity. But the shock resolved some doubts
that had long troubled her. She was startled and
sorry for Aynsley, but that was all; she did not feel
the fear and the suspense which she thought might have
been expected.

Ansley saw her grave face, and looked up with a
faint smile.

“I feel horribly ashamed,” he said. “If I’d known
I’d make a fool of myself—”

“Hush!” Ruth laid her hand on him with a gentle,
restraining touch as she saw the effort it cost him to
speak. “You must be quiet. We are going to make
you better.”

“Yes,” he said disjointedly. “I’ve been longing—knew
I’d get all right here—but I didn’t expect—to
turn up like this—”

A choking cough kept him still, and he hurriedly
wiped his lips with a reddened handkerchief.

“I am afraid it may be very bad,” Clay whispered
to Osborne. “Some miles to the nearest ‘phone call,
isn’t it?”

Osborne nodded affirmatively, and as they neared the
beach he waved his hand to a man on the lawn.

“Car!” he shouted. “Get her out! I’ll tie up the
boat.”

With some trouble Aynsley was carried into the
house, and the doctor who arrived some hours later
looked grave when he saw him. The next morning
he brought two nurses, and for several days his patient
hovered between life and death. He was delirious
most of the time, but there were intervals when his
fevered brain partly recovered its balance and he
asked for Ruth. It was seldom that he spoke to her
sensibly when she came, but it was obvious that her
presence had a soothing effect, for his eyes followed
her with dull satisfaction, and a few quiet words from
her would sometimes lull him to the sleep he needed.

Ruth felt her power, and used it for his benefit
without hesitation and without much thought about
its cause. She was filled with pity and with a curious,
protective tenderness for the man, and there was satisfaction
in feeling that he needed her. It was her duty
and pleasure to assist as far as possible in his recovery.
Clay watched her with growing admiration, and sometimes
she became disturbed under his searching glance.
She felt that he was curious about the motive which
sustained her in her task, and this caused her some uneasiness,
for she suspected that she might presently
have to make it clear to herself and to others. But the
time for this had not come. Aynsley was still in danger,
and all concerned must concentrate their attention
on the fight for his life.

Once when she left his room with an aching head
and heavy eyes after a long watch with the nurse, who
could not control her fevered patient without the girl’s
assistance, Clay met her on the stairs, and as he gave
her a swift, inquiring glance, she saw that his face
was worn.

“Asleep at last,” she said. “I think he’ll rest for
a few hours.”

He looked at her with gratitude and some embarrassment,
which was something she had never seen him
show.

“And you?” he asked. “How much of this can
you stand for?”

Ruth did not think the question was prompted by
consideration for her. He would be merciless in his
exactions, but she could forgive him this because it
was for his son’s sake. Besides, there was subtle flattery
in his recognition of her influence.

“I dare say I can hold out as long as I am needed,”
she answered with a smile. “After all, the nurses
and the doctor are the people on whom the worst strain
falls.”

“Bosh!” he exclaimed with rough impatience. “I
guess you know you’re more use than all three together.
Why that’s so doesn’t matter at present; there
the thing is.”

Ruth blushed, though she was angry with herself
as she felt her face grow hot, because she had no wish
that he should startle her into any display of feeling;
but, to her relief, he no longer fixed his eyes on
her.

“My dear,” he said, “I want your promise that
you’ll pull him through. You can, if you are determined
enough; and he’s all I have. Hold him back—he’s
been slipping downhill the last few days—and
there’s nothing you need hesitate about asking
from me.”

“Though it may not be much, I’ll do what I can.”
Ruth’s tone was slightly colder. “But one does not
expect—”

“Payment for a kindness?” Clay suggested.
“Well, I suppose the best things are given for nothing
and can’t be bought, but that has not been my luck.
What I couldn’t take by force I’ve had to pay for at
full market price. The love of a bargain is in my
blood. Pull my son through, and whatever I can do
for you won’t make me less your debtor.”

Ruth was silent a moment. She had of late been
troubled by a vague uneasiness on her father’s account,
and with a sudden flash of insight she realized that it
might be well to have the man’s gratitude.

“After all, I may ask you for a favor some day,”
she answered, smiling.

“You won’t find me go back on my word,” he promised.

Strolling to a seat by the waterside, he lighted a
cigar and tried to analyze his feelings, which were
somewhat puzzling. Aynsley longed for the girl, and
Clay approved his choice; he had hitherto given the
boy all that he desired, but there was now a difference.
While he had a freebooter’s conscience, and would
willingly have seized by force what would please his
son, he felt that Ruth Osborne was safe from his generally
unsparing grasp. It was true that Aynsley had
demanded a pledge of inaction, but Clay was not sure
that this alone would have deterred him. He felt that
his hands were tied, and he could not understand the
reason. However, Aynsley was young and rich and
handsome; he would be a fool if he could not win the
girl on his own merits. Then the crushing anxiety
Clay had thrown off for a few minutes returned.
After all, the boy might not live to prosper in his suit.

It was two or three days later when Clay met the
doctor coming downstairs late one evening, and led him
into the hall.

“The boy’s not coming round,” he said shortly.
“What do you think? Give it to me straight; I’ve no
use for professional talk.”

“I’m frankly puzzled. He’s certainly no better,
though I’ve seen some hopeful symptoms. It’s no
longer what I’ll call the mechanical injury that’s making
the trouble; we have patched that up. His feverish
restlessness is burning up his strength; and Miss
Osborne is the only person who can calm him. In
fact, the way he responds to her is rather remarkable.”

“Never mind that!” Clay interrupted. “It isn’t
what I asked.”

“Well, I’m inclined to look for a crisis to-night. If
he gets through the early morning, things may take a
turn; but a good deal depends on his sleeping, and I’ve
given him all the sedatives I dare. Miss Osborne has
promised to keep watch with the nurse, though she
looks badly tired.”

Clay turned away, and the anxious hours that followed
left their mark on him. Men called him hard
and callous, but he loved his son, and Aynsley was
moreover the object of all his ambitions. Social popularity
and political influence had no charms for Clay;
commercial control and riches were his aim. He knew
his ability as a gatherer, but he did not know how to
spend, and, when the boy had made good in the business
world, he should have the best that society and
culture could give. Now, however, a few hours would
determine whether all Clay’s hopes must crumble into
dust. He trusted the doctor; but, having a strong
man’s suspicion of medicine, he trusted Ruth Osborne
more.

As a matter of fact he was justified, for Ruth did
her part that night. It was hot and still, and the door
and the window of the sick room were opened. A
small, carefully shaded lamp diffused a dim light, and
now and then a passing draught stirred the curtains
and brought in a faint coolness and the scent of the
pines. The tired girl found it wonderfully refreshing
as she sat near the bed in a straight-backed chair: she
dare not choose one more comfortable lest drowsiness
overpower her.

Aynsley was restless, but she thought rather less so
than usual, and now and then he spoke feebly but sensibly.

“You won’t go away,” he begged once in a weak
voice, and she smiled reassuringly as she laid a cool
hand on his hot, thin arm.

For a while he lay with closed eyes, though he did
not seem to sleep, and then, opening them suddenly, he
looked round with eagerness as if in search of her.

“That fellow means to get me; he won’t miss next
time!” he murmured later, and she supposed his wandering
mind was occupied with memories of the affray
at the mill. Then he added with difficulty: “You’ll
stand him off, won’t you? You can, if you want.”

“Of course,” Ruth said with compassion and half
admiring sympathy, for she was young enough to set
a high value on physical courage and manly strength,
and her patient, though so pitifully helpless now, had
bravely held his post. It was daunting to see this fine
specimen of virile manhood brought so low.

When the doctor came in some time later he looked
down at Aynsley before he turned to Ruth.

“No sleep yet?” he asked softly.

Aynsley heard him and looked up.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m very tired, but I can’t
rest. How can I when those brutes are burning the
gang-saw shed?”

The doctor gave Ruth a warning glance, whispered
to the nurse, and went out, passing Clay, who had
crept upstairs without his shoes and stood lurking in
the shadow on the landing.

“No change,” he said, and drew the anxious man
away.

It was after midnight now and getting colder.
There was no sound in the house, and none from outside,
except when now and then a faint elfin sighing
came from the tops of the pines. A breeze was waking,
and Ruth, oppressed by the heat and fatigue, was
thankful for it. She looked at her watch, and then
wrapped it in a handkerchief because its monotonous
ticking had grown loud in the deep silence. She knew
that the dreaded time when human strength sinks lowest
was near, and she felt with a curious awe that death
was hovering over her patient’s bed.

“I can’t see,” he said very faintly, and stretching
out a thin hand searched for touch of her.

She took it in a protecting grasp, and Aynsley sighed
and lay quiet. After a while the doctor came in again,
noiselessly, and, looking down at the motionless figure,
nodded as if satisfied, while Ruth sank into the most
comfortable pose she could adopt. It was borne in
upon her as she felt his fingers burn upon her hand that
she was holding Aynsley’s life; and whatever the effort
cost her she must not let go. Soon she grew
cramped and longed to move, but that was impossible:
Aynsley was asleep at last, and it might be fatal to disturb
him. Then, though she tried to relax her
muscles, the strain of the fixed pose became intolerable;
but she called up all her resolution and bore it.
After all, the pain was welcome, because it kept her
awake, and she was getting very drowsy.

Clay, creeping up again, stopped outside the door.
He could not see his son, but he watched the girl with
a curious stirring of his heart. The dim light fell on
her face, showing the weariness and pity in it, and the
man, though neither a sentimentalist nor imaginative,
was filled with a deep respect. He could not think it
was a woman’s tenderness for her lover he saw.
There was no hint of passion in her fixed and gentle
eyes; hers was a deep and, in a sense, an impersonal
pity, protective and altogether unselfish; and he wondered,
half abashed, how she would have looked had
she loved his son. Then, encouraged by her attitude
and the quietness of the nurse, he softly moved away.

Day was breaking when the doctor came down into
the hall, followed by Ruth, and stopped when Clay
beckoned him.

“My news is good,” he said. “He’s sound asleep,
and I think the worst is past.”

He moved on, and Clay turned to Ruth, feeling
strangely limp with the reaction. The girl’s face was
white and worn, but it was quiet, and Clay noticed with
a pang the absence of exultant excitement.

“It’s you I have to thank,” he said hoarsely. “I
want you to remember that my promise holds good.”

“Yes,” Ruth answered with a languid smile.
“Still, that doesn’t seem to matter and I’m very tired.”

He moved aside to let her pass, and watched her with
a heartfelt gratitude as she went slowly down a corridor.

CHAPTER XV—ILLUMINATION
=======================

The scent of the pines was heavy in the languid
air. Bright sunshine fell upon the grass, and the
drowsy stillness was scarcely broken by the splash of
ripples on the beach. Aynsley, now fast recovering,
lay in a couch hammock where a patch of shadow
checkered the smooth expanse of Osborne’s lawn.
His face was thin, and his eyes were half closed,
though he was by no means asleep. The glare tired
him, but his mind was busy and he was tormented by
doubts.

Ruth sat near him with a book, from which she had
been reading aloud. Her thin summer dress clung in
graceful lines to her finely molded figure; the large
hat cut off the light from her face, which was quietly
serious, and there was a delicacy in its coloring and
a curious liquid glow in her eyes.

Aynsley was not an artist, but the picture she made
filled him with a sense of harmonious beauty. There
was a repose about the girl which generally had its effect
on him; but as he watched her Aynsley felt the
hard throbbing of his heart. He had admired her
greatly since they first met, and it was now some time
since appreciation had grown into love; but the man
was shrewd in some respects, and had seen that her
inclination was not toward him. She was too friendly,
too frankly gracious; he would rather have noticed
some shy reserve. He had waited with strong patience,
until her tender care of him in his illness had
given him a vague hope. He feared it might prove illusory,
but he could keep his secret no longer, and summoned
courage to test his fortune.

“Ruth,” he said, “I’ll have to get back to the mill
next week. Though it has been very pleasant, I’ve
been loafing long enough.”

She looked up abruptly, for her thoughts had been
far away and he had held no place in them.

“I suppose you must go when you are strong
enough,” she answered rather absently. “Still, you
have not recovered, and perhaps they can get on without
you.”

This was not encouraging. Her tone was kind, but
she had shown no anxiety to detain him, and if she had
wished to do so it would have been easy to give him a
hint. For all that, he must learn his fate.

“It’s possible; in fact, I’ve a suspicion that they get
on better when I’m away; but that is not the point.
I’ve been here some time, and have made a good many
demands on you. Now that you have cured me, I have
no excuse for abusing your good nature.”

“You’re not abusing it,” she responded in a friendly
tone. “Besides, if you need the assurance, I enjoyed
taking care of you. Though the nurses really did the
work, it’s nice to feel oneself useful.”

Though she smiled he was not much cheered. The
care she had given him was, in a sense, impersonal:
she would have been as compassionate to a stranger.

“I can understand,” he said. “You are full of
kindness, and must, so to speak, radiate it. It’s a
positive relief to you. Anyway, that’s fortunate for
me, because I shouldn’t have been lying here, almost fit
now, if you hadn’t taken me in hand.”

“That’s exaggeration,” she replied with a faint
blush, which he seized upon as the first favorable sign.

“Not at all,” he declared firmly. “You saved my
life; I knew it when I wakened up the morning the
fever left me, and the doctor practically admitted it
when I asked him.” He paused and gave her a steady
look, though his heart was beating fast. “And since
you saved it, my life belongs to you. It’s a responsibility
you have incurred. Anyway, the life you gave
me back when I’d nearly lost it is a poor thing, and not
much use to me unless I can persuade you to share it.
Perhaps, in good hands, it’s capable of improvement.”

Ruth was moved. She saw the deep trust and the
longing in his eyes, and he had spoken with a touch of
humor, which, she thought, was brave because it covered
his want of hope. She could not doubt his love,
and she knew it was worth much. The knowledge
brought the color to her face and disturbed her.

“Aynsley,” she said, “I’m sorry, but—”

He made a protesting gesture.

“Wait a minute! You did not know that I loved
you. I read that in your friendly candor. I felt that
I was aiming too high but I couldn’t give up the hope
of winning you some day, and I meant to be patient.
Now I expect you have got a painful shock; but I’m
going away next week—and I was swept off my feet.”

“It isn’t a shock,” she answered with a smile that hid
some confusion. “You’re too modest, Aynsley; any
sensible girl would feel proud of your offer. But, for
all that, I’m afraid—”

“Please think it over,” he begged. “Though I’m
by no means what you have a right to expect, there’s
this in my favor that, so far as I’m capable of it, you
can make what you like of me. Then I’m starting on a
new career, and there’s nobody who could help me along
like you.”

Ruth was silent for a few moments, lost in disturbing
thought. She knew his virtues and his failings,
and she trusted him. Now she realized with a sense of
guilt that she had not been quite blameless. She had
seen his love for her, and, while she had never led him
on, she might have checked him earlier; she could not
be sure that she had altogether wished to do so. She
was fond of him; indeed, she was willing to love him,
but somehow was unable to do so.

“Aynsley,” she said, “I’m more sorry than I can
tell you; but you really must put me out of your
mind.”

“It’s going to be difficult,” he answered grimly.
“But I believe you like me a little?”

“I think the trouble is that I like you too much—but
not in the way that you wish.”

“I understand. I’ve been too much of a comrade.
But if I were very patient, you might, perhaps, get to
like me in the other way?”

“It would be too great a risk, Aynsley.”

“I’ll take it and never blame you if you find the thing
too hard.” The eagerness suddenly died out of his
voice. “But that would be very rough on you—to
be tied to a man—” He broke off and was silent
for a moment before he looked up at her with grave
tenderness. “Ruth dear, is it quite hopeless?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said softly, but with a note in
her voice which Aynsley could not misinterpret.

“Very well,” he acquiesced bravely. “I have to
fight this thing, but you shall have no trouble on
my account. I find the light rather strong out here; if you
will excuse me, I think I’ll go in.”

Rising with obvious weakness, he moved off toward
the house; and Ruth, realizing that he had been
prompted by consideration for her, sat still and wondered
why she had refused him. He was modest,
brave, unselfish, and cheerful; indeed, in character and
person he was all that she admired; but she could not
think of him as her husband. She pondered it, temporizing,
half afraid to be quite honest with herself, until
in a flash the humiliating truth was plain and she
blushed with shame and anger. The love she could not
give Aynsley had already been given, unasked, to another
who had gone away and forgotten her.

She knew little about him, and she knew Aynsley
well. Aynsley was rich, and Jimmy was obviously
poor—he might even have other disadvantages; but
she felt that this was relatively of small importance.
Somehow he belonged to her, and, though she struggled
against the conviction, she belonged to him. That
was the end of the matter.

Growing cooler, she began to reason, and saw that
she had blamed herself too hastily. After all, though
Jimmy had made no open confession, he had in various
ways betrayed his feelings, and there was nothing to
prove that he had forgotten her. Poverty might have
bound him to silence; moreover, there was reason to believe
that he was away in a lonely region, cut off from
all communication with the outer world. Perhaps he
often thought about her; but these were futile speculations,
and banishing them with an effort she went into
the house.

The next day Clay found Ruth sitting on the veranda.

“So you would not have my boy!” he said abruptly.

“Has he told you?” she asked with some embarrassment.

“Oh, no! But I’m not a fool, and his downcast look
was hint enough. I don’t know if you’re pleased to
hear he has taken the thing to heart. It ought to be
flattering.”

“I’m very sorry.” Ruth’s tone was indignant. “I
think you are unjust.”

“And showing pretty bad taste? Well, I’m not a
man of culture, and I’m often unpleasant when I’m
hurt. I suppose you know the boy had set his whole
mind on getting you? But of course you knew it, perhaps
for some time; you wouldn’t be deceived on a
point like that.”

“I can’t see what you expect to gain by trying to
bully me!” Ruth flashed at him angrily, for her conscience
pricked her.

Clay laughed with harsh amusement. He had
broken many clever and stubborn men who had stood
in his way, and this inexperienced girl’s defiance tickled
him.

“My dear,” he said, “I’m not trying to do anything
of the kind. If I were, I’d go about it on a very different
plan. Aynsley’s a good son, a straight man
without a grain of meanness, and you could trust him
with your life.”

“Yes,” she answered softly, “I know. I’m very
sorry—I can’t say anything else.”

Clay pondered for a few moments. Her frank
agreement disarmed him, but he could not understand
his forbearance. He had won Aynsley’s mother in
the face of the determined opposition of her relatives,
and there was a primitive strain in him. Had all this
happened when he was younger he would have urged
his son to carry Ruth off by force, and now, although
the times had changed, there were means by which she
could, no doubt, be compelled to yield. Still, although
he was not scrupulous, and it might be done without
Aynsley’s knowledge, he would not consider it. She
had saved the boy’s life, and he had, moreover, a
strange respect for her.

“Well,” he conceded, “you look as if you knew
your mind, and I guess Aynsley must make the best
of it.”

Ruth was relieved when he left her, but she was
also puzzled by a curious feeling that she was no longer
afraid of him. In spite of his previous declaration of
gratitude, she had dreaded his resentment; and now
that uneasiness had gone. He had said nothing definite
to reassure her, but she felt that while he regretted
her refusal, she could look upon him as a
friend instead of a possible enemy.

During the evening she told her father, who had
been absent for a day or two.

“I am not surprised,” he said; “I even hoped you
would take him. However, it’s too late now, and if
you hadn’t much liking for Aynsley I wouldn’t have
urged you.”

“I was sure of that,” Ruth said with an affectionate
glance.

“How did Clay take your refusal of his son?”

“I think he took it very well. He paid me a compliment
as he went away.”

She noticed her father’s look of relief, and it struck
her as being significant.

“You have reason to feel flattered,” he said, “because
Clay’s apt to make trouble when he is thwarted.
For all that, it’s unfortunate your inclinations didn’t
coincide with his wishes.”

“Why?” Ruth asked sharply.

Osborne looked amused at her bluntness.

“Well, I really think Aynsley has a good deal to
recommend him: money, position, pleasant manners,
and an estimable character. Since you’re not satisfied,
it looks as if you were hard to please.”

“I have no fault to find with him,” Ruth answered
with a blush. “Still, one doesn’t make up a list of
the good qualities one’s husband ought to have.”

“It might not be a bad plan,” Osborne said humorously;
“anyway, if you could find a man to meet the
requirements.” He dropped his bantering manner.
“I’m sorry you dismissed Aynsley, but if you are satisfied
that it was best, there’s no more to be said.”

He turned away, and Ruth pondered what she
had heard. It was plain that her father shrank from
offending Clay; and that seemed to confirm the vague
but unpleasant suspicions she had entertained about
their business relations. Somehow she felt that not
yet had she got at the bottom of her father’s dealings
with that man.

CHAPTER XVI—A GHOST OF THE PAST
===============================

It was the evening before Aynsley’s departure, and
he and Clay and the Osbornes were sitting on the
veranda. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and the
inlet stretched back, smooth as oil and shining in the
evening light. The tops of the tall cedars were motionless;
not a ripple broke upon the beach; the only
sound was the soft splash of water somewhere among
the trees.

The heat had been trying all day, and Aynsley
glanced languidly at the faint white line of snow that
rose above the silver mist in the blue distance.

“It would be cool up there, and that snow makes
one long for the bracing North,” he said. “This is
one of the occasions when I don’t appreciate being a
mill owner. To-morrow I’ll be busy with dusty
books, in a stifling office that rattles with the thumping
of engines.”

“It’s good for a man to work,” Miss Dexter remarked.

“No doubt, but it has its disadvantages now and
then, as you would agree if a crowd of savage strikers
had chased you about your mill. Then, if it weren’t
for my business ties, I’d send the captain word to get
steam up on the yacht, and take you all to the land of
mist and glaciers, where you can get fresh air to
breathe.”

“Wouldn’t you miss the comforts, though I dare
say you call them necessities, that surround you here?
One understands that people live plainly in Alaska.”

Miss Dexter indicated the beautifully made table
which stood within reach, set out with glasses and a
big silver tankard holding iced liquor. Round this,
choice fruit from California was laid on artistic plates.

“We could take some of them along; and we’re not
so luxurious as you think,” Aynsley replied. “In
fact, I feel just now that I’d rather live on canned
goods and splash about in the icy water, like some fishermen
we met, than sit in my sweltering office, worrying
over accounts and labor troubles.”

“Those fishermen seem to stick in your memory,”
Ruth interposed.

“Is it surprising? You must admit that they
roused even your curiosity, and you hadn’t my excuse
because you hadn’t seen them.”

“What fishermen were they?” Clay asked.

Ruth wished she had not introduced the subject.

“Some men he met on an island in the North,”
she said with a laugh. “Aynsley seems to have envied
their simple life, and I dare say it would be pleasant
in this hot weather. Still, I can’t imagine his
seriously practising it; handling wet nets and nasty,
slimy fish, for example.”

“It wasn’t the way they lived that impressed me,”
Aynsley explained. “It was the men. With one exception,
they didn’t match their job; and so far as I
could see, they hadn’t many nets. Then something
one fellow said suggested that he didn’t care whether
they caught much fish or not.”

“After all, they may have been amateur explorers
like yourself, though they weren’t fortunate enough
to own a big yacht. I don’t suppose you would
have been interested if you had known all about
them.”

“Where was the island?” Clay broke in.

Aynsley imagined that Ruth was anxious to change
the subject, and he was willing to indulge her.

“I remember the latitude,” he said carelessly, “but
there are a lot of islands up there, and I can’t think
of the longitude west.”

Clay looked sharply at Osborne, and Ruth noticed
that her father seemed disturbed.

“I guess you could pick the place out on the
chart?” Clay asked Aynsley.

“It’s possible. I don’t, however, carry charts about.
They’re bulky things, and not much use except when
you are at sea.”

“I have one,” said Osborne and Ruth felt anxious
when he rang a bell.

She suspected that she had been injudicious in starting
the topic, and she would rather it were dropped, but
she hesitated about giving Aynsley a warning glance.
His father might surprise it, and she would have to
offer Aynsley an explanation afterward. Getting up,
she made the best excuse that occurred to her and went
into the house. She knew where the chart was kept,
and thought that she might hide it. She was too late,
however, because as she took it from a bookcase a servant
opened the door.

“Mr. Osborne sent me for a large roll of thick paper
on the top shelf,” the maid said.

As she had the chart in her hands, Ruth was forced
to give it to the girl, and when she returned to the
veranda Aynsley pointed out the island. Ruth saw
her father’s lips set tight.

“What kind of boat did the fellows have?” Clay
asked.

“She was quite a smart sloop, but very small.”
Aynsley tried to lead his father away from the subject.
“At least, that was the rig she’d been intended for,
by the position of the mast, but they’d divided the
single headsail for handier working. After all, we’re
conservative in the West, for you’ll still find people
sticking to the old big jib, though it’s an awkward sail
in a breeze. They’ve done away with it on the Atlantic
coast, and I sometimes think we’re not so much
ahead of the folks down East—”

“What was her name?” Clay interrupted him.

Aynsley saw no strong reason for refusing a reply,
particularly as he knew that if he succeeded in putting
off his father now, the information would be demanded
later.

“She was called *Cetacea*.”

Ruth unobtrusively studied the group. Miss Dexter
was frankly uninterested; and Aynsley looked as
if he did not know whether he had done right or not.
Osborne’s face was firmly set and Clay had an ominously
intent and resolute expression. Ruth suspected
that she had done a dangerous thing in mentioning the
matter, and she regretted her incautiousness; though
she did not see where the danger lay. For all that,
she felt impelled to learn what she could.

“Was it the island where you were wrecked?” she
asked Clay.

He looked at her rather hard, and then laughed.

“I think so, but the experience was unpleasant, and
I don’t feel tempted to recall the thing.”

Afterward he talked amusingly about something
else, and half an hour had passed when he got up.

“I expect it’s cooler on the beach,” he said. “Will
any of you come along?”

They sat still, except Osborne, who rose and followed
him, and when they reached a spot where the
trees hid them from the house Clay stopped.

“I suppose what you heard was a bit of a shock,”
he remarked.

“It was a surprise. I don’t think you were tactful
in making so much of the affair.”

“One has to take a risk, and if I’d waited until I
had Aynsley alone and then made him tell me what he
knew, it might have looked significant. In a general
way, the thing you’re willing to talk over in public isn’t
of much account.”

“There’s truth in that,” Osborne assented.

“I have no wish to set the boy thinking,” Clay resumed.
“I take it we’re both anxious that our children
should believe the best of us.”

His glance was searching, and Osborne made a sign
of agreement.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Trace the sloop. We don’t want mysterious
strangers prospecting round that reef. When I’ve
found out all I can, the fellows will have to be bought
or beaten off.”

“Very well; I leave the thing to you.”

“Rather out of your line now?” Clay suggested
with an ironical smile. “However, I will admit you
deserve some sympathy.”

“For that matter, we both need it. You’re no better
off than I am.”

“I think I am,” Clay replied. “My character is
pretty well known and has been attacked so often that
nobody attaches much importance to a fresh disclosure;
in fact, people seem to find something humorous in my
smartness. You’re fixed differently; though you
slipped up once, you afterward took a safe and steady
course.”

Osborne lighted a cigar to hide his feelings; for his
companion’s jibe had reached its mark. He had when
poverty rendered the temptation strong, engaged in an
unlawful conspiracy with Clay, and the profit he made
by it had launched him on what he took care should be
a respectable business career. Now and then, perhaps,
and particularly when he acted in concert with
Clay, his dealings would hardly have passed a high
standard of ethics, but on the whole they could be defended,
and he enjoyed a good name on the markets.
Now a deed he heartily regretted, and would have undone
had he been able, threatened to rise from the almost
forgotten past and torment him. Worse than
all, he might again be forced into a crooked path to
cover up his fault.

“We won’t gain anything by arguing who might
suffer most,” he said as coolly as he could.

“No; I guess that’s useless,” Clay agreed. “Well,
I must get on those fellows’ trail and see what I can
do.”

They strolled along the beach for a while, and then
went back to the others.

While Clay traced her movements as far as they
could be learned, the *Cetacea* was slowly working
north. She met with light, baffling winds, and calms,
and then was driven into a lonely inlet by a fresh gale.
Here she was detained for some time, and adverse
winds still dogged her course when she put to sea again,
though they were no longer gentle, but brought with
them a piercing rawness from the Polar ice. Her
crew grew anxious and moody as they stubbornly
thrashed her to windward under shortened sail, for
every day at sea increased the strain on their finances
and the open-water season was short.

In the sharp cold of a blustering morning Jimmy got
up from the locker upon which he had spent a few
hours in heavy sleep. His limbs felt stiff, his clothes
were damp, and at his first move he bumped his head
against a deck-beam. Sitting down with muttered
grumbling, he pulled on his soaked knee-boots and
looked moodily about. Daylight was creeping through
the cracked skylight, and showed that the underside of
the deck was dripping. Big drops chased one another
along the slanted beams and fell with a splash into the
lee bilge. Water oozed in through the seams on her
hove-up weather side and washed about the lower part
of the inclined floor, several inches deep. The wild
plunging and the muffled roar outside the planking
showed that she was sailing hard and the wind was
fresh.

Jimmy grumbled at his comrades for not having
pumped her out, and then shivered as he jammed himself
against the centerboard trunk and tried to light the
rusty stove. It was wet and would not draw and the
smoke puffed out. He was choking and nearly blinded
when he put the kettle on and went up on deck, somewhat
short in temper. Moran was sitting stolidly at
the helm, muffled in a wet slicker, with the spray blowing
about him; Bethune crouched in the shelter of the
coaming, while white-topped seas with gray sides
tumbled about the boat. An angry red flush was
spreading, rather high up, in the eastern sky.

“You made a lot of smoke,” Bethune remarked.

“I did,” said Jimmy. “If you’ll get forward and
swing the funnel-cowl, which you might have done
earlier, you’ll let some of it out. I’m glad it’s your
turn to cook, but you had better spend ten minutes at
the pump before you go.”

Bethune, rising, stretched himself with an apologetic
laugh.

“Oh, well,” he said; “I was so cold I felt I didn’t
want to do anything.”

“It’s not an uncommon sensation,” Jimmy replied.
“The best way to get rid of it is to work. If you’ll
shift that cowl, I’ll prime the pump.”

Bethune shuffled forward, and, coming back, pumped
for a few strokes. Then he stopped and leaned on the
handle.

“You really think we’ll raise the island to-day?” he
asked.

“Yes. But it isn’t easy to shoot the sun when you
can hardly see it and have a remarkably unsteady
horizon. Then, though she has laid her course for the
last two days, I haven’t much confidence in the log
we’re towing.”

He indicated the wet line that ran over the stern
and stretched back to where a gleam of brass was
visible in the hollow of a sea.

“What could you expect?” Bethune asked. “We
got the thing for half its proper price, and, to do it
justice, it goes pretty well after a bath in oil, and when
it stops it does so altogether. You know how to deal
with a distance recorder that sticks and stays so, but
one that sticks and goes on again plays the devil.”

“Talking’s easier than pumping,” Jimmy said suggestively.

“It is, but I feel like working off a few more remarks.
They occurred to me while I sat behind the
coaming, numbed right through, last night. I suppose
you have noticed how the poor but enterprising man is
generally handicapped. He gets no encouragement in
taking the hard and virtuous path. It needs some
nerve to make a start, and afterward, instead of things
getting easier, you fall in with all kinds of obstacles
you couldn’t reasonably expect. Even the elements
conspire against you; it’s always windward work.”

“I suppose this means you’re sorry you came?”

“Not exactly; but I’ve begun to wonder what’s
the good of it all. I haven’t slept in dry clothes for a
fortnight. It’s a week since any of us had a decent
meal; and my slicker has rubbed a nasty sore on my
wrist. All the time I could have had three square
meals a day, and spent my leisure reading a dirty newspaper
and watching them sweep up the dead flies in the
hotel lounge. What I want to know is—whether any
ambition’s worth the price you have to pay for gratifying
it?”

“I should say that depends on your temperament.”

“Bethune does some fool-talking now and then,”
Moran commented from his post at the helm. “When
you go to sea for your living, you must expect to get
up against all a man can stand for; and if you don’t put
up a good fight, she’ll beat you. That’s one reason
you’d better get your pumping done before she ships a
comber.”

With a gesture of acquiescence Bethune resumed his
task, and presently went below while Jimmy took the
helm. The breeze freshened during the morning, and
the sea got heavier, but it dropped in the afternoon,
when they ran into a fog belt, which Jimmy thought
indicated land. As the days were getting shorter, they
set the topsail, and looked out eagerly until a faint gray
blur appeared amid the haze, perhaps a mile away.
Closing with it, they made out the beach, which Jimmy
searched with the glasses after consulting his notebook.

“Luff!” he called to Bethune. “Now steady at
that; I’ve got my first two marks.” Then he motioned
to Moran. “Clear your anchor!”

A few minutes afterward he completed his four-point
bearing, and the *Cetacea* stopped, head to wind,
with a rattle of running chain. The sea was comparatively
smooth in the lee of the land, and ran in a long
swell that broke into a curl of foam here and there.
Bethune took up the glasses and turned them on the
beach.

“It is some time since high-water, and we ought to
see her soon,” he said. “I’m trying to find the big
boulder on the point.” He paused and put down the
glasses. “Do you see anything?”

“No,” said Moran gruffly; “she should be showing.”

“That’s true,” Bethune agreed. “The tallest timber
used to be above water when the top of the boulder
was just awash, and now its bottom’s a foot from the
tide.”

Jimmy said nothing, but seizing the dory savagely,
he threw her over the rail and jumped into her with a
coil of rope. Moran followed and lowered a bight
of the rope while Jimmy rowed. Some minutes
passed, but they felt nothing, and Bethune watched
them from the sloop with an intent face. It looked
as if the wreck had broken up and disappeared. Then
as the dory turned, taking a different track, the rope
tightened and Moran looked up.

“Got her now! She’s moved, and there may not be
much of her holding together.”

Jimmy stopped rowing, and there was silence for a
moment or two. It would take time to unpack and fit
the diving pumps, and sunset was near, but neither of
them felt equal to bearing the strain of suspense until
daybreak.

“It may blow in the morning,” Jimmy said.

“That’s so,” agreed Moran, pulling off his pilot coat.
“I’m going down.”

There was a raw wind, the tide ran strong, and the
water was chilled by the Polar ice; but Moran hurriedly
stripped off his damp clothes and stood a moment,
a finely poised figure that gleamed sharply white
against gray rocks and slaty water. Then he plunged,
and the others waited, watching the ripple of the tide
when the sea closed over him. Some moments passed
before his head broke the surface farther off than they
expected. Jimmy pulled toward him, and after a
scramble, which nearly upset the craft, he got on board
and struggled into his clothes. Then he spoke.

“She’s there, but so far as I can see, she’s canted
well over with her bilge deep in the sand.”

Jimmy and Bethune were filled with keen relief.
They might have increased trouble in reaching the
strong-room, but it was something to know that the
wreck had not gone to pieces in their absence.

Jimmy picked up the end of the rope and tied on a
buoy. Then he pulled back to the sloop, where Bethune
cooked a somewhat extravagant supper.

CHAPTER XVII—THE STRONG-ROOM
============================

When Jimmy went on deck the next morning, fog
hung heavily about the land and the slate-green
sea ran with a sluggish heave out of belts of vapor.
The air felt unusually sharp and the furled mainsail
glistened with rime. This was disturbing, because
they must finish their work, or abandon it, before
winter set in; but Jimmy reflected that it was some
weeks too soon for a severe cold snap. While he
watched the smoke from the stove funnel rise straight
up in a faint blue line, he heard a splash of oars and
Bethune appeared in the dory.

“I took the water breaker off before you were up,”
he said as he came alongside. “There was ice on the
pool. It struck me as a warning that we had better
lose no time.”

“That’s obvious,” returned Jimmy. “Hand me up
the breaker. We’ll get the pumps rigged first thing.”

Breakfast was hurried. The weather was favorable
for work, and they could not expect it to continue so.
In an hour the sloop had been warped close to the
wreck and Jimmy put on the diving dress. He was
surprised to feel the half-instinctive repugnance from
going down which he thought he had got rid of; but
this could not be allowed to influence him, and he resolutely
descended the ladder. In a few minutes he
reached the wreck, and found one bilge deeply embedded;
but the opposite side was lifted up, and a broad
strip of planking had been torn away. Jimmy could
see some distance into the interior, and his lamp showed
that the stream had washed out part of the sand which
had barred their way to the bulkhead cutting off the
strong-room. This had been strained by the working
of the wreck, and it seemed possible to wrench the
beams loose.

He attacked the nearest with his shovel, using force
when he found a purchase, but the timber proved to be
firmly mortised in. He lost count of time as he struggled
to prize it out, and did not stop until he grew distressed
from the pressure. His heart was beating
hard and his breath difficult to get, but the beam still
defied him. Making his way out of the hold, he
stumbled forward toward the ladder; and when his
comrades removed his helmet on board the sloop, he
sat still for a few moments to recover. It was inexpressibly
refreshing to breathe the keen, natural air.
At last he explained what he had found below, and
added:

“My suggestion is that we bore out an opening for
the saw; then we could cut the stanchion through and
prize the cross-timbers off.”

“The trouble is that we haven’t a big auger,” Bethune
objected. “You often run up against a difficulty
of the kind when you’re using tools: the thing you
want the most is the one you haven’t got.”

“Mortise-chisel might do,” said Moran. “How
thick’s the timber?”

“Three or four inches. By its toughness I imagine
it’s oak or hackmatack.”

“Then, there’s a big job ahead,” grumbled Bethune;
“and my experience is that as soon as you drive a
chisel into old work you come upon a spike. Unfortunately,
we haven’t a grindstone.”

“Quit your pessimism and find the chisel!” snapped
Moran. “I’m going down.”

They watched the bubbles that marked his progress
rise to the surface in a wavy line and then stop and
break in a fixed patch. Rather sooner than they expected
the bubbles moved back; and Moran looked
crestfallen when they took off his diving dress.

“Did you cut out much stuff?” Bethune asked.

“No,” said Moran, holding up the chisel; “this is
what I did. Came across a blamed big spike at the
second cut.”

Bethune giggled. Even Jimmy grinned. There
was a deep notch in the edge of the tool.

“Your philosophy isn’t much good,” Moran said
grumpily. “It helps you to prophesy troubles, but not
to avoid them. We’ll have to spend some time in rubbing
that nick out.”

“I’ll try the engineer’s cold-chisel,” Bethune replied.
“With good luck, I might cut the spike.”

He took the tool and an ordinary carpenter’s chisel
down with him; and the edge of the chisel was broken
when he returned.

“I’ve cut the spike, and dug out about an inch of the
wood,” he reported. “Why are you frowning,
Jimmy?”

“It looks as if we may spend a week over that
timber. These confounded preliminaries sicken me!”

“They’re common.” Bethune launched off into
his philosophy. “If you undertake anything that’s
not quite usual, half your labor consists in clearing the
ground; when you get at the job itself, it often doesn’t
amount to much.”

“Chuck it!” Moran interrupted. “Jimmy, it’s
your turn.”

Jimmy stayed below as long as he could stand it,
hacking savagely with broken chisels at the hard wood,
and scraping out the fragments with bruised fingers;
then he came up and Moran took his place. It was trying
work, and grew no easier when, by persistent effort,
they made an opening for the saw. The tool had
to be driven horizontally at an awkward height from
the sand, and the position tired their wrists and arms.
Still, the weather was propitious, which was seldom the
case, and they toiled on, until exhaustion stopped them
when it was getting dark. Then Moran sent Bethune
ashore to look for stones with a cutting grit, and they
sat in the cabin patiently rubbing down the nicked
tools, while the deck above them grew white with frost.

It cost them two days to break the beam, and on the
evening they succeeded there was a sharp drop in the
temperature.

Jimmy was cooking supper when Moran called him
up on deck and pointed seaward.

“See that?” he said. “Seems to me we’ve got notice
to quit.”

Searching the western horizon, where the sea cut in
an indigo streak against a dull red glow, Jimmy made
out a faintly glimmering patch of white. Taking up
the glasses, he saw that it was low and ragged, and
fringed on its windward edge by leaping surf. This
showed it was of some depth in the water, and he recognized
it as a floe of thick northern ice.

“Yes,” he answered gravely; “we’ll have to hurry
now.”

They spent the next week attacking the bulkhead.
Jimmy thought it would have resisted them only that it
had obviously been built in haste and here and there the
strengthening irons had wrenched away through the
working of the hull. They lost no time, but the work
was heavy, and tried them hard.

It was late in the afternoon, and blowing fresh
enough to make diving risky, when Jimmy prepared
to go down for what he hoped would be the last attempt;
but stopping a few moments he looked anxiously
about. Gray fog streamed up from seaward in
ragged wisps, and the long swell had broken into short,
white-topped combers, over which the sloop plunged
with spray-swept bows, straining hard at her cables as
the flood tide ran past.

“We might hold on for another hour,” Bethune said
hopefully; but breaking off he pointed out to sea.
“That settles it,” he added. “If it’s any way possible,
we must cut the bulkhead to-night.”

A tall, glimmering shape crept out of the fog about
a mile away. It was irregular in outline, and looked
like a detached crag, except that it shone with a strange
ghostly brightness against the leaden haze. It came
on, sliding smoothly forward with the tide, another
mass which was smaller and lower rocking in its wake;
and then a third crept into sight behind. The men
gazed at them with anxious faces; then Jimmy held out
his hand for the helmet.

“They’ll ground before they reach us, but the sooner
I get to work the better,” he said.

A bent iron plate hung from a tottering beam when
he crawled up to the after end of the hold, and he
savagely tried to wrench it out with a bar. The effort
taxed his strength, but when he felt that he could keep
it up no longer the timber yielded, and he fell forward
into the gap. It cost him some trouble to recover his
balance, and while he crouched on hands and knees, the
disturbed water pulsed heavily into the dark hole.
Lifting his lamp, he saw that the floor was deep in
sand; and out of the sand two wooden boxes projected.
He found that he could not drag them clear, and it
seemed impossible to remove them without some tackle,
but in groping about he came upon a bag. It was made
of common canvas, and had been heavily sealed,
though part of the wax had broken away, but on lifting
it Jimmy found the material strong enough to hold
its contents.

He sat still for a moment or two, his heart beating
with exultant excitement. The sand was much deeper
at the other side of the small, slanted room. He could
not tell what lay beneath it; but he could see two
boxes, and he held a heavy bag. Gold was worth
about twenty dollars an ounce, and value to a large
amount would go into a small compass. It looked as
if wealth were within his grasp.

The effects of the continued pressure made themselves
felt, and Jimmy hastily picked his way out of the
hold. He had some trouble in getting up the ladder,
which swung to and fro, and when he reached the deck
he saw Moran busy forward, shortening cable. Bethune
released him from his canvas dress, and lifted the
bag.

“You got in?” he cried.

“Yes; here’s a bag of gold. I saw two boxes,
and expect there are others in the sand.”

Bethune clenched his hand tight.

“And we can’t hold on! It’s devilish luck, I say!
She has dragged the kedge up to the stream anchor,
and is putting her bows in. Still, I’m going to make a
try.”

Glancing at the sea, Jimmy shook his head. The
combers were getting bigger with the rising tide and
the sloop plunged into them viciously, flooding her forward
deck, and jarring her cable.

“No,” he said. “I had trouble in reaching the ladder,
and she might drag to leeward before you could
get back. The thing’s too risky.”

Moran, coming aft, felt the bag, and looked at the
diving dress with longing, but he supported Jimmy’s decision.

“I surely don’t want to light out, but we’ll have to
get sail on her.”

Crouching in the spray that swept the bows, they
laboriously hauled in the chain with numbed and battered
hands, and, leaving Bethune to hoist the reefed
mainsail, coiled the hard, soaked kedge warp in the
cockpit. Then they set the small storm-jib, and the
*Cetacea* drove away before the sea for the sheltered
bight.

“We’d have known how we stood in another hour,”
Bethune grumbled, shifting his grasp on the wheel to
ease his sore wrist.

They were too tensely strung up to talk much after
supper, for the weight of the bag was sufficient to indicate
the value of its contents, and they thought it better
not to break the seals. Jimmy grew drowsy, and
he had lain down on a locker when Moran opened the
scuttle-hatch.

“Now that it’s too late to dive, the wind’s dropping
and coming off the land,” he said.

Jimmy went to sleep, and it was daybreak when
he was wakened by an unusual sound. It reminded
him of breaking glass, though now and then for a few
moments it was more like the tearing of paper. He
jumped up and listened with growing curiosity. The
noise was loudest at the bows, but it seemed to rise
from all along the boat’s waterline. Moran was sleeping
soundly, but when Jimmy shook him he suddenly
became wide awake.

“What is it?” Jimmy asked quickly.

“Ice; splitting on her stem.”

“Then it’s too thin to worry about.”

“That’s the worst kind,” Moran replied, slipping
into his pilot coat. “Get your slicker on; I’m going
out.”

There was not much to be seen when they reached
the deck. Clammy fog enveloped the boat, but Jimmy
could see that the surface of the water was covered by
a glassy film. He knew that heavy ice is generally
opaque and white, but this was transparent, with rimy
streaks on it that ran to and fro in irregular patterns.
As the tide drove it up the channel, it splintered at the
bows, throwing up sharp spears that rasped along the
waterline. Still, it did not seem capable of doing
much damage, and Jimmy was surprised at Moran’s
anxious look.

“Shove the boom across on the other quarter!”
Moran said sharply.

Jimmy moved the heavy spar, the boat lifted one
side an inch or two, and Moran, lying on the deck,
leaned down toward the water. Jimmy, dropping
down beside him, saw a rough, white line traced along
the planking where the water had lapped the hull. It
looked as if it had been made by a blunt saw.

“She won’t stand much of this,” Jimmy said
gravely, running the end of his finger along the shallow
groove made by the sharp teeth of the splitting
ice.

“That’s so. I’ve seen boats cut down in a tide.
The trouble is, the stream sets strong through the gut,
except at the bottom of the ebb.”

Jimmy nodded. This was his first experience of
thin sheet-ice, but he could understand the dangerous
power it had when driven by a stream fast enough to
break it on the planking, so that its edge was continually
furnished with keen cutting points. He could imagine
its scoring a boulder that stood in its way; while,
instead of changing with flood and ebb, the tide flowed
through the channel in the sands in the same direction,
as tidal currents sometimes do round an island.

Bethune came up and looked over the side. A
glance was enough to show him their danger.

“What’s to be done?” he asked.

“I don’t quite know,” said Moran, with a puzzled
air. “The ice gathers along the beach, and the patches
freeze together as the tide sweeps them out. She’d lie
safe where the stream is pretty dead, but there’s no
place except this bight where we’d get shelter from
wind and sea.”

“It’s plain that we can’t stay here, and we’d better
get off as soon as possible,” said Jimmy. “We can
hang on to the wreck unless it blows, but I want the
breakers filled before we start.”

“It will take us some time,” Bethune objected. “I
feel I’d rather get up those boxes from the hold.”

“So do I,” Jimmy rejoined. “But I’m taking no
chances when there’s a risk of our being blown off the
land.”

“The skipper’s right,” declared Moran. “We’ll go
off with the dory, while he drops her down with the
tide.”

They helped to shorten cable, and, after breaking out
the anchor, pulled the dory toward the beach through
the thin ice, while the sloop drifted slowly out to sea.
Jimmy was relieved to hear the unpleasant crackle stop,
and he leisurely set about making sail, for the wind was
light. He must have canvas enough to stand off and
on until the others rejoined him.

He found the waiting dreary when he reached open
water, for he was filled with keen impatience to get to
work. The gold lay in sight in the hold of the wreck,
and an hour or two’s labor was all that was required
to transfer it to the sloop. And it was obvious that
this must be done at once, because the drift ice was
gathering in the offing, and an on-shore breeze might
suddenly spring up. They had nowhere to run for
shelter, now that the only safe haven was closed to
them. Still, Jimmy felt that he had done wisely in exercising
self-control enough to send for the water.

It was almost calm and very cold. Sky and water
were a uniform dingy gray, and the mist, which had
grown thinner round the land, still obscured the seaward
horizon. Once Jimmy thought he made out an
ominous pale gleam in a belt of haze, but when it
trailed away before a puff of fitful breeze, he saw nothing.
For two hours he sailed to and fro in half-mile
tacks, finding just wind enough to stem the tide; and
then, when his patience was almost exhausted, he felt
a thrill of relief as he heard the measured splash of
oars. A few minutes later the dory came alongside,
and Bethune handed up the casks.

“We had to break the ice with a big stone, and I
hardly thought we’d get through,” he said. “It froze
up again while we carried the first load down.”

“It doesn’t matter so much now,” Jimmy replied.
“If all goes well, we should be away at sea by daybreak
to-morrow.”

While they stowed the breakers the wind dropped,
and Jimmy, watching the sails shake slackly, made
a gesture of fierce impatience.

“The luck is dead against us! It looks as if we
should never get at that gold! There’s a two-knot
stream on her bow, and she’ll drift to leeward fast.”

“Then we’ll tow her!” Moran said stubbornly.
“Get into the dory; you haven’t carried those breakers,
and I’m not used up yet.”

Though Jimmy had rested since the previous evening,
he found the work hard. He had suffered from
his exertions under water during the past week, and the
tide ran against them, and the long heave threw a
heavy strain upon the line as the sloop lifted. The
smaller craft was often jerked back almost under her
bowsprit, and it needed laborious rowing to straighten
out the sinking line. Still, they made progress, and at
last dropped anchor beside the wreck early in the afternoon.

“Now,” said Moran, “I guess we’ll go down unless
you want your dinner before you start. We haven’t
had breakfast yet.”

Bethune laughed and looked at Jimmy.

“Could you eat anything?” he asked.

“Not a bite! I don’t expect ever to feel hungry
until we get those boxes up. Lash the ladder while I
couple the pipe to the pump!”

Bethune was the first to go down. When he came
back after an unusually long stay, he reported that he
had been unable to extricate the nearest box, though he
had cleared the sand from it before he was forced to
ascend. Jimmy took his place, and worked savagely,
dragging out the box and moving it toward the bulkhead,
but in the confined space, which was further narrowed
by some broken timbers, he could not lift it
through the opening. While he tried, with every
muscle strained, a piece of timber shifted in the sand
beneath his feet; and Jimmy lost his balance and fell
forward, putting out his lamp.

He felt smaller and less buoyant when he got up, his
breath was hard to get, and he grew uncomfortably
hot. Then it flashed upon him with a shock of unnerving
fear that his air-pipe was foul, and for a moment
he grappled sternly with his dismay. There was
no time to lose, but he must keep his head. Passing his
hand over the canvas dress, which felt ominously slack,
he fumbled at the lamp. As he did so a wavering
beam of light shot out, shining uncertainly through the
water; and he supposed that in falling he must have
broken the circuit by pressing the switch. Lifting the
lamp, he saw that the tube was bent sharply round a
ragged timber, and while his heart throbbed painfully
and his breath grew labored, he moved back and
reached for it; but he found his hands nerveless and his
legs unsteady, and when he stooped to loose the line his
head reeled and he pitched forward across the timber,
grasping the line as he fell.

CHAPTER XVIII—BOGUS GOLD
========================

Cold as it was, Jimmy lay for a long time on the
sloop’s deck when he had been stripped of the diving
gear. How he had crawled out of the hole and
climbed the ladder was not clear to him; he thought
that he must have untangled the line as he fell and have
been driven forward by an overpowering longing for
the upper air.

He found some trouble in explaining to Moran what
had happened, for he felt limp and shaky yet. And
he shuddered at the thought of going down again.

“When we once get the box out of the hold,” he
said, “there should be no trouble in swinging it on
board.”

Moran smoked out a pipe before he took his turn.
When the copper helmet disappeared, Jimmy got a
firm grip on the signal line; and while he waited he
looked about.

The days were rapidly shortening, and the light was
growing dim. The horizon seemed to be creeping in
on them, obscured by smoky fog, which stirred and
wreathed about as the wind sprang up. Small ripples
were splashing round the sloop, and the swell was
steeper.

“I hope Hank will manage to sling that box,”
Jimmy said to Bethune, who nodded as he steadily
turned the pump.

“We may get another turn or two, but that will be
all. There’s a breeze behind the heave that’s working
in.”

Neither of them said anything further, but waited
with what patience they could summon until Moran
came up.

“I got the box out of the hold before I was beat; the
next man shouldn’t have much trouble in hitching a
sling round it,” he said, and glanced out to sea as he
added significantly: “He’d better get through mighty
quick.”

A gust of wind rent the fog, and a long, low mass,
shining a dead, cold white, appeared in the gap. Then,
while the haze streamed back, another pale streak
showed up on the opposite bow.

“They’re all around us!” Jimmy exclaimed
hoarsely.

The men were not easily daunted, and they had borne
enough in the North to harden them, but the sight was
strangely impressive, and their courage sank. This
was a peril with which none of them except Moran had
grappled; and he had no cause for thinking light of it.
The pack-ice was gathering round the island, hemming
them in, and the sloop would be crushed like an eggshell
unless she could avoid its grip. Then, to make
things worse, a blast of bitter air whipped the men’s
anxious faces, and the sea broke into short, angry
ripples.

“We have got to quit,” said Moran despondently.
“But I surely want that box.”

“You shall have it, if I can get the sling on,” Bethune
replied. “Help me on with the dress as quick
as you can.”

He flung a hasty glance about. A long raft of ice
with ragged edges was drifting nearer, and the fog, disturbed
by the rising breeze, rolled across the sea in
woolly streamers.

“It looks as if I had to finish the job this time,”
he said with a harsh laugh. “I no longer have the
cheap hotel to fall back on.”

When he had been down for some time, Jimmy, turning
the pump in obedience to the plucking of the signal
line, began to wonder when he would come up. Bethune
seemed particular about his air supply, and
Jimmy surmised that he found it needful to move the
case along the bottom to get a clear lead for the lifting
line because the *Cetacea* had altered her position.
Moran put his hand on the crank when required, but at
other times he stood motionless, watching the ice with
an imperturbable brown face. Indeed, Jimmy, as a relief
from the tension, began to speculate about his comrade
and wonder what he thought. Though they had
toiled hard and faced many perils together with mutual
respect and confidence, he felt that he knew very little
about the man. Moran’s reserve and stolid serenity
were baffling. When strenuous action was required he
could be relied upon, but even then he was seldom hurried,
and his movements somehow suggested that his
splendid frame was endowed with unreasoning, automatic
powers. For all that, Jimmy knew that such a
conception of his friend was wrong. He had seen the
cool judgment and indomitable courage that controlled
the man’s strength in time of heavy stress.

All this, however, was not of much consequence.
Jimmy fixed his eyes upon the frothing patch of bubbles
that broke the troubled surface of the swell.
It was stationary, and Bethune had already stayed below
an unusual time. He was not in difficulties, because
when Jimmy jerked the line he got a reassuring
signal in reply. It looked as if the man expected to
bring up the case.

In the meanwhile the ice was driving nearer, propelled
by wind and tide, and its low height suggested
that it had formed in some shallow bight. If this were
so, it might not ground before reaching the sloop.
Still, its progress was not rapid, and Jimmy did not
think there was any urgent need to recall Bethune, particularly
as he must finish his task or abandon it.

At last the bubbles began to move back. It was
difficult to follow them because the swell was streaked
with foam, but although they were occasionally lost
for a few moments, they reappeared. Then the top of
the ladder swung against the rail and soon the copper
helmet rose out of the sea. Bethune flung an arm on
deck and grasped a cleat, but he seemed to have some
difficulty in getting any farther, and they dragged
him on board. His face was livid when they released
him, and he lay back on the skylight without speaking
for some moments. Then he gasped painfully:

“The case is slung; I had to move it clear of her.
Heave up!”

They sprang to the line he had brought and hauled
it in; Jimmy trying to control his fierce impatience.
Care was needed lest the sling get loose in dragging
along the sand. At last the line ran perpendicularly
down, and they were encouraged by the weight they
had to lift. Even Moran showed excitement as a
corner of the box broke the surface. Throwing himself
down, he swung it on board with a powerful heave.
Then he and Jimmy dropped down limply on the deck
and gazed at their treasure. The box was thick and
bound with heavy iron, the wood waterlogged; but,
making allowances for that, it obviously contained a
large quantity of gold. Jimmy felt exultant, but after
a time Bethune disturbed his pleasant reflections.

“Look at the ice!” he exclaimed.

The floe was bearing down on them, and in the
distance, half hidden by the fog, a taller mass seemed
to have stranded on the reef, for the spray was leaping
about it and there was a great splash as a heavy
block fell off. Moran glanced at the floe and ran forward.
Jimmy joined him and they hurriedly got the
chain cable in; then, with Bethune’s help, they reefed
the mainsail and stowed the folding ladder and pumps
below, but they had a struggle to lift the kedge anchor.
It seemed to have fouled some waterlogged timber below;
but they would not sacrifice it by slipping the
warp, because they knew it might be a long time before
they could come back. When they finally broke it out
Bethune had already hoisted the mainsail. There was
no time to lose, for the fog was getting thicker in spite
of the rising wind, and a glimmering mass of ice had
crept up threateningly close. Moreover, the light was
going and the sea getting up. Hurriedly setting a
small jib, they stood out for open sea.

“Make the best offing you can,” directed Jimmy,
leaving Moran at the helm. “I’ll get the stove lighted,
and after supper we’ll open the case.”

It was nearly twenty-four hours since he had eaten
anything and he was beginning to feel faint from
want of food. Indeed, he had some difficulty in getting
the fire to burn and was conscious of an annoying,
slack clumsiness. When the meal was ready he called
Bethune down and handed out Moran’s share.

“I’ve been extravagant, but we have earned a feast
to-night,” he said exultantly.

They ate hungrily while the water splashed beneath
the floorings and the lamp swung at erratic angles as
the *Cetacea* rolled; and Bethune made no objection
when Jimmy afterward lighted his pipe. The case
lay against the centerboard trunk, but they did not
feel impatient to open it. This was a pleasure that
would lose nothing by being deferred; they were satisfied
to sit still in the warm cabin and gloat over their
success.

“Strictly speaking, we have no right to break into
the thing,” Bethune said; “and it might perhaps lay
us open to suspicion; but I’m afraid I can’t keep my
hands off until we get home. Get out the tools,
Jimmy.”

Jimmy did so, and then, opening the scuttle, called
to Moran.

“We’re going to look inside the box. Is it safe for
you to come down?”

Moran seemed to make a negative sign, though
Jimmy could hardly see him. It had grown dark, and
thick fog was driving past the boat, while the spray that
beat in through the weather shrouds indicated that she
was sailing hard. Dropping back below, Jimmy
closed the scuttle and took up a hammer. His fingers
shook and he felt his nerves tingle as he drove a wedge
under the first band.

“I wish we’d cleaned out the strong-room; but we
can come back, and we have got enough to wipe off
our debt and give us a luxurious winter,” he said happily.
“It will be a change to put up at a good hotel—we
might even make a trip to California; and if
Jaques can get somebody to run the store we will bring
him and his wife to town.”

“It’s not a very ambitious program,” Bethune
laughed. “I dare say we can carry it out; though we
don’t know yet what our share will come to.”

“I’ll stand out for half,” declared Jimmy with a determined
air. “In fact, we’ll make a bargain before
we deliver up the stuff.”

Working eagerly, he soon started the band and inserted
a chisel under a board. In a few moments he
prized it loose, and thick folds of rotten canvas were
exposed.

“There seems to be a lot of packing,” Bethune remarked.
“There’s a seal here we’ll have to break; but
we have smashed one already. Don’t waste time. Rip
it open!”

Jimmy used his knife, and plunged his hand into
the case. He was surprised by the feel of its contents.

“It seems to be in small ingots,” he said.

“That’s curious, because there’s no smelter in the
country. Slash the wrapping to bits and let’s see
it!”

Jimmy did so and then uttered an exclamation as he
dropped the object he took out. It was dark-colored,
and fell with a dull thud.

“It’s lead!” he cried.

Tilting the case in savage anger, Jimmy shook out a
number of small gray lumps. They scattered about
the floorings, and when he gashed one with his knife
the metal cut soft and showed a silvery luster. He
dropped the knife and his face grew hard and white.
There was tense silence for a moment, and then
Jimmy, rousing himself with an effort, flung the scuttle
back.

“Hank!” he called, and his voice was strangely
hoarse.

It seemed that Moran recognized the urgent tone,
for they felt by the change of motion that he was
altering the boat’s course, but with characteristic coolness
he neglected no seamanlike precaution. Jimmy
heard the jib being hauled aback and the mainsheet got
in, and she was hove to, rising and falling with an easy
lurch, when Moran dropped through the scuttle. He
stooped over the box, and after a time looked up with
a heavy frown.

“Some crook has worked off a low-down trick on
us!” he said.

“On the underwriters first, but that’s no matter,”
replied Bethune, who was struggling against the shock.
“Slit one of the bags, Jimmy, and let’s see if it’s all
the same.”

Jimmy took the bag he had found in the wreck,
and when he cut it open a few coarse, yellow grains
ran out.

“That looks all right, but there’s not very much
of it; and the bag Hank brought up isn’t large,” he
said gloomily.

“You want to sew it up before you lose the stuff,”
advised Moran, sitting down on the box. “Now, if
there’s anything to be fixed, we had better get it settled.
She’s carrying all the sail she wants and I can’t
leave her long.”

“Are we to go back?” Bethune asked. “We
haven’t emptied the strong-room, and what we have
left behind may be genuine.”

“Can’t do it,” Moran said grimly. “The way the
wind is, the drift ice will be packed solid along the
shore to-morrow.”

They sat silent for a while. There was only one
thing to be done, but they shrank from indicating it
and owning their defeat. At last Jimmy made a gesture
of resignation.

“Square away; our course is south,” he said.

Moran nodded silently and went up through the
scuttle, and Jimmy threw himself down on the locker
while Bethune lighted his pipe. Neither of them spoke
until they heard a rattle of blocks and the rush of water
along the lee side showed that the *Cetacea* had swung
round.

“Our plans for the winter won’t materialize,” Bethune
said; “we’ll be glad to put up at a dollar hotel
if we’re lucky enough to get taken on at a mill. However,
we can talk about this to-morrow; I don’t feel
quite up to it now.”

After a curt sign of agreement, Jimmy pulled a
damp sail over him and, although he had not expected
to do so, presently went to sleep.

When Moran wakened him to take his turn at the
helm it was blowing hard and bitterly cold. Settling
himself as far as he could in the shelter of the coaming,
he began his dreary watch. Long, white-topped
seas raced after the sloop, ranging upon her weather
quarter, while the spray she flung aloft beat in heavy
showers on Jimmy’s slicker. He could scarcely see
her length ahead, and knew that he was running
a serious risk if there was ice about; but he thought
she would not be much safer if he hove her to, and,
fixing his eyes on the compass, he let her go.

After exhausting toil and many hardships, their
search had failed, and he was too jaded and depressed
to wonder whether it would ever be resumed. They
were going back bankrupt; he could not see how they
were even to retain possession of the sloop. At the
best, they could make no use of her until the spring.
The outlook was black, and what intensified the gloom
was that Jimmy now recognized that since Bethune
had first broached the scheme he had been buoyed up
by a faint but strongly alluring hope. He had not
allowed his mind to dwell on it, but it had hovered in
the background, beckoning him on. After all, there
had been a certain chance that their project would
succeed, and in that case his share of the salvage
should have been sufficient to set him on his feet.
There were many openings in western Canada for a
man with energy and means enough to give him a
start, and Jimmy did not see why he should not prosper.
Then when he had begun to make progress he
might renew his acquaintance with Ruth Osborne.

He had thought of her often, and looking back on
their voyage, he ventured to believe that he had to some
extent won her favor. He recollected trivial incidents,
odd words and glances, which could not have been altogether
without their significance. Could he lift
himself nearer her social level, it was not impossible
that he should gain her love. The thought of this had
driven him stubbornly on.

Now he had failed disastrously. He was going
back a ruined man. The best he could hope for was
that by stern self-denial and rough work on the
wharves or in the sawmills, he might earn enough to
discharge his debt to the storekeeper who had trusted
him. Beyond that there was nothing to look forward
to. He must try to forget Ruth.

Jimmy’s heart sank as he sat shivering at the helm
while the bitter spray whirled about him and the sloop
lurched on through the darkness, chased by foaming
seas.

CHAPTER XIX—A DANGEROUS SECRET
==============================

A cold snap had suddenly fallen over the northern
half of Vancouver Island, and tall pines and
unpaved streets were white with frozen snow. A
chilling wind swept round Jaques’ store and rattled the
loose windows; tiny icicles formed a fringe about the
eaves; but the neat little back room, with its polished
lamp and its glowing stove, seemed to Jimmy and his
comrades luxuriously bright and warm. Supper had
been cleared away, and the group sat about the table
discussing what could now be done, after the failure
of the second attempt to recover the gold.

Jaques leaned his head on his hand, with his elbow
resting on the table; Mrs. Jaques sat opposite him, her
eyes fixed intently on Bethune, who was the spokesman
for the party. Jimmy, with a gloomy expression,
gazed toward the one window, where a frozen pine
bough occasionally scraped against the pane with a
rasping sound that was heard above the rattle of the
sashes. Moran, with a downcast face, sat where the
lamplight fell full upon him.

There was silence for a few moments, broken only by
the cheery crackle of the stove. Then Jaques spoke.

“We might as well thrash the thing out from the
beginning,” he said. “The first matter to be decided
is what had better be done with your boat.”

“That raises another point,” asserted Bethune.
“What we do with her now depends on our plans for
the future, and they’re not made yet.”

“Then suppose we consider that you’re going back to
try again in the spring?”

Jimmy looked at Mrs. Jaques, and fancied that her
expression was encouraging.

“You’re taking it for granted that we can get out of
debt. If such a thing were possible, we’d haul her up
and strip her for the winter with the first big tides.”

“Not here,” Jaques said pointedly. “For one
thing, she’d be spotted, and you’ll see why you had
better avoid that if you’ll listen.”

“I see one good reason now,” Bethune answered
with a rueful grin. “You’re not our only creditor,
and the other fellow isn’t likely to show us much consideration.”

“Let that go for the present. Do you know any
lonely creek some distance off where she’d lie safe and
out of sight?”

“I dare say we could find one,” Jimmy replied.

“Then I’m going to talk. Some time after you
left, a man from Victoria called on me. Said he was
an accountant and specialized on the development of
small businesses. He’d undertake to collect doubtful
accounts, show his clients how to keep their books, and
buy on the best terms, or sell out their business, if they
wanted; in fact, he said that some of his city friends
thought of trying to make a merger arrangement with
the grocery stores in the small Island ports.”

“No doubt it seemed an opportunity for getting a
good price for your store,” Bethune suggested.

“I wasn’t keen. Things had improved since you
were here, and trade was looking up. However, I
showed the man my books, and I saw that he was especially
interested when he came to your account.
Asked me did I know that you were a remittance man
who had forfeited his allowance and that your partner
was a steamboat mate who’d been fired out of his ship.
I told him that I was aware of it; and he said the
chances were steep against your making good. Then
he gave me some useful hints and went away.”

“That’s interesting,” Bethune commented. “Did
you hear anything more from him?”

“I did; not long ago he sent me an offer for my
business as it stands, with all unsettled claims and liabilities.
When I got a Vancouver drummer I know
to make inquiries, he said that it ought to be a safe
proposition—the money was good.”

“Ah! It looks as if somebody thought us worth
powder and shot. Did you take his offer?”

“No, sir! I stood off, for two reasons. I knew
that the buyers either foresaw a boom in the Island
trade, in which case it would pay me to hold on, or
they’d some pretty strong grounds for wanting to get
hold of you. On thinking it over, I didn’t see my way
to help them.”

“Thanks. I wonder whether Mrs. Jaques had any
say in the matter?”

“She certainly had,” Jaques admitted fondly.
“She thought it wouldn’t be the square thing to give
you away, and that to see you through might be the
best in the end.”

“We’re grateful; but I’m not sure that she was
wise. It’s obvious that there was something crooked
about the wreck, and what you have told us implies
that some men with money are anxious to cover up
their tracks. I suspect they’ve grown richer since the
bogus gold was shipped, and might be willing to spend
a good sum to keep the matter dark. The fellow who
called on you probably knew nothing of this; he’d be
merely acting for them on commission.”

None of the others spoke for the next minute. The
situation demanded thought, for they were people of
no consequence, and they did not doubt that men with
means were plotting against them.

“You seem to have got hold of a dangerous secret,”
Mrs. Jaques said, breaking the silence.

“An important one, at least,” Bethune agreed. “It
might, perhaps, get us into trouble; but our position’s
pretty strong. I’ll admit, though, that I can’t see what
use we had better make of it.”

Mrs. Jaques watched him closely.

“I suppose it has struck you that you might make
a bargain with the people who insured the gold?
They’d probably pay you well if you put the screw on
them.”

Jimmy started and frowned, but Bethune motioned
to him to be silent.

“I wonder whether you really thought we’d take
that course, ma’am?” he asked.

“No,” she smiled; “I did not. But what’s the alternative?”

“We might go to the underwriters and see what
we could get from them. I suppose that’s what we
ought to do; but I’d rather wait. If we can clean out
the strong-room, we’ll have the whole thing in our
hands.”

“In your hands, you mean.”

“No; I meant what I said. My suggestion is that
your husband should relinquish his claim on us, and
take a small share in the venture. If he’d do so, we
could go back next spring. It’s a proposition I
wouldn’t make before, but things have changed, and we
want another man.”

“Well,” said Jaques, “I half expected this, and I’ve
been doing some figuring. The mills are booked full
of orders for dressed lumber, there’s a pulp factory
going up, and I’m doing better now that trade’s coming
to the town. Still, I see a risk.”

“So do I,” Bethune replied. “We’re three irresponsible
adventurers without a dollar to our credit,
and we have men of weight and business talent up
against us. It’s possible that they may break us; but
I think we have a fighting chance.” He turned to
Mrs. Jaques. “What’s your opinion?”

“Oh, I love adventure! And somehow I have confidence
that you’ll make good.”

“Thank you! It’s evident that the opposition can
do nothing at the wreck when we’re on the spot, and
the ice will keep the field for us while we’re down
here; but we must get back before they can send a
steamer in the spring. In the meanwhile, we have the
bags of gold to dispose of.”

“That’s a difficulty,” said Jaques. “They certainly
ought to be handed to the underwriters.”

“Just so; but as soon as we part with them we give
our secret away. We must stick to them and say nothing
until we finish the job.”

“Wouldn’t it be dangerous? You have cut one bag
and broken into the box. If the fellows who are
working against you found that out, they’d claim you
had stolen the gold. Then you’d be in a tight place.”

“The experience wouldn’t be unusual,” Bethune answered
with a laugh. “We must take our chances,
and we’ll put the stuff in your safe. What most encourages
me to go on is that there were several different consignments
of gold sent by the steamer and
insured, and I can’t take it for granted that all the
shippers were in the conspiracy. There’s no reason to
suspect the contents of the remaining cases.”

“You hadn’t made out the marks when I last asked
you about them,” Jimmy broke in.

“No; they’re hardly distinguishable; but I now
think I have a clue. I’m inclined to believe the case
was shipped by a man named Osborne. His name’s in
the vessel’s manifest, and he has been associated with
her owner for a long time. I found that out when I
was considering the salvage scheme.”

Jimmy started.

“His Christian name?”

“Henry. I understand he has a house on the shore
of Puget Sound. You look as if you knew him!”

Jimmy said nothing for a few moments, though he
saw that the others were watching him curiously. Bethune’s
suggestion had given him a shock, because it
seemed impossible that the pleasant, cultured gentleman
he had met on board the *Empress* should be guilty
of common fraud. Besides, it was preposterous to
suppose that Ruth Osborne could be the daughter of a
rogue.

“I do know him; that is, I met him on our last
voyage. But you’re mistaken,” he said firmly.

“It’s possible,” Bethune admitted. “Time will
show. I’ve only a suspicion to act on.”

“How do you mean to act on it? What do you
propose to do?”

Bethune gave him a searching glance.

“Nothing, until we have emptied the strong-room
and we’ll have to consider what’s most advisable then.
In the meanwhile, I expect the opposition will let us
feel their hand; there may be developments during
the winter.” He turned to Jaques. “We’ll lay the
sloop up out of sight with the next big tides and then
go south and look for work. In the spring we’ll ask
you to grubstake us, and get back to the wreck as
soon as the weather permits. I think that’s our best
plan.”

The others agreed, and soon afterward the party
broke up. As they went back to the boat Bethune
turned to Jimmy.

“Do you feel inclined to tell me what you know
about Osborne?” he asked.

“I only know that you’re on the wrong track. He
isn’t the man to join in a conspiracy of the kind you’re
hinting at.”

Bethune did not reply, and they went on in silence
down the snowy street. Jimmy found it hard to believe
that Osborne had had any share in the fraud,
but a doubt was beginning to creep into his mind. For
a few minutes he felt tempted to abandon the search
for the gold; but he reflected that he was bound to his
comrades and could not persuade them to let the matter
drop. Besides, if by any chance Bethune’s suspicion
proved correct, he might be of some service to Miss
Osborne. No matter what discovery might be made,
she should not suffer; Jimmy was resolved on that.

Leaving port the next day, they found a safe berth
for the sloop; and when they had hauled her up on the
beach they walked to a Siwash rancherie, where they
engaged one of the Indians to take them back in a
canoe. Reaching Vancouver by steamboat, they had
some trouble in finding work, because the approach
of winter had driven down general laborers and railroad
construction gangs from the high, inland ranges
to the sheltered coast. There was, however, no frost
in the seaboard valleys, and at last Jimmy and his
friends succeeded in hiring themselves to a contractor
who was clearing land.

It was not an occupation they would have taken up
from choice, but as their pockets were empty they could
not be particular. The firs the choppers felled were
great in girth, and as Moran was the only member of
the party who could use the ax, the others were set to
work sawing up the massive logs with a big crosscut.
Dragging the double-handled saw backward and forward
through the gummy wood all day was tiring
work, while, to make things worse, it rained most of
the time and the clearing was churned into a slough
by the gangs of toiling men. When they left it to
haul out a log that had fallen beyond its edge they
were forced to plunge waist-deep into dripping brush
and withered fern.

For all that, Bethune and Jimmy found the use of
the crosscut easy by comparison with their next task,
for they were presently sent with one or two others
to build up the logs into piles for burning. The masses
of timber were ponderous, and the men, floundering
up to the knees in trampled mire, laboriously rolled
them into place along lines of skids. Then they must
be raised into a pyramid three or four tiers high, and
getting on the last row was a herculean task carried
out at the risk of being crushed to death by the logs
overpowering them and running back.

Jimmy and Bethune stuck to it because they had no
other recourse, toiling, wet through, in the slough all
day and dragging themselves back, dripping, dejected,
and worn out, to the sleeping shack at night. The
building was rudely put together, and by no means
watertight. Its earth floor was slimy, the stove
scarcely kept it warm, while it was filled with a
rank smell of cooking, stale tobacco, and saturated
clothes. The bunks, ranged like a shelf along the
walls, were damp and smeared with wet soil from the
garments the men seldom took off; and Jimmy was
now and then wakened by the drips from the leaky
roof falling on his face. He felt that once he was able
to lay them down he would never wish to see a cant-pole
or a crosscut-saw again.

But the deliverance he longed for came in a way he
did not anticipate.

CHAPTER XX—HOUNDED
==================

Clammy mist hung about the edge of the clearing,
veiling the somber spires of the pines, but
leaving the rows of straight trunks uncovered below
a straight-drawn line. It was a gloomy morning.
Jimmy, standing with Bethune and several others beside
a growing log-pile, stopped a moment to rest his
aching muscles. He was wet through, and his arms
and back were sore from the previous day’s exertions.
Two strong skids, placed so as to form an inclined
bridge, led to the top of the log-pile and the soil between
them was trodden into a wet, slippery mess in
which it was difficult to keep one’s footing. A length
sawed off a massive trunk lay across the ends of the
skids, and Jimmy and his companions were trying to
roll it into its place on top of the previously laid tier.

Getting their poles beneath it they forced it upward,
little by little. When they got half-way, a pole slipped,
and for a few anxious moments the men strained every
muscle to prevent the mass from rolling back, while
their companion found a fresh rest for his pole. The
log must be held: they could not jump clear in time.
Breathing hard, with the sweat dripping from them,
they raised it a foot or two, until it seemed possible
to lift it on to the lower logs by a strenuous effort.
They made the attempt; and one of the skids broke.
Laying their shoulders beneath the mass, they struggled
with it for their lives. If it overpowered them,
they would be borne backward and crushed. With
one support gone, it seemed impossible that they could
lift it into place. For a few moments they held it,
but did no more, though Jimmy felt the veins swell
on his forehead and heard a strange buzzing in his
ears. His mouth was dry, his heart beat painfully,
and he knew he could not stand the cruel strain much
longer. But there was no help available. They must
conquer or be maimed.

“Lift! You have got to land her, boys!” cried
somebody in a half-choked voice. And they made
their last effort.

For a moment the mass hung in the balance, and
then rose an inch. Again they hove it upward before
their muscles could relax, and now its weight began to
rest upon the lower logs. Another thrust rolled it
slowly forward—and the danger was past.

Though the incident was not of an unusual character,
Jimmy sat down limply in the wet fern to recover
breath, and he was still resting when the foreman
came up and beckoned him.

“We’ll not want you and your partner after to-night,”
he said abruptly.

Jimmy looked at him in surprise.

“As you haven’t found any fault with us, might one
ask the reason?”

“You might; but I can’t tell you. There it is—you’re
fired. I’ve got my orders.”

The Canadian is often laconic, and Jimmy nodded.

“Very well,” he said; “we’ll go now. This isn’t a
luxurious job.”

“As you like,” replied the foreman. “The boss’s
clerk is in the shack; I’ll give him your time.”

Jimmy followed him to the office and drew his pay,
but the clerk seemed unable to explain his dismissal.

“I guess it’s because we can’t get our value out of
the boys in this rain,” he said evasively.

“But why single us out?” Jimmy persisted. “I
don’t know that I want to stay; but I’m curious. Our
gang has put up as many logs as the others.”

“I’ve no time for talking!” the clerk exclaimed.
“Take your money and quit!”

Bethune drew Jimmy away and they crossed the
clearing to where Moran was at work. He showed no
great surprise when he heard their news.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll finish the week here and then
follow you to the city. We’ll need the money.”

“All right,” Bethune agreed; “if you get the chance
of staying; but that’s doubtful. You know where to
find us.”

They went back to the sleeping shack to get their
clothes.

“What did you mean when you said he might not
have the chance?” Jimmy asked.

“I have a suspicion that Hank will get his time in
the next day or two. The boss wouldn’t want to make
the thing too obvious, and Hank’s a good chopper.
There are some awkward trees to get down where he’s
working.”

“But why should they want to get rid of him—or
us?”

Bethune smiled grimly.

“I think we’re marked men. We’ll find out presently
whether I’m right.”

Bethune’s forebodings proved correct, for only a
few days elapsed before Moran joined him and Jimmy
in Vancouver. After spending a week in searching
for employment they got work with a lumber-rafting
gang and kept it for a fortnight, when they were dismissed
without any convincing reason being given.

On the evening after their return to the city they
sat in a corner of the comfortless lobby at the hotel.
It was quiet there because the other boarders lounged
in tilted chairs before the big windows with their hats
on and their feet supported by the radiator pipes,
watching the passers-by.

“I came across the fellow we got the pumps from
this afternoon,” Jimmy remarked. “The last time
I saw him he was fairly civil, but he’s turned abusive
now. Wanted to know when we were going to pay
him the rest of his money, and made some pointed observations
about our character.”

“That won’t hurt us,” laughed Bethune. “As we
have nothing to give him and the sloop’s safely hidden,
he can’t make much trouble. I heard something more
interesting. An acquaintance of mine mentioned that
they had a big lot of lumber to cut at the Clanch mill
and wanted a few more men. If we could get a job
there, we might hold it.”

“It seems to me we can’t hold anything,” Jimmy
grumbled. “Why that?”

Bethune chuckled in a manner that indicated that he
knew more than he meant to tell.

“Boldness often pays, and I imagine that our mysterious
enemies won’t think of looking for us at the
Clanch mill. We’ll go out there to-morrow.”

They found it a long walk over a wet road, for soon
after they left the city rain began to fall. On applying
at the mill gate, they were sent to the office, and
Jimmy was standing, wet and moody, by the counter,
waiting until a supercilious clerk could attend to him,
when an inner door opened and a young man came out.
Jimmy started as he recognized the yachtsman they had
met on the island; but Aynsley moved forward with a
smile.

“This is a pleasant surprise! I’m glad you thought
of looking me up.”

“As a matter of fact, we are looking for work,” Bethune
said laconically.

Aynsley laughed and indicated the door behind him.

“Go in and sit down. I’ll join you in a minute or
two, and we’ll see what can be done.”

They entered his private office, which was smartly
furnished, and, being very wet, felt some diffidence
about using the polished hardwood chairs. The throb
of engines and the scream of saws made it unlikely
that their conversation could be overheard, and Jimmy
turned to Bethune with a frown.

“You made a curious remark about boldness paying,
when you suggested coming here. Did you know
that young man was in charge?”

“No; it’s an unexpected development. But I’ll confess
that I knew the mill belonged to his father.”

“Clay?” Jimmy exclaimed. “The owner of the
wreck?”

“Her late owner. She belongs to the underwriters
now. It seems to me the situation has its humorous
side; I mean our getting a job from the man who’s
been hunting us down.”

“You suspected Osborne not long ago,” Jimmy said
shortly.

“They’re partners; but, from what I’ve gathered,
it’s more likely that Clay’s the man who’s on our trail.
We helped him to follow it by registering with an
employment agent—and that makes me wonder
whether it would be an advantage to change our
names?”

“I’ll stick to mine!” said Jimmy; and Moran declared
his intention of doing the same.

“After all, it’s a feeble trick and not likely to cheat
the fellow we have to deal with,” Bethune agreed.
“He has obviously got a pretty accurate description of
us.”

“But would a man of his kind spend his time in
tracking us? And wouldn’t it lead to talk?”

Bethune laughed.

“He’ll act through agents; there are plenty of
broken-down adventurers in Vancouver who’d be glad
to do his dirty work. These cities are full of impecunious
wastrels; I was one myself.”

“Perhaps we’d better clear out,” suggested Jimmy.
“I’d hate to take the fellow’s pay.”

“You needn’t feel diffident. If it’s any consolation,
the mill foreman will get full value out of you. However—”
Bethune broke off as Aynsley came in.

“The fishing doesn’t seem to have been very profitable,”
he said, putting a box on the table. “Have a
cigar.”

“All we caught hardly paid for the net,” Bethune
replied. “On the whole, I don’t think we’ll smoke.
Perhaps we had better not, so to speak, confuse our
relations at the start. You see, though we didn’t know
you were the manager, we came along in the hope that
you might have an opening for three active men.”

“If I hadn’t, I’d try to make one,” Aynsley answered.
“However, as it happens, we do need a few
extra hands; but I’m afraid I’ve only rough work to
offer.”

“It couldn’t be much rougher than we’ve been doing.
I believe we can make ourselves useful; and that
Hank here could move more lumber in a day than
any man in your mill. But of course you’re under no
obligation to take us.”

“We’ll let that go; I need help. You can begin
with the stacking gang, but something better may turn
up. Now tell me something about your northern
trip.”

Bethune told him as much as he thought advisable,
and, although he used tact, Aynsley gave him a keen
glance now and then, as if he suspected some reserve.
Before Aynsley could make a comment, Bethune stood
up.

“I’ve no doubt you’re a busy man,” he said, “and
we mustn’t waste your time. Shall we make a start in
the morning?”

“You can begin right now.”

Aynsley rang a bell and handed them over to his
foreman.

For some weeks the men remained contentedly at the
mill. The work was hard, but the pay was fair, and
the boarding arrangements good, and Aynsley seldom
failed to give them a pleasant word as he passed. Indeed,
Jimmy felt a warm liking for him; and it was
not by his wish but by Bethune’s that their respective
stations as employer and workmen remained clearly
defined.

One day, when Aynsley had been absent for more
than a week, the foreman came to them.

“I’m sorry you’ll have to quit,” he said. “We’re
paying off several of the boys.”

“Quit!” Jimmy began indignantly; but he caught
Bethune’s warning look and added lamely, “Oh, well;
I suppose it’s by Mr. Clay’s orders?”

“No, sir,” the foreman answered unguardedly;
“Mr. Aynsley had nothing to do with it. He didn’t
even know—” He broke off abruptly. “Anyhow,
you’re fired!”

He turned away from them quickly; and Bethune,
sitting down on a pile of lumber, took out his pipe.

“Since I’ve got my notice with no reason given,”
he drawled, “I don’t see why I should exhaust myself
by carrying heavy planks about. Of course you noticed
his statement that Mr. Aynsley was not responsible—though
the fellow was afterward sorry he had
made it. I’m of the opinion that there’s something to
be inferred from his use of our employer’s Christian
name, particularly as a big automobile stood at the
gate for two hours yesterday. I shouldn’t be surprised
to learn that Clay, senior, had examined the pay-roll.”

“What’s the blamed hog aiming at in getting after
us like this?” questioned Moran.

Bethune looked thoughtful.

“He may wish to drive us out of the country; but
I’m more inclined to believe he means to wear us out,
and then make some proposition when he thinks we’re
tame enough.”

“He’ll be badly disappointed if he expects we’ll come
to terms!” Jimmy strode up and down, his face
flushed with anger. “Anyway, I can’t believe that
Aynsley knows anything about this.”

“He doesn’t.” Bethune smiled grimly. “I know
by experience how the scapegrace son tries to conceal
his escapades from his respectable relatives, but I rather
think the unprincipled parent who doesn’t want his
children to find him out is more ingenious. All this,
however, isn’t much to the purpose; we’ll have the
boys down on us unless we clear the lumber from the
saws.”

They left the mill the next morning and tramped
back to Vancouver in a generally dejected mood.

“What’s to be done now?” asked Jimmy as they
reached the outskirts of the city.

“How about going down into the States and trying
our luck?” Bethune suggested. “We’d at least be out
of Clay’s reach—anywhere but Seattle.”

“What—run!” Jimmy exclaimed indignantly. “I
stay right here!”

“Me too!” grunted Moran.

Bethune laughed.

“Well, how about turning and charging the enemy?
I’ll admit that I’d enjoy a good fight right now—physical
or verbal.”

“Won’t do,” objected Moran; “we won’t be well
armed until we know just what those other boxes in
the strong-room contain. Before we get a chance to
find out, I’ve an idea our enemy himself will make a
move.”

And he did.

CHAPTER XXI—JIMMY’S EMBARRASSMENT
=================================

Jimmy’s courage had fallen very low, dragging
with it the last remnants of hope and ambition.
Every loophole of escape from poverty seemed closed
against him. For days he had tramped the streets of
Vancouver, making the rounds of the wharves and
mills in search of work, and had found nothing. He
loathed the dreary patrol of the wet streets; he abhorred
his comfortless quarters in the third-rate hotel;
and the curt refusals that followed his application for
a humble post were utterly disheartening. Worse than
all, he felt that he had drifted very far from the girl
who was constantly in his thoughts. He had almost
lost hope of the salvage scheme’s succeeding, but he
was pledged to his comrades, and they meant to try
again if they could finance another venture with Jaques’
assistance. They must pick up a living somehow, and,
if possible, save a few dollars before the time to start
arrived.

One gloomy afternoon Jimmy stood outside an employment
bureau among a group of shabbily dressed,
dejected men, some of whom were of distinctly unprepossessing
appearance. One had roughly pushed
him away from the window; but he did not rouse himself
to resent it. He felt listless and low-spirited, and
to wait a little would pass the time. Besides, he
thought he had read all the notices about men required
which the agent displayed, and had offered himself
for several of the posts without success. He got his
turn at the window at last, and left it moodily; but
when he reached the edge of the sidewalk he stopped
suddenly and the blood rushed to his face. Ruth Osborne
was crossing the street toward him.

Jimmy looked around desperately, but it was too
late to escape; he could only hope that Miss Osborne
would pass without recognizing him. He did not want
her to see him among the group of shabby loungers.
His own clothes were the worse for wear, and he knew
that he had a broken-down appearance. The employment
bureau’s sign suggested what he was doing there,
and he would not have the girl know how low he had
fallen. He had turned his back toward her and pulled
his shabby hat low down over his eyes, when her voice
reached him.

“Mr. Farquhar!”

Jimmy turned, thrilled but embarrassed, and Ruth
smiled at him.

“I can’t compliment you upon your memory,” she
said.

Jimmy saw that the other men were regarding them
curiously. He was not surprised, for Ruth had a
well-bred air and her dress indicated wealth and refinement,
while his appearance was greatly against him;
but it was insufferable that those fellows should speculate
about her, and he moved slowly forward.

“I think my memory’s pretty good,” he answered
with a steady glance.

“That makes your behavior worse, because it looks
as if you meant to avoid me.”

“I’ll confess that I did; but I’m not sure that you
can blame me. No doubt you saw how I was employed?”

Ruth’s eyes sparkled and there was more color than
usual in her face.

“I do blame you; it’s no excuse. Did you think I
was mean enough to let that prevent me from speaking
to you?”

“Since you have asked the question, I can’t imagine
your being mean in any way at all,” Jimmy answered
boldly. “I’m afraid I was indulging in false sentiment,
but perhaps that wasn’t unnatural. We all have
our weaknesses.”

“That’s true; mine’s a quick temper, and you nearly
made me angry. I feel slighted when people I know
run away from me.”

“One wouldn’t imagine it often happens. Anyhow,
I’ve pleaded guilty.”

“Then, as a punishment, you must come with me
to our hotel and tell us of your voyage to the North.
My father will not be back until late, but I think you’ll
like my aunt.”

Jimmy looked surprised.

“You knew I was in the North?”

“Yes,” she answered, smiling. “Does that seem
very strange? Perhaps you find it easy to let a pleasant
acquaintance drop.”

“I found it very hard,” Jimmy said with some
warmth.

Then he pulled himself up, remembering that this
was not the line he ought to take. “After all,” he
added, “it doesn’t follow that a friendship made on a
voyage can be kept up ashore. A steamboat officer’s
privileges end when he reaches land.”

“Where he seems to lose his confidence in himself.
You’re either unusually modest or unfairly bitter.”

“It’s not that. I hope I’m not a fool.”

Ruth felt half impatient and half compassionate.
She understood why he had made no attempt to follow
up their acquaintance; but she thought he insisted too
much upon the difference between their positions in the
social scale.

“I suppose your father learned where I had gone?”

“No; it was Aynsley Clay who told me. My father
certainly asked one of the *Empress* mates what had
become of you, but learned only that you had left the
ship. You must remember Aynsley, the yachtsman
you met on the island.”

“Yes,” said Jimmy incautiously. “My partners
and I worked in his mill until a week or two ago. Then
we were turned out.”

“Turned out? Why? I can’t imagine Aynsley’s
being a hard master.”

“He isn’t. We got on very well. I don’t believe
we owe our dismissal to him.”

Ruth started. She was keen-witted and quick to
jump to conclusions. Jimmy’s statement bore out certain
troublesome suspicions, and she remembered that
she had forced Aynsley to speak about him in Clay’s
presence. Perhaps she was responsible for his misfortunes;
she felt guilty.

“Then whatever you were doing in the North was
not a success?” she suggested.

“It was not,” Jimmy answered with some grimness.

Ruth studied him with unobtrusive interest. It was
obvious that he was not prospering, and he looked
worn. This roused her compassion, though she realized
that there was nothing that she could do. The
man’s pride stood between them.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “You may be more
fortunate another time. I suppose you have some
plans for the future?”

She seemed to invite his confidence, and he saw that
her interest was sincere. It was unthinkable that she
should have any knowledge of the conspiracy between
her father and Clay, but he could not speak to her
openly. Loyalty to his friends prevented his taking
such a course, because she might inadvertently mention
what she had heard, and it was impossible to ask
her to keep it secret from her relatives.

“They’re indefinite,” he answered. “I expect
we’ll find something that will suit us by and by.”

She saw that he was on his guard, and felt hurt by
his reserve, particularly as she had made several advances
which he would not meet. Then, glancing
down a street that led to the wharf, she saw, towering
above the sheds, a steamer’s tunnel and a mast from
which a white and red flag fluttered.

“That’s your old boat; she came in this morning,”
she said. “I wonder whether we might go on board?
After the pleasant trip we had in her, I feel that I’d like
to see the ship again.”

“As you wish,” said Jimmy, with obvious hesitation.

Ruth regretted the mistake that she had made, because
she thought she understood his reluctance. He
looked as if he had come down in the world, and would
no doubt find it painful to re-visit the boat on board
of which he had been an officer.

“Perhaps there isn’t time, after all,” she said. “I
told my aunt when I would be back at the hotel, and
we are almost there. She will be glad to talk with
you.”

Jimmy glanced at the building and stopped. Several
luxuriously appointed automobiles were waiting in
front of it, and a group of well-dressed people stood
on the steps. He felt that he would be out of place
there.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse my not coming
in,” he said.

“But why? Have you anything of importance to
do just now?”

“No,” said Jimmy with a smile; “unfortunately I
can’t give that as a reason. I wish I could.”

“You’re not very flattering, certainly.”

“I’m sorry. What I meant was that I’d kept you
rather long already, and of course one can’t intrude.”

She looked at him steadily, offering him no help in
his embarrassment.

“You’re very kind,” he said with determined firmness.
“But I don’t intend to take advantage of that
by coming in.”

“Very well,” she acquiesced; and, giving him her
hand, she let him go.

The calmness with which she had dismissed him
puzzled Jimmy as he went away. He wondered
whether he had offended her. He had, no doubt, behaved
in an unmannerly way, but there was no other
course open. Indeed, it was fortunate that he had
kept his head, and she might come to see that it was
consideration for her that had influenced him. Then
he reflected bitterly that she might not trouble herself
any further about the matter and that it would be
more useful if he resumed his search for something to
do.

But Ruth did trouble herself. That evening she
and her father were sitting in the rotunda of the big
hotel with Aynsley and Clay. The spacious hall was
lavishly decorated and groups of well-dressed men and
women moved up and down between the columns and
sat chatting on the lounges. Some were passengers
from the *Empress* and some leading inhabitants of the
town who, as is not uncommon in the West, dined at
the hotel. Outside there was obviously a fall of sleet,
for the men who came in stamped their feet in the vestibule
and shook wet flakes from the fur-coats they
handed to a porter.

Perhaps it was the air of luxury, the company of
prosperous people, and the glitter of the place, that
made Ruth think of Jimmy walking the wet streets.
The contrast between his lot and the comfort she enjoyed
was marked, and she felt disturbed and pitiful.
This, however, could not benefit Jimmy; and, although
he had rather pointedly avoided any attempt to presume
upon their friendship or to enlist her sympathy,
she longed to offer him some practical help. She must
try to find out something about his affairs, using subtlety
where needed; while generally frank, she was
not repelled by the idea of intriguing, so long as her
object was good. It was obvious that in Clay she had
a clever man to contend against; but this rather added
to the fascination of the thing, and she had some confidence
in her own ability.

“I met Jimmy Farquhar this afternoon,” she said
abruptly, speaking to her father.

“The *Empress’s* mate? What is he doing in Vancouver,
and why didn’t you ask him in?”

“He wouldn’t come. I gathered that he’d been
having rather a hard time lately.”

The remark she had made at a venture had not been
wasted. Her father’s easy manner was not assumed;
it was natural, and convinced her that he was not connected
with Jimmy’s misfortunes. This was a relief,
but she had learned something else, for, watching Clay
closely, she had seen him frown. The change in his
expression was slight, but she had expected him to exercise
self-control and she saw that he was displeased
at the mention of Farquhar. This implied that he had
a good reason for keeping his dealings with Jimmy in
the dark.

“Then I must try to overcome his objections if I
run across him,” said Osborne. “I liked the man.”

“The C.P.R. pick their officers carefully,” Clay remarked
with a careless smile at Ruth. “Still, the fellow
didn’t show much taste when he refused your invitation.”

“I really didn’t feel flattered,” Ruth said lightly,
wondering whether he had imagined that he might
learn something from an unguarded reply.

“I guess he’s not worth thinking much about. You
wouldn’t have had to ask me twice when I was a young
man, but it’s my opinion that the present generation
have no blood in them.”

“I believe that’s an old idea,” Ruth laughed.
“Your father may have thought the same of you.”

Clay was quick to seize the opportunity for changing
the subject.

“You’re not right there,” he chuckled. “My folks
were the props of a small, back-East meeting house,
and did their best to pound the wildness out of me.
It wasn’t their fault they didn’t succeed, but I’d inherited
the stubbornness of the old Puritan strain, and
the more they tried to pull me up the hotter pace I
made. That’s why I’ve given Aynsley his head, and
he trots along at a steady clip without trying to bolt.”

Ruth paid little attention to what he was saying.
She was puzzling about Clay’s connection with
Jimmy’s affairs, searching for some reason for Clay’s
evident attitude. She was not sorry when he and
Osborne rose and turned toward the smoking-room,
for she wanted to question Aynsley.

“Why did you turn Jimmy Farquhar out of your
mill?” she asked as soon as they were alone.

Aynsley was taken by surprise.

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t turn him out.”

“Then did he and his friends go of their own accord?”

“No,” said Aynsley with some awkwardness; “I
can’t say that they did.”

“Then somebody must have dismissed them. Who
was it?”

He could not evade the direct question, for he had
none of his father’s subtlety, but he felt a jealous pang.
Ruth would not have insisted on an answer unless she
had an interest in one of the men. Farquhar was a
good-looking fellow with taking manners; but Aynsley
erred in imagining that she was concerned only
about Jimmy. The girl saw that there was more in
the matter and she was feeling for a clue.

“The old man came along when I was away and cut
down the yard gang,” he explained. “He’s smart at
handling men economically, and thought I was paying
too much in wages.”

“But why did he pick out those three? Didn’t they
work well?”

Aynsley felt confused; but he would not seek refuge
in deceit.

“So far as I could see, they were pretty smart; but
I’m not so good a judge. Anyway, he didn’t explain.”

“Then you asked him about it?”

“Yes,” Aynsley answered lamely. “Still, I
couldn’t go too far. I didn’t want him to think I resented
his interfering. After all, he bought me the
mill.”

Ruth saw that he suspected Clay’s motive. So did
she, but she did not think he could tell her anything
more, and, to his relief, she changed the subject.

CHAPTER XXII—A WARNING
======================

In the luxuriously appointed smoking-room of the
hotel Clay leaned forward in the deep leather chair
into which he had dropped and looked keenly at Osborne.

“Tell me how you are interested in this fellow Farquhar,”
he demanded.

“I don’t know that I am much interested,” Osborne
replied. “He was of some service to us during our
voyage from Japan, and seemed a smart young fellow.
It merely struck me that I might give him a lift
up in return for one or two small favors.”

“Let him drop! Didn’t it strike you that your
daughter might have her own views about him? The
man’s good-looking.”

Osborne flung up his head, and his eyes narrowed.

“I can’t discuss—”

“It has to be discussed,” Clay interrupted. “You
can’t have that man at your house: he’s one of the fellows
who were working at the wreck.”

“Ah! That makes a difference, of course. I suppose
you have been on their trail, but you have told me
nothing about it yet.”

“I had a suspicion that you didn’t want to know.
You’re a fastidious fellow, you know, and I suspected
that you’d rather leave a mean job of that kind to me.”

“You’re right,” Osborne admitted. “I’m sure you
would handle it better than I could; but I’m curious to
hear what you’ve done.”

“I’ve gone as far as seems advisable. Had the fellows
fired from several jobs and made it difficult for
them to get another; but it wouldn’t pay to have my
agents guess what I’m after.” Clay laughed. “Farquhar
and his partners are either bolder or smarter than
I thought; I found them taking my own money at the
Clanch Mill.”

“You meant to break them?”

“Sure! A man without money is pretty harmless;
but wages are high here, and if they’d been left alone,
they might have saved enough to give them a start.
Now I don’t imagine the poor devils have ten dollars
between them.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I don’t know yet. I thought of letting them find
out the weakness of their position and then trying to
buy them off; but if I’m not very careful that might
give them a hold on me.”

Osborne looked thoughtful.

“I wonder whether the insurance people would consider
an offer for the wreck? I wouldn’t mind putting
up my share of the money.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Clay said firmly. “They’d
smell a rat. I suppose you felt you’d like to give them
their money back.”

“I have felt something of the kind.”

“Then why did you take the money in the first instance?”

“You ought to know. I had about two hundred
dollars which you had paid me then, and I wanted to
give my girl a fair start in life.”

“And now she’d be the first to feel ashamed of you
if she knew.”

Osborne winced.

“What’s the good of digging up the bones of a
skeleton that is better buried!” he said impatiently.
“The thing to consider is the wreck. If we could buy
it we could blow it up.”

“We can blow it up, anyway. That is, if we
can get there before the Farquhar crowd. We have
steam against their sail, and I’ve made it difficult for
them to fit out their boat. Unless I find I can come to
terms with the fellows, I’ll get off in the yacht as soon
as the ice breaks up.”

“Your crew may talk.”

“They won’t have much to talk about; I’ll see to
that. Now, I don’t know what claim insurers have on
a vessel they’ve paid for and abandoned for a number
of years, but I guess there’s nothing to prevent our
trying to recover her cargo, so long as we account for
what we get. It’s known that the yacht has been
cruising in the North, and what more natural than that
we should discover that a gale or a change of current
had washed the wreck into shallow water after the salvage
expedition gave her up? If there had been anything
wrong, we’d have made some move earlier.
Very well; knowing more about the vessel and her
freight than anybody else, we try what we can do. If
we fail, like the salvage people, nobody can blame us.”

“You’d run some risk, for all that,” Osborne said
thoughtfully.

“I can’t deny it. If Farquhar and his friends were
business men, I’d feel uneasy. He has cards in his
hand that would beat us; but he doesn’t know how
many trumps he holds. If he did know, we’d have
heard from him or the underwriters before this.”

“It seems probable,” Osborne agreed. “All the
same, I wish the winter was over and you could get off.
It will be a relief to know that she is destroyed.”

“You’ll have to wait; but there won’t be much of
her left after we get to work with the giant-powder,”
Clay promised cheerfully.

They talked over the matter until it got late; and the
next morning the party broke up, the Osbornes returning
home and Aynsley going back to his mill. Clay,
however, stayed in Vancouver and visited a doctor who
was beginning to make his mark. There were medical
men in Seattle who would have been glad to attend to
him, but he preferred the Canadian city, where he was
not so well known. He had been troubled rather often
of late by sensations that puzzled him, and had decided
that if he had any serious weakness it would be
better to keep it to himself. Hitherto he had been
noted for his mental and physical force, and recognized
as a daring, unscrupulous fighter whom it was wise to
conciliate, and it might prove damaging if rumors that
he was not all he seemed got about.

His work was not finished and his ambitions were
only half realized. Aynsley had his mother’s graces,
for Clay’s wife had been a woman of some refinement
who had yielded to the fascination the handsome adventurer
once exercised. The boy must have wealth
enough to make him a prominent figure on the Pacific
Slope. Clay knew his own limitations, and was content
that his son should attain a social position he could
not enjoy. This was one reason why he had been more
troubled about Farquhar’s salvage operations than he
cared to admit. His personal reputation was, as he
very well knew, not of the best, but his business exploits,
so far as they were known to the public, were,
after all, regarded with a certain toleration and would
be forgotten. The wreck, however, was a more serious
matter, and might have a damaging effect on his son’s
career if the truth concerning it came out. This must
be avoided at any cost. Moreover, with his business
increasing, he would need all his faculties during the
next few years, and the mysterious weakness he suffered
from now and then dulled his brain. In consequence,
he was prudently but rather unwillingly going
to see a doctor.

The man examined him with a careful interest which
Clay thought ominous, and after questioning him about
his symptoms stood silent a few moments.

“You have lived pretty hard,” he commented.

“I have,” said Clay, “but perhaps not in the way
that’s generally meant.”

The doctor nodded as he studied him. Clay’s face
showed traces of indulgence, but these were not
marked. The man was obviously not in the habit of
exercising an ascetic control over his appetites, but he
looked too hard and virile to be a confirmed sensualist.
Yet, to a practised eye, he showed signs of wear.

“I mean that you haven’t been careful of yourself.”

“I hadn’t much chance of doing so until comparatively
recent years,” Clay replied with a grim smile.
“In my younger days, I suffered heat and thirst in the
Southwest; afterwards I marched on half-rations, carrying
a heavy pack, in the Alaskan snow; and I dare
say I got into the habit of putting my object first.”

“Before what are generally considered the necessities
of life—food and rest and sleep?”

“Something of the kind.”

“You work pretty hard now?”

“I begin when I get up; as a rule, it’s eleven o’clock
at night when I finish. That’s the advantage of living
in a city hotel. You can meet the people you deal with
after office hours.”

“It’s a doubtful advantage,” said the doctor.
“You’ll have to change all that. Have you no relaxations
or amusements?”

“I haven’t time for them; my business needs too
much attention. It’s because I find it tries me now and
then that I’ve come here to learn what’s wrong.”

The doctor told him he had a serious derangement of
the heart which might have been inherited, but had
been developed by his having taxed his strength too
severely.

Clay listened with a hardening face.

“What’s the cure?” he asked.

“There is none,” said the doctor quietly. “A general
slackening of tension will help. You must take
life easier, shorten your working hours, avoid excitement
and mental concentration, and take a holiday
when you can. I recommend a three months’ change
with complete rest, but there will always be some risk
of a seizure. Your aim must be to make it as small a
risk as possible.”

“And if I go on as I’ve been doing?”

The doctor gave him a keen glance. He was a
judge of character, and saw this was a determined,
fearless man.

“You may live three or four years, though I’m
doubtful. On the other hand, the first sharp attack
you provoke may finish you.”

Clay showed no sign of dismay. He looked
thoughtful rather than startled, for something had occurred
to him.

“Would you recommend a voyage to a cold, bracing
climate, say in the spring?”

“I’d urge it now. The sooner the better.”

“I can’t go yet. Perhaps in a month or two. In
the meanwhile I suppose you’ll give me a prescription?”

The doctor went to his desk and wrote on two slips
of paper which he handed to Clay. He had told him
plainly what to expect, and could do no more.

“The first medicine is for regular use as directed;
but you must be careful about the other,” he cautioned.
“When you feel the faintness you described, take
the number of drops mentioned, but on no account exceed
it. The dispenser will mark the bottle.”

Clay thanked him and lighted a strong cigar as he
went out, then remembered that he had been warned
against excessive smoking, and hesitated, but the next
moment he put the cigar back in his mouth. If the
doctor’s opinions were correct, this small indulgence
would not matter much. With good luck, he could
bring all his schemes to fruition in the next year or
two; he had no intention of dropping them. He had
been warned, but he had taken risks all his life, and he
had too much on hand to be prudent now. Still, it
would do no harm to have the prescriptions made up.
He looked around for a quiet drugstore. Nobody must
suspect that his career was liable to come to a sudden
termination.

CHAPTER XXIII—THE FIRST ATTACK
==============================

Clay made no marked change in his mode of living,
and shortly after his visit to the doctor he engaged
in a struggle with a group of speculators who
opposed one of his business schemes. They were
clever men, with money enough to make them troublesome
enemies, and Clay realized that he must spare no
effort if he meant to win. He beat them and determined
to exact a heavy indemnity, but the battle was
stubbornly fought and during the month it lasted he
had little rest by night or day. Long after the city
offices were closed he entertained his supporters in his
rooms at the hotel, and, rising early, altered and improved
his plans before the business day began.

To his delight, he felt no bad effects; he was somewhat
limp and lazy, but that, no doubt, was a natural
reaction from the strain. He could now, however,
afford to take a few days’ rest, and he telegraphed
Aynsley that he would spend the week-end at Osborne’s
house, which was always open to both. Enjoying the
first-fruits of his victory, in the shape of some tempting
offers, shortly before he left his office, he traveled
down the Sound in high content, and, to complete his
satisfaction, he learned on arriving that Aynsley had
secured some large and profitable orders for lumber.

Dinner was served early on the Saturday evening,
and Clay, finding that he had an excellent appetite, ate
and drank more than usual. He was quite well, he
told himself, but had had an anxious time and needed
bracing. Miss Dexter watched him with disapproval
when, after dinner was finished, he stood in the hall
with a large glass in his hand. The man had a high
color, but his eyes had a strained look and his lips a
curious bluish tinge. He appeared to be quite sober,
which caused her some surprise, but he was talking
rather freely and his laugh was harsh. She thought
he looked coarse and overbearing in his present mood.

The large hall was tastefully paneled in cedar, a fire
of pine logs burned on the open hearth, and small
lamps hung among the wooden pillars. A drawing-room
and a billiard-room, both warmed and lighted,
opened out of it, but Osborne left his guests to do what
they liked best, and nobody seemed inclined to move.
Ruth and Aynsley were talking near the hearth, Miss
Dexter had some embroidery in her hands, and Osborne
lounged in a deep chair beside the table. Clay,
with the now empty glass in his hand, leaned negligently
upon the table, feeling well satisfied with himself.
His manners were not polished, but he was
aware of it, and never pretended to graces he did not
possess. He smiled when he caught Miss Dexter’s
censorious glance.

“I’m often in trouble, ma’am, and find I can’t fight
on coffee and ice-water,” he explained humorously.

“Perhaps that’s one of their advantages,” Miss Dexter
replied. “But as we’re not quarrelsome people,
you ought to enjoy a few days’ peace.”

“That’s so. I guess I warmed up over telling your
brother-in-law about my latest battle.” He turned to
Osborne. “Frame and Nesbitt were in this morning,
ready to take what I’d give them on their knees.
Fletcher came and tried to bluff, but he wilted when
I cracked the whip. I have the gang corralled, and
they’ll go broke before they get out.”

Clay’s rather obvious failings included an indulgence
in coarse vainglory, though he had generally the sense
to check it when it might prove a handicap. Now,
however, he was in an expansive mood, inclined to
make the most of his triumph.

“The joke is that they were plumb-sure they’d
squeeze me dry,” he went on. “Got hold of a tip
about the development land purchase plan and never
guessed I’d planted it for them. Morgan cost me
high, and his nerve is bad, but he’s a cute little rat, and
works well in the dark.”

“I thought the opposition had bought him,” Osborne
said.

“So they did,” Clay chuckled. “Now they want
his blood, and I believe Denby’s mad enough about it
to have him sandbagged. That plays into my hand,
because the fellow will stick to me for protection. If
he tries to strike me for extra pay, I’ve only to threaten
I’ll throw him to the wolves. Guess the way they’re
howling has scared him pretty bad.”

“Have you begun the clean-up yet?”

“Washed out the first panful before I came away,”
Clay replied in miners’ phraseology. “Ten thousand
dollars for two small back lots. It’s all good pay-dirt,
carrying heavy metal.”

“In a way, I’m sorry for Fletcher. He’s had a
bad time lately, and, as he has got into low water, I’m
afraid this will finish him.”

“He joined the gang. Now he has to take the consequences.”

Clay saw that Miss Dexter was listening with disapproval.
He was not averse to having an audience and
he had spoken loudly.

“If you saw the people who’d conspired to rob you
come to grief through their greediness, what would you
do about it, Miss Dexter?” he asked.

“I should try not to gloat over their downfall,” she
answered with some asperity.

“Looks better,” Clay agreed. “But when I have
the fellows down, it seems prudent to see that they don’t
get up again too soon.”

Miss Dexter studied him. Admitting that modesty
would have become him better, she did not believe he
was boasting at random. There was power in the
man, though she imagined he did not often use it well.
She disliked his principles, and he frequently repelled
her, but sometimes she felt attracted. He had, she
thought, a better side than the one he generally
showed.

“Does it never pay to be merciful?” she asked.

“Very seldom. In my line of business you have, as
a rule, to break or be broken hard. It’s a hard fight. I
keep the rules of the ring. Sometimes they’re pretty
liberally interpreted, but if you go too far, you get
hustled out and disqualified. In this country the stakes
are high, but I’ve been through the hardest training
since I was a boy, and I’ve got to win.” He paused
with a glance toward Aynsley. “Sounds pretty egotistical,
doesn’t it? But I know my powers, and I
can’t be stopped.”

His forceful air gave him a touch of dignity and redeemed
the crude daring of his boast. Osborne looked
at him curiously, but Miss Dexter felt half daunted.
She thought his attitude grossly defiant; the inordinate
pride he showed would bring its punishment.

“It sounds very rash,” she said. “You don’t know
what you may have to contend with.”

Clay laughed harshly.

“I’ve some suspicion; but there comes a time, often
after years of struggle, when a man knows he has only
to hold on and win the game. Curious, isn’t it? But
he does know, and sets his teeth as he braces himself
for the effort that’s going to give him the prize.”

He spoke with vehemence, the color darkening in his
face. Miss Dexter wondered whether the last glass
of whisky and potass had gone to his head; but the
flush suddenly faded and his lips turned blue. Osborne
was the first to notice it. Jumping up, he
grabbed Clay by the arms and shoved him toward the
nearest chair. Clay fell into it heavily, and began fumbling
at his vest pocket, but he soon let his hand drop
in a nerveless manner. The next moment Aynsley was
at his side. The hall was large, and the boy had been
sitting some distance off, but he did not run and he
made no noise. He had inherited his father’s swiftness
of action, and Ruth, following in alarm, noticed
the lithe grace of his movements. The girl’s impressions
were, however, somewhat blurred, and it was not
until afterward that the scene fixed itself vividly in her
mind.

“Perhaps we’d better get the car out,” Aynsley said
quickly. “We may want it if this is going to last.”

Osborne rang a bell and there was silence for a few
moments while they waited, uncertain what to do.
Clay’s face was livid and his eyes were half shut. He
seemed unconscious of their presence, and they imagined
that he was struggling against the weakness that
was mastering him. His lips were tight set, his brows
knit, and his hand was firmly clenched. Osborne gave
an order to a servant, who immediately disappeared,
and then Clay’s tense pose relaxed. He sank back in
the chair, loose and limp, as if all power had suddenly
gone out of him.

The change was more startling to those watching
than the first attack. They had long known his
strength and resolution; but now he lay inert, with head
falling forward, a bulky, flaccid figure, suddenly
stripped of everything that had made him feared. He
was grotesque in his helplessness, and Ruth had a curious
feeling that there was something unfitting, almost
indecent, in their watching him. It appeared, however,
that he was conscious, for when Osborne held a
glass to his lips he feebly moved his head in refusal,
and his slack fingers began to fumble at the pocket
again.

“There’s something he wants there!” Ruth said
sharply. “Perhaps it’s something he ought to take!”

Aynsley thrust his hand into the pocket and brought
out a small bottle.

“Six drops,” he read out and was about to lift his
father’s head when Miss Dexter stopped him.

“No,” she said; “you’ll spill it. Wait for a spoon.”

She brought one and with some trouble they administered
the dose. For a while there was no visible result,
and then Clay sighed and with a slack movement
changed his pose. A little later he opened his eyes
and beckoned.

“The medicine!” Aynsley requested in a hoarse
voice.

“No,” said Miss Dexter firmly. “He has had six
drops.”

Aynsley yielded, for it was plain that his father was
recovering. A moment later Clay raised himself in
his chair and looked at Miss Dexter with a feeble,
apologetic smile.

“Sorry I made this disturbance.”

“Are you feeling better?” Aynsley asked.

“Quite all right in a minute.” Clay turned to Osborne.
“It would be bad manners to blame your cook;
guess the fault was mine. Got breakfast early, and
had no time for lunch.”

Though he had made a hearty dinner, the explanation
he suggested did not satisfy the others, and Ruth
thought it significant that he had made it so promptly.
They did not, however, trouble him with questions, and
after a while he rose and walked to another chair.

“The car won’t be needed,” Aynsley said to Osborne.

“The car?” Clay interposed. “What did you want
it for?”

“We had thought of sending for a doctor,” Aynsley
answered deprecatingly.

Clay frowned.

“Shucks! You’re easily scared; I wouldn’t have
seen him. Where’s that bottle?” He slipped it
hastily into his pocket and turned to Ruth. “Very
sorry all this happened; feel ashamed of myself. Now
I wonder whether you’ll give us some music.”

They went into the drawing-room, and Clay chose
an easy chair at some distance from the others. He
cared nothing for music, but he felt shaky, and he
was glad of an excuse for sitting quiet. Moreover,
he wanted time to think. It looked as if the doctor,
whom he had begun to doubt, had after all been right.
He had had a warning which he could not neglect; and
as he rather vacantly watched the girl at the piano it
was borne in upon him that she had probably saved his
life. The others had thought him insensible, but she
had guessed that he was feeling for the remedy which
had pulled him round.

It was a pity she had refused Aynsley, but he bore
her no ill-will, although he was generally merciless to
those who thwarted him. He would have liked to
thank her, but that was inadvisable, for he must not
admit that he had had a dangerous attack. Then it
struck him that if he were seriously threatened, it
might be well to take precautions. There was a good
offer he had received for some property he wished to
sell, but he had not answered because all the terms were
not settled, and he did not wish to seem eager. It
might be better to close the matter now. When he had
thanked Ruth for the song, he quietly made his way to
Osborne’s writing-room.

It was necessary to write several letters, and he
found his fingers nerveless and composition difficult.
Indeed, he laid the pen down and then resolutely took it
up again. He was not going to be beaten by a bodily
weakness, and nobody must notice that his writing was
shaky. He tore up the first letter and wrote it again
in a firm, legible hand, though the sweat the effort cost
him gathered on his forehead. His schemes must be
completed and all his affairs straightened out before he
gave in. The man was ruthless and unscrupulous, but
he had unflinching courage and an indomitable will.

In the billiard-room Osborne was talking to Aynsley.

“What do you think about your father?” he asked.

“I’m anxious. Of course, he made light of the
matter, and, so far as I know, he’s never been troubled
in this way before, but I didn’t like his look.”

“It struck me as significant that he’d seen a doctor,”
Osborne remarked. “The bottle proves that. From
the careful directions about the dose it must have been
made up from a prescription. Anyway, he’s been overdoing
it lately, and perhaps you had better go along
and see what he’s about. If he’s attending to any business,
make him stop and bring him down.”

Aynsley entered the writing-room and left it in a
few minutes, rudely dismissed. Coming down, he
made an excuse for taking Ruth into the hall.

“I know you’ll do me a favor,” he begged.

“Of course. I suppose it concerns your father?”

Aynsley nodded.

“He’s writing letters, and I’m afraid it will do him
harm. He looks far from fit, but he’s in a most contrary
mood, and ordered me out when I hinted that
he’d better stop. Knowing what he’s capable of, I
thought I’d better go.”

He spoke lightly, but Ruth saw the uneasiness he
wished to conceal.

“Do you think I could persuade him?”

“I’d like you to try. Anyway, he won’t be rude to
you; and I’ve a suspicion that you have some influence
over him. You ought to be flattered, because nobody
else has.”

Ruth went to the writing-room and stood beside
Clay with a reproachful smile. She felt pitiful. The
man looked ill.

“We really can’t allow you to leave us in this way,”
she said. “Besides, it’s too late to think of business
matters.”

“I suppose Aynsley sent you,” he answered with
grim bluntness. “It would be better if you took him
in hand instead of me. The boy wants looking after;
he’s got no nerve.”

“You ought not to blame him for feeling anxious
about you. However, I’m your hostess and I don’t
think you are treating me well. When I tell you to put
away those papers you can’t disobey.”

Clay gave her a steady look.

“Anything you ask me will be done,” he said.
“But, as a favor, will you give me another five minutes?”

“Of course. But you might exceed it, so I think
I’ll wait.”

Before the time had quite elapsed Clay closed the last
envelope with a firm hand, and a few minutes later they
entered the drawing-room and Aynsley gave Ruth a
grateful glance.

When Clay returned to Vancouver he called at once
on the doctor; and when he left his face was grim, for
he had been plainly told that he was worse, and must
change his mode of life at once; but this was more than
Clay could consent to do. He had money in a number
of ventures, none of which had yet achieved the success
he looked for. Time was needed before he could
bring them to the desired consummation, and if he sold
out now it must be at a sacrifice of the handsome profit
that might otherwise be secured. He would be left
with only a moderate fortune, and he meant to be rich.
Ambitious as he was for his son, he had also a keen reluctance
to leaving his work half finished. In fact, it
was obvious that he must hold on for a year or two
longer.

Moreover, the doctor had warned him against increasing
the dose of the restorative, which Clay admitted
having done. The powerful drug had braced him
up when he suffered from reaction after any unusual
strain and he had come to regard it as a reliable
standby. Now he must curtail its use, and he would
feel the deprivation. Then, since he was running some
risk, it was advisable to take precautions. First of all,
the wreck must be destroyed. If he should be cut off
suddenly, no evidence must be left behind to spoil his
son’s career. Aynsley must bear an untarnished name.

The first step would be to get Jimmy Farquhar and
his companions out of the way—to buy them off if
possible; if not—A hard look crept into Clay’s eyes,
and he sat down at once and wrote a short note to
Jimmy.

CHAPTER XXIV—THE GIRL IN THE BOAT
=================================

Trade was slack in the Pacific province, and men
from the interior flocked down to the coast and
overflowed the employment bureaus. This made it unusually
hard for Jimmy and his friends to find work.
For a month they had done almost nothing, only an
odd job now and then; they were in arrears with their
hotel bill; and the future looked anything but bright to
them.

After supper one evening they sat in the lobby of
their shabby hotel in a gloomy mood. Jimmy had
found temporary work, and since early morning had
been loading a vessel with lumber in a pouring rain.
All day he had been wet through, and he was tired and
sore. He had grown thin, and had a gaunt, determined
look.

“What’s this?” he exclaimed, examining Clay’s envelope,
which had just been handed to him. “I have
no acquaintances in Vancouver who use expensive stationery.”
He read the note and then looked up with a
surprised frown. “It’s from Clay! He asks me to
meet him in the smoking-room of his hotel. It’s the
big, smart place they’ve lately opened.”

“Oho!” said Bethune. “I’ve been expecting this.
I suppose you mean to go?”

“What’s your opinion?”

“Perhaps it might be wiser to take no notice of the
invitation; but I don’t know. I’d like to see the fellow
and hear what he has to say. It’s curious that we
haven’t met him yet, though we have felt his influence.”

“Anyway, I’m not going alone. I might make a
mess of things; he’s evidently a cunning rogue. If
you think it’s wise to see him, you’ll have to come.”

“We’ll all go,” said Bethune with a grin. “I believe
he knows us already, and he won’t get much out
of Hank.”

“I’m sure not great at talking,” Moran agreed.
“Now, if he tried to have us sandbagged, and you told
me to get after him—”

“It hasn’t come to that yet,” Bethune laughed.
“The fellow’s more refined in his methods, but they’re
quite as dangerous.” He looked at the note. “However,
it’s nearly time, and we may as well make a start.”

Clay looked up in surprise from his seat at a small
table when the three walked in, and he felt half amused
at Moran’s steady, defiant stare. This, he thought,
was a strange companion for Bethune, whom he at once
recognized as the business leader of the party. Jimmy
he dismissed, after a searching glance, as less dangerous.
He was the practical seaman, no doubt, but it
was his partner’s intelligence that directed their affairs.

“Sit down,” Clay said, taking out his cigar-case.
“I wrote to Mr. Farquhar, but I’m glad to see you all.
Will you have anything to drink?”

“No, thanks,” Jimmy answered quickly; and added,
“I’m afraid it’s rather an intrusion, but as we go together,
I thought I might bring my friends.”

Clay understood his refusal as a declaration of hostility,
but he smiled.

“As you prefer,” he said, lighting a cigar and quietly
studying his callers.

The room was large and handsome, with an inlaid
floor, massive pillars, and pictures of snow-clad mountains
on the walls. It was then almost unoccupied, and
that added to the effect of its size and loftiness, but two
very smart and somewhat supercilious attendants hovered
in the background. Farquhar and his friends
were shabbily dressed, and Clay had hoped that they
might feel themselves out of place and perhaps embarrassed
by his silence, but there was no sign of this.
Indeed, they seemed very much at ease. Bethune’s expression
was slightly bored, while Moran glanced about
with naïve curiosity. For all that, they looked worn,
and there was something about them which suggested
tension. They had felt the pressure he had skilfully
brought to bear, but whether it had made them compliant
or not remained to be seen.

“Well,” Clay began, “we must have a talk. You
have undertaken some salvage operations at a wreck in
the North?”

“Yes,” Jimmy answered concisely.

“You don’t seem to have been very successful.”

“I dare say our appearance proves it,” Bethune
smiled. “As a matter of fact, we haven’t cleared our
expenses yet.”

Clay did not know what to think of this frankness;
he imagined that if the man had any wish to extort
the best terms he could, he would have been less candid.
He saw that he must be cautious, for he had done a
risky thing in asking Farquhar to meet him. He would
rather have left the fellow alone and tried to destroy the
wreck before they reached it; but he knew that he
might not live to do so. He had had his warnings and
he could not leave the matter open.

“It’s obvious that, as the salvage people abandoned
the vessel, something has happened to give you a
chance,” he said. “However, as you can’t have money
enough to buy a proper outfit, you’re not likely to make
much use of the opportunity. You want steam and the
best diving gear, and I guess you found them too expensive.”

“We might do better if we had them,” Bethune admitted.

“Very well; are you willing to take a partner?”

There was uncompromising refusal in Jimmy’s face,
but he did not speak, and Clay surmised that Bethune
had given him a warning kick under the table. Bethune,
in fact, had done so, and was thinking hard.
To refuse would imply that they expected to succeed
and that the salvage could be easily accomplished with
such poor apparatus as they could obtain; but this was
not advisable, because it would encourage Clay to anticipate
them.

“We might consider a sleeping partner who’d be
content with his profit on the money he supplied,” he
said.

“That means you intend to keep the practical operations
in your own hands?”

“Yes,” Bethune answered; “you can take it that it
does.”

“Then the arrangement wouldn’t suit me. I know
more about the vessel than you do, and I’ve been accustomed
to directing things. But I’ll bid you five
thousand dollars for your interest in the wreck.”

“Strictly speaking, we have no interest that we could
sell.”

“That’s true; but I’ll buy your knowledge of how
she lies and the best way of getting at her cargo. Of
course, after you have taken the money you’ll leave her
alone.”

“It’s tempting,” Bethune said thoughtfully. “But
perhaps we had better be frank. I understand that you
were one of the owners, and, as the underwriters paid
you, I don’t see what you would gain.”

“All the gold on board her wasn’t insured.”

Bethune looked hard at him and Clay smiled. “It’s
true. Then, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t have a
try at the salvage. I’m open to make a shot at anything
that promises a moderate profit.”

“I suppose there is no reason,” Bethune agreed
slowly. “Would you go up to ten thousand dollars?”

“No, sir!” Clay said firmly. “I stick to my bid.”

“Then I’m sorry we can’t make a deal.” Bethune
turned to the others. “I suppose that’s your opinion?”

“Of course,” said Jimmy; and Moran nodded.

Clay was silent for a few moments. He would
gladly have given ten thousand dollars to settle the matter,
but he doubted whether Bethune would take it; and
to bid high would rouse suspicion. It looked as if he
had accomplished nothing, but he had found out that
his opponents were more capable than he had imagined,
and he decided that it would be safer to put no further
pressure on them. He did not wish them to learn that
he was the cause of the trouble they had had in finding
employment, as it would indicate that he had some
strong reason for preventing their return to the wreck.

“Well,” he said, “it’s a pity we can’t come to terms,
but I can make no fresh suggestion. You’re up against
a pretty big undertaking.”

“So it seems,” Bethune answered pleasantly.
“We’ll have to do the best we can. And now, as we
mustn’t take up your time, I’ll bid you good-night.”

Clay let them go, and as they went down the street
Jimmy turned to Bethune.

“What do you think of the interview?” he asked.

“A drawn game. Neither side has scored; but I’ve
learned two things. The first is that he has no suspicion
that we have found the bogus case.”

“How do you infer that?”

“From his view of our character. You must recollect
that we’re hard-up adventurers whom he wouldn’t
expect to be scrupulous. He’d conclude that if we had
found anything suspicious we’d have let him know and
tried to sell our secret. He was waiting for some hint,
and I was careful to give him none.”

“What’s the next thing?”

“That he’ll try to clean out the wreck before we get
there. It was the only reason he let us go. I dare say
you noticed how careful he was not to show any anxiety
to buy us off. It’s curious, but I really think he spoke
the truth when he said all the gold was not insured.”

“If it had been a straight deal, with nothing behind
it, I think I’d have taken the five thousand dollars,”
Jimmy said. “He won’t have much trouble in getting
ahead of us when the ice breaks up. It will cost something
to fit out the sloop, and our pockets are empty.”

“Oh, there’s time yet,” Bethune replied with a cheerful
laugh. “Something may turn up.”

Fortune favored them during the next week, for
Bethune secured a post as hotel clerk, and Moran went
inland to assist in repairing a railroad track which a
snowslide had wrecked. Soon afterward Jimmy
shipped as deck-hand on a Sound steamboat and was
lucky in attracting the attention of one of the directors
who was on board by the cool promptness with which
he prevented an accident when a passenger gangway
broke. The director had a talk with him, and, learning
that he was a steamship officer, placed him in charge of
a gasolene launch which picked up passengers at unimportant
landings and took them off to the boats. The
work was easy, and paid fairly well; and Jimmy had
held his post for a month with some satisfaction when
he went off to meet a north-bound steamer at dusk one
evening.

He had no passengers and it was blowing fresh with
showers of sleet. Savage gusts whipped the leaden
water into frothing white, and as he drew out from the
shore the ripples which chased the launch grew larger.
When he passed a headland they changed into short,
breaking seas, and the craft plunged wildly as she
crossed a strong run of tide. Here and there an island
loomed up dimly, but the shore had faded into the haze.
When Jimmy first joined her, the boat had carried another
hand, but the man had gone and had not been replaced
because trade was slack in winter. Jimmy
thought that he might have trouble in getting his passengers
on board; but they were not likely to be numerous,
and the steamer would run into shelter behind an
island.

He was late, for his engine was not working well,
but there was no sign of the steamer when he stopped,
and the boat lay rolling with the spray blowing across
her rail. It rattled on Jimmy’s slickers and stung his
face, but the cold was mild by comparison with what he
had endured in the North, and he sat in the shelter of
the coaming, glancing up the Sound every now and
then. Presently a sleet-storm broke upon him, and
when it blew away a blinking white light and a colored
one broke out of the driving cloud. Jimmy lighted a
blue flare and, starting the engine, headed for the end
of the island. When he stopped, the steamer was close
ahead, a lofty, gray mass, banded with rows of lights.
She rolled as she crossed the tide-stream, and he could
see the foam about her big side-wheels and the smoke
that swept from her inclined stacks. It did not look
as if she were stopping, and he was about to get out of
her way when a deep blast of her whistle broke through
the turmoil of the sea. In another minute he was
abreast of the gangway and caught the rope thrown
down, though he kept the launch off at a few yards’ distance.

The ladder was lowered, and hung banging awkwardly
against the vessel’s side; and while Jimmy
waited with his hand on the tiller a deck-hand ran down
to the lowest step and flung a valise into the boat, and
then turned to assist a woman who followed him.
Jimmy could not see her well, but he noticed that she
was active and not timid, which was reassuring, and he
cautiously sheered the launch closer in.

“Give me your hand and jump!” he cried.

She did as he directed, and when she was safe on
board he stood looking up at the gangway.

“That’s all!” somebody shouted; and when he let
the rope go, the side-wheels churned and the steamer
forged ahead while the launch slid clear of her with
propeller rattling.

Jimmy pulled up a canvas hood which covered part
of the cockpit and lighted a lantern under it before he
turned to his passenger.

“If you sit here, you’ll be out of the wind and spray.
Where are you going?”

“To Pine Landing.” She gave a start when Jimmy
stooped over the engine where the light fell upon him.
“You!” she cried. “Mr. Farquhar!”

He gazed at her in surprise, with his heart throbbing.
Though she had turned her head quickly and the light
was not good, he thought he had seen a flush of color
in her face.

“It was too dark to recognize you until you spoke,
Miss Osborne,” he said as coolly as he could. “Then,
I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Our house is scarcely a mile from the Landing.”

“The pretty place in the woods? I didn’t know it
was yours. I’ve seen it from a distance, but have never
been there.”

“I think you are to blame for that,” she said.

“Until a few weeks ago, I was living on the Canadian
side.” Jimmy laughed as he added: “Besides,
I hadn’t many opportunities for making visits.”

Ruth glanced at him with quick sympathy, remembering
how he had looked when she had last seen him;
but he was doing something to the engine and his face
was hidden.

“How did you come to be in this boat?” she asked.

“I’m her captain, but just now I wish I were an engineer,”
he answered humorously. “She’s not running
as she ought to do, and I’m afraid you’ll have
rather a long trip. In fact, I think we had better go
round behind the island where there’s smoother water.
Will your people be anxious because you’re late?”

“They don’t expect me until to-morrow. Some
friends were traveling by the boat, and I thought I
could get home before it was dark.”

Jimmy thrilled at her nearness, but he knew that he
must steel himself against her charm. Her friends
were his enemies and he could not involve her in any
difficulties with them. He must wait until fortune
favored him, if it ever did so. But the waiting was
hard.

“You didn’t tell me how you happen to be running
this boat,” she reminded him with a smile.

“Well, you see, I didn’t want to leave this neighborhood,”
Jimmy explained slowly, picking his words.
“My partners and I have a plan which we can’t put into
execution yet, and it prevents us from going too far
from Vancouver. I’m not sure that anything will come
of it, but it might. One lives in hope.”

Ruth was relieved by his answer. It had been painful
to think of his following some rough occupation,
and, worse still, wandering about the city in search of
work. Though she felt sorry for him, it made her indignant.
She hated to imagine his being content to
live among the broken men she had seen hanging about
the dollar hotels.

“Mr. Farquhar,” she said, “even in this country it
is hard for a man to stand alone, and I think there
are times when one is justified in taking a favor from
one’s friends. Now, you were very kind on board the
*Empress*, and I’m sure my father—”

He made an abrupt movement, and she stopped, and
just then the launch plunged her bows into a breaking
sea and a shower of spray blew inside the hood.

“It’s impossible,” he said firmly a few moments
later. “I suppose I’m stupidly independent; but there
are my partners to consider. They expect me to see
our plans through. After all, they may turn out as we
hope.”

“And then?”

“Then,” he answered carelessly, “I don’t think I’ll
carry any more lumber or drive this kind of boat.”

Ruth felt baffled and inclined to be angry. She had
had impecunious admirers who did not consider her
father’s money a disadvantage. Jimmy’s was, of
course, a more becoming attitude, but she thought he
adhered to it too firmly. Then, as she remembered
his worn look and his threadbare clothes when she met
him in Vancouver, she was moved to pity. The trouble
was that it could not be shown. She could not offer
him sympathy which he did not seem to want.

“I hope that you will succeed in your venture,” she
said.

“Thank you,” he answered; “we’ll do our best.
Now I must keep a look-out, for there’s a rock in the
channel.”

There was strain in his voice, and she was glad to
see that his reserve cost him something; but she saw
the need for caution when a gray mass of stone loomed
out of the darkness close at hand with the sea spouting
about it. After that she made no further attempt
to talk, and they went on in silence, both sensible of
constraint and yet not wishing the voyage at an end.

When they swung round a rocky point, Jimmy
stopped the engine, and the launch ran in toward a
small wooden pier. Dark pines rolled down to the
water, and the swell broke angrily upon the beach and
surged among the piles. There was nobody about, but
Jimmy caught a trailing rope abreast of a few steps
where the water washed up and down, while the launch
ground against the weedy timber.

“I’ll get out and help you up,” he said.

Ruth hesitated when she saw him stand knee-deep
on the lowest step, holding out his hand; but there was
no way of getting ashore dry without his assistance.
The next moment he had thrown his arm about her and
stood, tense and strung up, trying to preserve his balance.
She knew that it would be ridiculous to let herself
fall into the sea, and she yielded to his grasp, sinking
down into his arms with her head on his shoulder.
He staggered as he reached the next slippery step, and
she clung closer to him in alarm; then, as she thrilled
at the contact, she felt his heart beat and his muscles
suddenly grow tense. He caught his breath with a
curious gasp, and Ruth knew that it was not caused by
the physical effort he had to make. She lay still, not
inert but yielding, until he gently set her down out
of reach of the water. She was glad that the darkness
hid her burning face; and Jimmy stood curiously quiet,
with his hand clenched.

No words were needed. Both knew that something
had happened to them during the last few moments;
something which might be ignored but could not be forgotten.
They were no longer acquaintances; the tie of
friendship had broken with the strain and could be
replaced only by a stronger bond.

Ruth was the first to recover.

“My valise is in the boat,” she said, with a strange
little laugh.

For a tense moment Jimmy was silent. Then:

“Yes,” he replied; “I forgot it.” He sprang down
and returned with the bag. “I’m afraid you’ll have to
send for it and go home alone. The launch would get
damaged if I left her here, and I couldn’t take her
alongside your landing to-night.”

“It isn’t very far through the woods,” Ruth said,
and hesitated a moment before she gave him her hand.
“I’m glad I met you, and I will look forward to
hearing of your success.”

Jimmy dropped her hand quickly and jumped back on
board, but Ruth stood still until the launch vanished
into the darkness. Then she started homeward with
her nerves tingling and her heart beating fast. She
knew what Jimmy felt for her, and she wondered when
the time would come when he could avow it openly.

CHAPTER XXV—PAYING A DEBT
=========================

Aynsley, sitting near an open window in his office,
laid down his pen and looked out with a sense
of satisfaction. A great raft of lumber was ready to
start down the river, and men were scrambling about
it loosing the mooring-chains. The pond was full of
logs lately run down on a freshet, and the green flood
swirled noisily past them. Its color indicated that the
snow was melting fast on the lofty inland ranges, and
sweet resinous scents rose from the stacks of cedar
where the sunshine struck hot upon them. A cloud
of smoke streamed across the long sheds and streaked
the pines behind the mill with a dingy smear; and the
scream of saws and the crash of flung-out boards filled
the clearing. All this suggested profitable activity;
and Aynsley’s satisfaction deepened as he glanced at
some letters which a clerk handed him. They contained
orders, and he foresaw that he would soon have
to increase the capacity of the mill. He was thinking
over a scheme for doing so when his father was shown
in. Clay smiled at his surprise, and sat down in the
nearest chair, breathing heavily.

“Why don’t you locate on the ground-floor instead
of making people walk up those blamed awkward
steps?” he asked.

“I can see better from here what’s going on,” Aynsley
explained. “I find it saves me a little money now
and then.”

Clay beamed upon him.

“There was a time when I didn’t expect to hear you
talk like that. However, you have a pretty good mill-boss
and secretary, haven’t you? Do you think you
could leave them to look after matters for a little
while?”

“I suppose I could,” Aynsley answered dubiously.
“They know more about the business than I do; but,
for all that, I’d rather be on the spot. Things seem to
go wrong unless you look closely after them.”

“They do; you’re learning fast, my son. It looks as
if the mill is getting hold of you.”

Aynsley took a plan of some buildings from a
drawer.

“What do you think of this?” he asked. “We
could keep the new saws busy, but the job would cost
about twenty thousand dollars. Could you let me have
the money, or shall I go to the bank?”

Clay inspected the plan carefully.

“It’s a good scheme,” he declared. “If trade keeps
steady, you’ll soon get the cost back. I could lend
you the money easily but perhaps you’d better try the
bank. You’ve got to stand by yourself sooner or
later; and it seems to me that you’re getting pretty
steady on your feet. Guess you’re not sorry now I
made you work?”

Aynsley pondered the question. In some respects
the business was not to his taste, but in spite of this
it was rapidly engrossing his attention. There was a
fascination in directing, planning for the future, and
bringing about results.

“No,” he said. “In fact, I’m getting a good deal
more satisfaction out of it than I expected.”

“That should help you in another matter. You
won’t take your not getting Osborne’s girl quite so
hard.”

For a few moments Aynsley sat still with knitted
brows. It was his habit to be honest with himself,
and he saw that to some extent his father was right.
He thought of Ruth with deep tenderness and regret,
and he believed that he would always do so, but the
poignant sense of loss which he had at first experienced
had gone. He did not think that he was fickle
or disloyal to her, but his new interests had somehow
dulled the keenness of his pain.

“I suppose that’s true,” he answered quietly.

“Your real trouble will begin when you see her
getting fond of another man. What are you going
to do about it then?”

Aynsley winced.

“It’s rather hard to speak about, but, if the fellow’s
fit for her, I’ll try to bear it and wish them
well.”

“You’ll make good,” Clay commented with dry
approval. “But I’ve been getting off the track. You
have been sticking to your work pretty closely, and,
as things are going, you can leave it without much
risk. I want you to take me North for a few weeks
in the yacht. The doctor recommends the trip.”

It struck Aynsley that his father was not looking
well. He had lost his high color, his face had grown
pouchy under the eyes, and he had a strained, nervous
look. Aynsley had some business on hand which demanded
his personal attention, but he recognized his
duty to his father. Then, the North had its fascination,
and the thought of another grapple with gray
seas, smothering fog, and biting gales appealed to
him.

“Very well,” he said. “When do you want to
go?”

“As soon as we can get away. Next week, if possible.
You had better tell the captain to get his crew
and coal on board.”

Aynsley called his secretary, and when Clay left
he had arranged to meet him at Victoria in a fortnight.

The time was, however, extended; for on getting
the yacht ready for sea some repairs to rigging and
engines were found needful, and these took longer
than the skipper expected. At last Clay received
word that they would be finished in a few days, and
he paid a visit to Osborne. Reaching the house in
the evening, he sat talking with his host in the library
after dinner. A shaded lamp stood on a table laid
out with wine and cigars, but this was the only light
and beyond its circle of illumination the large room
was shadowy. The floor was of polished wood, but
a fine rug stretched from near the table to the door,
where heavy portières hung. The men spoke in quiet,
confidential voices as they smoked.

“The Farquhar gang have separated, and I’ve lost
track of them, but if they can scrape up three or four
hundred dollars between them I’ll be surprised,” Clay
said. “They’re going to have some trouble in fitting
out their boat; and she’s a very small thing, anyway.
Though the delay has worried me, we should get up
there long before they do, and we only need a few
days of fine weather to finish the job.”

“There’s some risk in your taking the diver and
Aynsley,” Osborne cautioned. “You may have some
difficulty in keeping both in the dark.”

“It oughtn’t to be hard. I take the owner’s berth
with the small sitting-room attached, and everything
we bring up will go straight in there—and I’ll keep
the key. The diver’s business ends when he puts the
stuff on deck, and after it’s stowed nobody will touch
it but myself.”

“Aynsley may want to see it, and ask questions.”

“Then he won’t be gratified. I have him pretty
well drilled, and he knows when to stop. Besides,
I’ll find him useful. When anything needs talking
over, I’ll have him to consult with instead of a paid
man. The skipper’s more of a sailing-master. Aynsley
takes command.”

“Still, you can’t keep everything from him,” Osborne
persisted. “It seems to me there are too many
people who must, to some extent, be taken into your
confidence. That’s where Farquhar has the advantage.
He has only two partners, whom he can rely
upon.”

“Shucks! You get to imagining trouble! Some
of the gold is there all right, and, if it’s needful, I
can make a show with that. For all that, I’d like
a companion who knew as much as I did, and I feel
a bit sore because I have to go without. It’s your
place to see me through, but you’ve got so blamed fastidious
lately.”

“I’m not going,” Osborne answered softly, for
Clay had raised his voice. “I’ve had enough to do
with the wreck.”

Clay indicated the handsome room and its rich fittings
with a wave of his hand.

“You have had your share of the plunder, and you
hadn’t a shack to call your own when I first got hold
of you. Now, when I’m up against an awkward job,
you go back on me. However, if I wanted you—”

He broke off, looking up sharply as a draught of
colder air entered the room; and Osborne, turning
with a start, saw Ruth standing on the rug. Her
face was in shadow, for she was outside the direct
illumination of the shaded lamp, but so far as he could
discern, her attitude was easy and natural.

“Walter has just come back with the car and
brought this telegram,” she said. “I thought it might
be important.”

Osborne was partly reassured by her voice. She
spoke in her normal tone, but he wished he could see
her better.

“Thank you,” he said, opening the envelope.
“We’ll have finished our talk before very long.”

Ruth went out in silence, and Clay looked hard at
Osborne.

“Could she have heard?”

“I don’t think so. I hope not.”

“I’d soon have found out if it had been a man,”
Clay said grimly. “Anyhow, all she could have
picked up wouldn’t give her much of a clew.”

He was wrong. Ruth’s suspicions had already been
aroused, and now Clay had justified them out of his
own mouth. She knew that he was going north
where Jimmy, who had spoken of some plan for improving
his fortune, had been engaged at the wreck.
Clay had mentioned a share of the plunder, so something
was far from straight. Worse still, he seemed
to have been urging her father to go with him.

It had cost her an effort to maintain her composure
when she gave him the telegram, and her face was
pale when she went downstairs and sat in a corner
of the empty hall. Ruth had had a shock. Until
lately she had given her indulgent father her wholehearted
affection and respect. His life had long been
hard, but she believed he had at last achieved success
by courage and integrity. Then she began to distrust
his association with Clay, and by degrees perplexing
doubts had grown up. She was imaginative,
and when she began to form a theory, odd facts that
had accidentally come to her knowledge had fitted in.
Vessels, she knew, were sometimes lost by their owners’
consent and frauds perpetrated on the underwriters.
It was horrible to think that, but what Clay had
said indicated something of the kind.

Then, as she recovered from the shock, she felt
pitiful, and tried to make excuses for her father. He
must have been hard pressed when he yielded to temptation,
and his partner had, no doubt, placed it in
his way. She was filled with a desire to protect him.
He must be saved from the evil influence that had
led him into wrong. She remembered that Clay
had declared he owed her a debt of gratitude. She
would remind him of it. He must release her father
from whatever hold he had on him; she had a curious
confidence that he would do so if she begged it.

She waited, nerving herself for the effort, until he
came downstairs and then she beckoned him into the
empty drawing-room.

“I suppose my father’s busy?”

“Yes; he has a letter to write.”

Clay leaned carelessly on a chair-back, watching
her as she stood quietly confronting him. The intentness
of her expression and her stillness were significant.
She suspected something, and he was sorry
for her; if he could remove her suspicions, he would
do so.

“Then he won’t be down for some minutes,” she
said. “I have something to say—you have been
trying to make him go North with you?”

“No; not exactly. I’m not sure I could make him;
he’s pretty determined. Don’t you want him to go?”

“No!” she cried. “You mustn’t take him! And
in future you must leave him alone. I can’t let you
force him to do things he hates!”

Clay smiled at her vehemence.

“It looks as if you suspected me of leading him
astray. Now, in a sense, that’s hardly fair to either
of us. Don’t you think your father has a will of his
own?”

“I know you have some power over him, and I beg
you not to use it.”

Clay pulled out a chair.

“I think you had better sit down while we talk
this thing over. To begin with, your father and I are
old friends; we have faced hard times together and
shared very rough luck. It seems to me that gives us
some claim on each other.”

“That is not what I mean,” Ruth said firmly.

Clay was determined to spare her as far as he
could.

“Then, if you suspect some other influence, I’d better
warn you that you’re too young and inexperienced
to form a reliable opinion. You hear something that
startles you, and, without understanding it, you make
a blind guess. Take it from me that your father
is known as one of the straightest business men in
this State.” He paused and laughed. “In fact, he’s
getting too particular for me. I’m ‘most afraid I’ll
have to drop him.”

“That is what I want you to do; I mean as a business
partner.”

“Then you wouldn’t quite bar me out as a private
acquaintance?”

“No,” Ruth answered slowly. “Somehow, I feel
that you might prove a good friend.”

“Thanks. Now I want you to listen. I’m not
going to defend my commercial character. I’ve taken
up a good many risky deals and put them through,
fighting the men who meant to down me as best I
could; but all my business hasn’t been a raid on somebody
else’s property. In fact, you can’t play the bold
pirate too often. Very well; now and then, when I
was doing an innocent trade, I wanted a respectable
associate as a kind of guarantee, and asked your father
to stand in. He’s known as a straight man,
and my having him helped to disarm suspicion; I’ll
admit that I found him useful in that respect. I hope
I’ve said enough to satisfy you?”

Though his manner was humorous, Ruth felt somewhat
comforted. His explanation sounded plausible,
and she was glad to make the most of it; but it did not
banish all her doubts.

“I don’t want him to have anything to do with your
northern trip,” she persisted.

“Why?”

Ruth hesitated, and Clay felt moved to sympathy.
There was distress and perplexity in her face, but
what touched him most was something in her manner
that suggested confidence in his ability to help
her.

“I’m afraid; I feel that no good can come of it,”
she said with an appealing look. “You mustn’t let
him have any part in it.”

“Very well.” Clay leaned forward, speaking in an
earnest tone. “Set your mind at rest. You have
my word that your father shall have no share in what
I hope to do at the wreck. What’s more, he doesn’t
know all my plans about her. There’s nothing in
them that can injure him; on the contrary, if I can
carry them out, it will be to his benefit, in a way
that he doesn’t expect and that you could find no fault
with.”

Ruth felt that he was speaking the truth; giving
her a pledge of greater importance than she could
gage. His manner had impressed her, and she was
conscious of keen relief.

“Thank you,” she said, getting up. “You must
forgive my frankness—it seemed needful.”

“It’s a compliment, because it shows that, after
all, you have some faith in me.” He added, with a
smile, “You won’t regret it.”

Ruth left him with a lighter heart. She did not
know whether she had been too hard on Clay or not,
but she felt that she could trust him.

CHAPTER XXVI—AN UNEXPECTED DELAY
================================

As soon as Aynsley joined her at Victoria, the
handsome schooner-yacht, with its auxiliary engines,
got under way. For the first day or two the
wind was fair, but although she spread a good deal
of canvas, Clay insisted on keeping up a full head of
steam.

“She’d slip along fast enough with her propeller
disconnected and the gaff-topsails set,” Aynsley expostulated.
“Keeping the fires going is a waste of
coal.”

“I’m willing to meet the bill,” Clay replied.
“Guess I’m used to hustling, and I like to feel I’m
getting there.”

“We may get there too soon,” Aynsley persisted.
“I expect we’ll find ice about the island.”

“Then we can wait until it clears. Keep her going
at her best clip to please me.”

Aynsley promised to do so, though his father’s
eagerness made him thoughtful. As a matter of fact,
Clay was tensely impatient to begin work on the
wreck. He had so far never spoiled an undertaking
by undue haste, but he had now a foreboding that if
he delayed his attempt he might be too late. His life
was threatened, and he must finish the work he had on
hand while there was an opportunity.

When they lost sight of Vancouver Island the wind
drew ahead, and, furling sail, the yacht proceeded under
steam. For two days she made a satisfactory
run, and then, as the breeze freshened and the sea
got up, her speed slackened and, burdened by her
heavy masts, she plunged viciously through the white-topped
combers. The weather did not improve, and
on the third afternoon Clay stood on the sloppy after-deck
impatiently looking about. Gray mist obscured
the horizon, and long ranks of frothing seas loomed
up ahead. The vessel lurched over them, rolling
wildly, burying her bows in the foam, which swept
in across her low bulwarks and poured out through
the waist gangway in streaky cataracts. The sooty
cloud from her funnel streamed far to leeward, and
Clay could feel her engines throbbing; but he saw that
she was making poor speed, and he beckoned to Aynsley,
who came aft and joined him.

“I’ve been watching that log since lunch, and she’s
doing very badly,” he said, indicating the dial of a
brass instrument on the taffrail. “There’s hardly sea
enough to account for it, and they seem to be firing
up.”

“Saltom is having some trouble with his condenser,”
Aynsley explained. “As you’re anxious to get
on, he didn’t want to stop, but the vacuum’s falling.”

“Then I’ll go down and see him; but I’m not an
engineer, so you’d better come along.”

They climbed down a greasy iron ladder, and found
a man in overalls kneeling beside a big iron casting
in the bottom of the engine room. Near by piston-rod
and connecting-rod flashed with a silvery glimmer
between the throbbing cylinders and the whirling
cranks that flung a shower of oil about, and floor-plates
and frames vibrated in time to the rhythmic
clangor. The engineer held an open lamp, its pale
flame flickering to and fro as the vessel rolled, while
he watched the index of the vacuum gage.

“You have lost half an inch since I was down,” said
Aynsley, stooping beside him.

“She’s surely worrying me,” replied the engineer.
“I’ll have to let up on feeding from the hot-well before
long, and we haven’t too much fresh water.”

“Are you satisfied it’s not the air-pumps?”

“Can’t see anything wrong with them. I suspect
there’s something jambing the main inlet-valve, and
the tubes may be foul, though those I took out last
season were clean.”

“Why didn’t you scrap the blamed condenser if
you doubted it?” Clay broke in. “I haven’t cut your
bills, and this boat has got to go when I want her.”

His tone was sharp, and the man looked up with a
start.

“I don’t waste my employer’s money,” he began;
but Clay cut him short.

“Let that go! She won’t run, you say. What are
you going to do about it?”

Aynsley was surprised. Clay had a quick temper,
but he generally knew how to keep it in check, and
now his voice was hoarse with rage.

“I’d like to stop her right away and see what’s
wrong, but it’s a long job to strip a surface-condenser
and these castings are heavy to move about.”

“She’d fall off into the trough of the sea when her
propeller stopped, and the rolling would make his
work very difficult,” Aynsley explained.

“Well,” Clay said shortly, “what do you suggest?”

“I’d like a day or two to overhaul her in, up some
inlet where we’d get smooth water,” the engineer replied.

“Do you know of a suitable place?” Clay asked
Aynsley.

“Yes; but it’s a little off our course, and would
take a day to reach.”

Clay turned with a frown to the engineer.

“He’ll sail her in, but if you’re not through in
forty-eight hours, I’ll fire you and scrap this machine!”
Then he touched Aynsley’s arm. “Leave him to it,
and give your orders to Hartley.”

They went up on deck, and Aynsley saw his father
light a cigar and then savagely throw it away; and
when he came back after speaking to the skipper Clay
was standing in the deckhouse with a small bottle and
a wineglass in his hand. He looked at his son angrily,
and Aynsley, recognizing the bottle, hastily went
out.

A few minutes later the yacht swung off her course
to the east, and they set the foresail and two jibs. At
midnight, when it was blowing hard, the engines
stopped, and they hoisted the reefed mainsail. Aynsley
was surprised to see Clay on deck, but he did not
speak to him, for Clay’s manner indicated that he was
in a dangerous mood.

When day broke the schooner was sailing fast, close-hauled,
with her lee channels in the water and the
white seas breaking over her weather bow. Aynsley
found his father sitting at the foot of the mainmast,
which was the only dry spot. It looked as if he had
been on deck since midnight.

“She’s getting along fast, but Hartley thinks she’s
carrying more sail than is prudent,” Aynsley remarked.
“There’s a big strain on the weather rigging, and I
imagine it would be safer to heave her to
and shorten sail.”

“Let her go,” said Clay. “The fellow who designed
her specified the best Oregon sticks for masts,
and I remember paying high for them. Now they’ve
got to stand up to it.”

“Very well,” Aynsley acquiesced; but when the
breeze still freshened he stayed on deck, watching the
growing list of the vessel as, hard pressed by the canvas
and half buried in foam, she plunged furiously
through the breaking seas.

During the morning the wind veered to the east,
breaking the schooner off her course, so that they were
forced to make long tacks, and it was late when a
great range of forest-shrouded hills rose up ahead.
Rocky points and small islands broke the line of
beach, and as they closed with it Aynsley climbed the
fore rigging with his glasses. There was a gap in the
belt of surf three or four miles off, which he knew was
the spot he sought, and coming down, he had a consultation
with the skipper before he explained the situation
to Clay.

“So far as we can calculate from the tables, the tide
had been ebbing for about two hours,” he said.
“That means the stream will be setting strongly out
of the inlet, and we’ll have the wind against us going
in. I know the place pretty well, because I once sheltered
there, but Hartley wasn’t with me then, and
after looking at the chart he’s a bit nervous about trying
it on the ebb.”

“How long would you have to wait for water on
the flood?”

“About nine hours. You see there’s a rocky patch
in the entrance, and not much room to tack. Then
Saltom wants to put her on the beach, and we’d have
to wait until near high-water unless we go in at once.
Still, it’s a very awkward place.”

“Take her in and chance it!”

As she drew nearer, Aynsley stood in the rigging,
studying the shore through his glasses. He could
see by the wet belt above the fringe of surf that the
water had fallen; and the inlet had a forbidding look.
On the starboard side of its mouth the tops of massive
boulders showed through the leaping foam; to port
there was a rocky shoal; and beyond these dangers a
deep, narrow channel ran inland between the hills.
The wind blew straight down it, lashing the water
white.

“We’ll want speed; you’d better give her the whole
mainsail,” he advised the skipper when he came
down.

For a few minutes the crew were busy shaking
out the reef, and then as the yacht buried her lee bulwarks
Aynsley took the wheel. The sea was smoother
close in along the land, but she was hard pressed by
her large spread of sail, and the water that leaped in
across her bows flowed ankle-deep across the steeply
slanted deck. The tall masts bent to leeward, the
weather shrouds hummed, and her crew stood with
bent legs at their stations on the inclined wet planking,
ready to seize the sheets. Forward, a dripping seaman
swung the lead in the midst of the spray cloud
that whirled about her rigging, and his voice came
faintly aft through the roar of parted water.

“Seven fathom!” He missed a cast, and his next
cry was sharper. “Shoaling, sir! And a quarter
six!”

There was silence for a few moments while he
gathered up his line, and the yacht raced in toward the
beach.

“By the deep, four!” he called.

“Ready about!” shouted Aynsley, pulling at his
wheel. “Helm’s a-lee!”

There was a furious thrashing of canvas as she
rose to an even keel, while rocks and pines closed in
on one another as her bows swung round. Then she
started on the opposite tack, heading for the entrance,
with the boulders not far to leeward and the tide on
her weather bow. It carried her back, the trailing
screw hampered her, and when a wild gust hove her
down until the sea boiled level with her rail Clay,
holding on by a shroud, glanced sharply at his son.

Aynsley was gazing fixedly ahead, his face set but
cool, though the foam that surged among the boulders
seemed rushing toward them. Clay was not much
of a seaman but he could see that they were gaining
little; but he had confidence in his son. The leadsman
had found bottom at three fathoms and still Aynsley
did not bring her round. There was a slack along
that shore, and he meant to make the most of it,
though it looked as if she must strike in the next few
moments.

She swayed upright suddenly, swung, and drove
away on the other tack toward a confused white
seething, where stream and shore-running sea met upon
the shoal. They were close upon it when she came
round again; and five minutes later she was racing
back, with the ominous white patch on her lee bow,
but not far enough for her to clear it. On the opposite
side a tongue of beach ran out, narrowing the
entrance. It looked impossible for them to get in,
and during the few moments while she sped toward
the rocks Clay was conscious of a new respect for his
son.

Aynsley had shown himself no fool in business, he
was a social favorite, and now he was altogether admirable
as he stood, composed but strung up, at the
yacht’s helm. His finely proportioned figure was
tense, his wet face was resolute, and there was a keen
sparkle in his eyes. The boy was showing fine nerve
and judgment. Clay was proud of him. This
strengthened his determination to safeguard his son’s
career. Aynsley must bear an honored name; it was
unthinkable that reproach should follow him on account
of his father’s misdoings.

Aynsley shouted to the skipper, who was anxiously
watching the shore.

“There’s not much room! I’ll let her shoot well
ahead before I fill on her. See the boys are handy
with the fore-sheets!”

As he pulled the helm down, Hartley gave an order,
and the schooner, coming round, drove forward, head
to wind, with canvas banging. It was a bold but
delicate maneuver, for Aynsley had to trust that her
momentum would carry her through the dangerous
passage against the tide. If it failed to do so, and
she lost her speed before he could cant her on to a
new tack, there was no way of saving her from the
rocks. The skipper stood with set lips amidship just
clear of the jerking foresail-boom; the crew forward,
the slack of the fore-sheets in their hands; and Clay,
leaning on the rail aft, watched his son. Aynsley’s
pose was alert but easy; he looked keen but confident
with his hands clenched upon the wheel.

“Lee sheets!” he cried, pulling the wheel over
sharply.

Her head swung slowly round, and the shaking canvas
filled; she gathered way, and when her deck
slanted the boulders were sliding past abeam. Coming
round again, she left them astern, and drove forward
swiftly into clear and sheltered water. Ten
minutes afterward they ran the headsails down, and
Aynsley ran her gently on to the beach. There she
would have to stop until Engineer Saltom finished his
repairs.

CHAPTER XXVII—ON THE BEACH
==========================

Late on a gloomy evening Jimmy and his friends
sat down for a few minutes’ rest on the beach
of a lonely island on the northern coast. With the
help of Jaques they had fitted out the sloop, and had
sailed much earlier in the year than was prudent, fearing
that Clay might arrive ahead of them. The voyage
proved trying, for they spent days hove to while
the sloop was blown to leeward by bitter gales, and
they were now and then forced to run off their course
for shelter. Still, they stubbornly fought their way
north. The strong breeze that Clay’s schooner-yacht
had met badly buffeted the smaller boat. In driving
her to windward through a steep head-sea the heavy
strain upon the shrouds started a leak under her channel
plates, and after a long spell of steady pumping
the men reluctantly decided to seek a sheltered harbor,
where the damage could be repaired.

This had not proved a difficult task, for some caulking
was all that was required, but in order to reach
the leak they had to lay her on the beach, and Jimmy
thought it a desirable opportunity for filling up the
water-breakers. Taking them ashore in the dory,
they carried the small craft up; and after getting the
water they set out for a walk across the island, because
the sloop would not float until nearly high tide.
The island was barren except for a few clumps of
stunted trees, but they enjoyed the ramble, and were
now feeling tired by the unusual exercise, as well as
hungry, because they had not troubled about taking
any lunch.

Picking a sheltered spot, Bethune lighted his pipe
and languidly looked about. Dingy clouds were driving
across the island, and the leaden water broke with
an angry splash among the stones. There had been
a light breeze from seaward when they went ashore,
but it had changed, and now blew moderately fresh
off the land. It was very cold, with a rawness that
penetrated. Bethune shivered.

“We ought to be getting on board,” he said; “but
I wish we had a paid crew to carry down the breakers
and row us off. And I’d enjoy my supper better if I
didn’t have to cook it myself. It’s curious how luxurious
tastes stick to you.”

“If you’d been a lobster fisher, you wouldn’t have
had any,” Moran remarked.

“I expect that’s true,” Bethune laughed. “No
doubt it depends on the way one is brought up; but
you don’t often surprise us with these reflections.
Anyway, I can’t help thinking of our opponent sitting
at the saloon table on board his yacht with a smart
steward waiting to bring him what he wants, while
we squat over our tin plates in the cubby-hole with
our knees against the centerboard trunk and our heads
among the beams. It’s a painful contrast.”

“The sooner you finish moralizing and make a
move, the sooner we’ll get supper,” Jimmy reminded
him.

“I wish it was Hank’s turn, only that one doesn’t
have much pleasure in eating the stuff he cooks. Still,
it will be a comfort to work with the stove upright,
and not to have to hold the things on. That’s why I
was waiting until the tide lifted her.”

“She’s afloat now,” said Moran.

Bethune, looking up, saw that this was correct, for
the sloop’s mast began to move across the rocks in the
background. Then there was a rattle of chain, and
she drifted faster.

“Taking up the slack of her cable,” said Jimmy.
“We’d better get on board. I didn’t give her much
scope because I wanted to keep her off the stones.”

“Wait until I’ve smoked my pipe out,” Bethune said
lazily; and they sat still for a few minutes.

The sloop brought up, sheering to and fro in the
eddying gusts. When Moran turned to look at her
he jumped up with an exclamation.

“She’s off again!”

They watched her mast, and saw a gap open between
it and a boulder. It was obvious that she was
moving out to sea.

“The wind has changed since we left!” exclaimed
Jimmy. “When she swung, she got a turn of her
cable round the anchor-fluke and pulled it up.”

“We’d better run for the dory!” Bethune cried,
setting off along the shore.

“No use!” Jimmy called after him. “There isn’t
time.” He jerked off his heavy sea-boots as he added:
“She’s dragging her cable along the bottom now, but
it won’t check her long.”

The others saw that he was right. The water got
deeper suddenly below the half-tide line, and when
the boat had picked up her anchor her progress would
be rapid.

“It’s too cold for swimming, and you can’t catch
her!” Bethune expostulated breathlessly.

“I must do the best I can,” said Jimmy, flinging off
his jacket and plunging into the water.

They left him and ran along the beach, stumbling
among the stones. It was some distance to the dory,
and darkness was coming on. The *Cetacea* would
drift to leeward fast, and they feared that she would
be out of sight before they could begin the chase, but
they might be in time to pick up their exhausted comrade.
There was no doubt that he soon would become
exhausted, because the water was icy cold, and
a short, troubled swell worked into the bay. Besides
this, the horror of their position lent them speed. It
looked as if they would be left without food or shelter
from the inclement weather on the desolate island.
They had not even a line to catch fish with, and Bethune
remembered that he had only three or four loose
matches in his pocket.

He fell into a hollow between two boulders, hurting
his leg, but was up again in a moment, making the
best speed he could, with Moran clattering among
the rocks a yard or two behind. Fortunately, the
tide was almost up to the dory when they reached her.
Thrusting her off they jumped on board and rowed
with savage determination, pulling an oar each. The
light craft lifted her bows and leaped forward in
time to their powerful strokes, but a steeper swell
was working in against the wind as the tide rose, and
the long undulations checked her. Though the air
was keen, the sweat dripped from the men as they
rowed with throbbing hearts and labored breath, turning
their heads for a glance forward every now and
then.

They could not see their comrade, but that was
hardly to be expected: a man’s head is a small object
to distinguish at a distance in broken water. The
*Cetacea*, however, was still visible, and she did not
seem to be much farther offshore. It was possible that
Jimmy had got on board, and that they might overtake
her before she felt the full force of the wind.
The hope put fresh heart into them, and they strained
every muscle to drive the dory faster across the irregular
heave.

When Jimmy plunged into the icy water he gasped
as it closed about him. The cold took away his breath
and paralyzed his limbs, and he let his feet fall with an
unreasoning desire to scramble out again. This, however,
lasted only for a moment; before he could touch
bottom he overcame the impulse, and, throwing his
left hand forward, struck out vigorously. His was not
a complex character, and his normal frame of mind
was practical rather than imaginative, but he had been
endowed with certain Spartan virtues. Moreover, he
had learned in the sailing ships that what is needful
must be done, no matter how the flesh may shrink.

Now, though he could not think collectively, he
knew that it was his business to overtake the sloop.
He could swim better than either of his comrades, and
he set about his task with the unreflecting stubbornness
that generally characterized him when an effort
must be made. His mind was fixed on his object, and
not on the risk he ran.

After the first half-minute the shock began to pass,
and he suffered less, but he dully realized that he was
making very poor progress. His clothing hampered
him, the swell flung him back, the only thing in his
favor was that the ripples the wind made ran behind
him instead of splashing in his face. He swam with
a powerful overhand stroke, but he knew that the
*Cetacea* would drift at double his speed unless he could
catch her while she was still in shallow water. When
he swung up with the swell she was clearly in sight,
but he could not judge whether he was gaining. She
was still an alarming distance off, and moving away,
but he hoped that the cable might check her, as it trailed
along the uneven bottom.

But as the moments passed Jimmy began to despair
of reaching her. The cold was sapping his vitality,
his legs were getting cramped, and his breath was failing;
but he turned upon his breast and swam on. He
must hold out until his strength was spent; besides,
he could not make the beach if he turned back. For
a while he could not see the boat: his eyes were full
of water, for the swell, which was getting steeper, occasionally
broke over his head. Indeed, he hardly
cared to look and contemplate the distance still to be
covered. At last, however, when he stopped for a
moment and raised his head, hope crept into his heart.
The *Cetacea* was much nearer than he had expected.
He must make a last, determined effort.

She had swung round, beam to wind, when he feebly
clutched her rail amidships. For a few moments he
held on; he had now to solve the difficulty of getting
on board. As she drifted, his body trailed out away
from her, and he could not get his knees against the
planking. Even if he were able to do so, he had
not the strength to lift himself on deck; and there
was no rope hanging over that he could seize. Then
he thought of the wire bobstay that ran down from
the end of the bowsprit and was fastened to the stem
near the waterline. He must try to reach it and climb
on that way. He cautiously moved his hands along
the rail; for if they slipped off, he might not be able to
get hold again.

Foot by foot he worked forward, and, stopping
for some moments, tried to get up by the shrouds.
He slipped back with only three fingers on the rail,
and the risk he had run of letting go altogether unnerved
him. He waited until he recovered, and then
dragged himself forward, moving one hand over the
other a few inches at a time. This was more difficult
now, because as the boat’s sheerline rose sharply at
the bows he was higher out of the water and there
was a greater weight on his arms; but at last he
clutched the bowsprit and hung on by it, splashing
feebly as he felt for the wire stay with his feet. Now
that he was almost in safety, terror seized him. He
found the wire, slid his foot along it, and lifting himself
to the bowsprit fell forward, limp and inert, on
deck. He lay there for a minute, and then with an
effort roused himself, realizing that if he remained
much longer he would perish of exhaustion and cold.

Staggering aft, he entered the cabin, and pulled
off his clothes. There was no liquor on board, but
he found some garments which were not very damp,
and after trying to rub himself he put them on and
munched a ship’s biscuit while he did so. Feeling
somewhat better after this, he went up on deck, for
he must get in the cable and hoist some canvas, in order
to gain control of the boat, which was fast driving
out to sea. When he seized the chain he realized how
greatly the swim had exhausted him. It was a heavy
cable, but he had often hauled a long scope of it in
when the anchor was holding and he had the boat’s
resistance to overcome. Now, however, he was
beaten when he had laboriously pulled up a fathom
or two. Trying again, he raised a few feet, and then
had hard work to secure the chain round the bits.

He sat down to rest a minute, and looked about
for the dory. He made her out indistinctly, but she
seemed a long distance off, and as the breeze was
freshening he did not know whether she could overtake
the sloop. By setting some canvas he could pick
her up, and the foresail would not be hard to hoist;
but the *Cetacea* would not sail to windward with the
heavy cable hanging from her bows. Jimmy remembered
that there was a good length of it below; indeed,
there might be scope enough to allow him to
drop several fathoms on the bottom. The weight of
this would act as a drag, and might, perhaps, bring her
up. It depended on the depth of water.

He let the chain run, and watched it anxiously as
it rattled out of the pipe. For a time it showed no
sign of stopping, and then he felt a thrill as the harsh
clanking slackened. The lower end had found bottom;
but the vessel would soon lift a fathom or two,
and he could not tell whether she would stop. The
links ran slowly forward in a slanting line, and Jimmy
saw by the absence of any splashing at the bows that
she was still adrift. Then the rattle of the cable recommenced,
which showed at least that there was
more below, and she slowly stopped. In a few moments
he felt her tug and strain, and white ripples
broke angrily against the planking. She had either
stopped or was drifting very slowly. Standing up
on the cabin top, he waved his jacket that his comrades
in the dory might see he was on board, and then
went below out of the bitter wind. He could do no
more.

It was some time later when the dory struck the
side, and Moran clambered on board and entered the
cabin. Jimmy could not see his face, but his gruff
voice had an unusual tone.

“That was a mighty good swim, partner,” he said.
“I was scared you wouldn’t make it.”

“So was I,” smiled Jimmy. “I was too dead beat
to heave the cable when I got on board.”

“Of course,” Moran agreed sympathetically.
“Now you lie off and leave things to us.”

Then Bethune came down and let his hand rest for
a moment on Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Thanks, old man! Neither Hank nor I could have
reached her.”

They were none of them sentimentalists, and Jimmy
felt that enough had been said.

“I’m a bit worried about my thick jacket and sea-boots,”
he replied. “You see, I’ll need them.”

“That’s so,” said Moran. “As soon as we’ve got
sail on her, we’ll pull back and look.”

Jimmy protested. They were tired and hungry,
and it would be a hard row to the beach against the
rising breeze, but Moran laughed, and Bethune told
him to sit still when he would have gone up to help
them. He lighted the stove, and when they called him
the reefed mainsail was banging overhead, and Bethune
was in the dory, while Moran, kneeling under the jib,
freed a coil of chain from the fluke of the anchor.

“I guess that’s what made the trouble,” he said.
“We won’t be long, and when you have made two
or three tacks you can show a light.”

He jumped into the dory, and it disappeared into
the dark, while Jimmy drove the sloop ahead, close-hauled,
until he dimly made out the boulders on a
point. Then he came round and stretched along-shore
on the other tack, until he left the helm for a few moments
and lighted a lantern. Soon after he had done
so he heard a shout and when he hove the boat to there
was a splash of oars. Then the dory emerged from
the gloom and Moran, seizing the rail, threw a jacket
and pair of long boots on deck.

“Got them all right. They were a fathom from
the tide; the beach is pretty steep.”

“I must have had the sense to throw them well
back, though I can’t remember it,” Jimmy answered
with a laugh.

“We’re going to have a better supper than I thought
we would get not long ago,” Bethune remarked as he
lifted the dory in; and Jimmy gave the helm to Moran
and went below to help in preparing the meal.

CHAPTER XXVIII—A TRUCE
======================

When Jimmy sighted the island where the wreck
lay, there was a ghostly white glimmer among
the mist that hung heavily along the shore. Most of
the land was hidden, but the bank of vapor had a solidity
and sharpness of outline that indicated the existence
of something behind it. The wind was light, but it
freshened as they crept on under easy sail, and the fog
rolling back from the water revealed a broad and
roughly level streak that glittered in the morning light.
Nearer at hand two tall detached masses shone a cold
gray-white on a strip of indigo sea. Then the vapor
dropped again like a curtain as the breeze died away.

“Ice!” commented Moran. “Guess we’ve got here
too soon.”

“It seemed to be banked up north of the point,”
Bethune remarked. “I imagine we’ll be pretty safe in
the bight unless some of that thin, cutting stuff is drifting
about.”

Jimmy hove the boat to and lighted his pipe.

“The matter needs thinking over, and we’ll wait a
bit for a better view,” he said. “It doesn’t look as if
we could get to work just yet, and if any big floes drove
across the banks at high-water, we’d be awkwardly
placed in the bight. On the other hand, the ice will
probably hang about until a strong breeze breaks it
up, and I don’t want to keep the sea in wild weather
while it’s in the neighborhood. The fog comes down
thick and the nights are still dark.”

The others agreed to this and were afterward
moodily silent. Whichever course they took there
would be delay. It had been a relief to find that they
had reached the island first, but they had no doubt that
Clay was not far behind them. All they had gained by
an earlier start might be sacrificed unless they could
finish their task before he arrived.

The fog held all day and grew thicker when darkness
fell; but the red dawn brought a clearer air with
signs of a change, and Jimmy steered shoreward,
sweeping the beach with his glasses as they approached
the channel through the sands. That end of the island
was free of ice, and after consulting together they decided
to enter the bight. They thought they would be
safer there, and they wanted to feel that the voyage was
finished and they were ready to get to work. During
the afternoon it began to blow strongly off the shore.
The sloop lay in smooth water close to the beach, but
when night fell the surf was roaring on the sands and
they could hear the crash of rending ice. At times the
din was awe-striking, but it died away again, and although
they kept anchor watch in turns no floe appeared
to trouble them. At dawn the greater part of the ice
had gone, and they could see white patches shining
far out at sea, but it was blowing much too hard for
them to think of leaving shelter.

They waited two days, anxiously watching for a
trail of smoke, but nothing broke the skyline, and at
last the breeze fell. It was a flat calm when they towed
the *Cetacea* out on a gray morning, but the swell ran
steep and a thin drizzle obscured the sea. The sloop
plunged wildly over the long undulations, jerking back
the dory in spite of her crew’s toil at the oars, and it
was nearly noon when they picked up their cross-bearings
and anchored by the wreck. Nobody suggested
getting dinner and Jimmy went down as soon as he
could put on the diving dress. He found the wreck,
which freed him of a keen anxiety, but he had to come
up without entering the hold. She had moved a short
distance since he last saw her, and now lay almost on
her beam-ends with her upper works badly shattered.
The gap they had previously crept through was closed
by broken beams. Jimmy supposed that heavy ice,
floating deep in the water, had ground across her higher
part as it drove out to sea.

Moran went down next, and reported on his return
that an entrance might be made, with some trouble.
Bethune went armed with a crowbar. By nightfall
they had wrenched away several obstructing timbers
and discovered that there was a good deal of sand to be
moved. They ate a hearty supper and went to sleep.
The work was the same the next day, but although they
began as soon as it was light they realized by noon that
the most they could hope for was to clear the way for
an entrance on the morrow. All felt the effects of their
labors and of breathing the compressed air, and when
it was Jimmy’s turn to go down toward evening, he
leaned on the coaming, reluctant to put on the dress.

“I’ll be ready when I’ve finished this pipe,” he said.
“You’d better screw up that pump-gland in the
meanwhile. I didn’t get as much air as I wanted last
time.”

Moran set about it, and, though time was precious,
Jimmy did not try to hurry him, but stood listlessly
looking out to sea. A fine rain was falling, there was
very little wind, and belts of fog streaked the dim gray
water between him and the horizon. He was watching
one belt when it seemed to open and a blurred shape
crept out. Jimmy dropped his pipe and scrambled to
the cabin top. He could distinguish a patch of white
hull and a tall mast. As he called to the others a short
funnel appeared, and a trail of smoke lay dark along
the edge of the fog.

“We don’t need the glasses to tell whose boat that
is,” he said harshly.

They knew her at the first glance and their faces
hardened.

“Clay’s lost no time,” Bethune remarked. “Well,
I suppose it means a fight, and we’ll gain nothing by
running away now, but we may as well stop diving until
we find out whether it’s worth while to go on.”

After securing the pumps and gear they waited,
watching the yacht’s approach. She came straight on
at moderate speed, and stopped three or four hundred
yards away. They saw the anchor splash and heard a
rattle of chain, but after that there was no sign of activity
on board the vessel.

“It’s my opinion Clay knows who we are,” Moran
said.

“You can take that for granted,” Bethune replied.
“We’ll hear from him before long, but he doesn’t
mean to show any eagerness in sending a boat off. As
time’s getting on, I think we’ll have supper.”

As they finished the meal a smart gig, pulled by uniformed
seamen, approached the sloop, and when she
stopped alongside the helmsman handed Jimmy two
notes.

Opening them in the cabin, he showed his companions
two sheets of fine paper bearing an embossed flag and
the vessel’s name. One note stated that Mr. Clay requested
their company at supper on board his yacht,
and the other, which was longer, was from Aynsley.
He said that although he was not sure they had much
cause to remember him with gratitude, he would be
glad to see them, and hoped they would not refuse his
father’s invitation.

“Do you think Clay made him write this?” Jimmy
asked.

“No,” said Bethune. “On the whole, I imagine
it was sent without Clay’s knowledge. Of course,
Aynsley had some reason for writing, but while I can’t
tell what it is, he’s not in the plot.”

“Anyway, I’m not going; I’ve no wish to sit at that
man’s table.”

Bethune grinned as he indicated his pilot jacket,
which was shrunk and stained by salt-water, and his
old sea-boots.

“Our get-up’s hardly smart enough for a yacht’s
saloon; and I’ve a notion that it might be wiser to stay
where we are. Still, we’ll have to see him before long,
and you’d better write a civil refusal; though I’m afraid
we can’t match his decorative stationery.”

Jimmy tore a leaf out of his notebook and scribbled
a few moments with a pencil. Then he read to his
comrades:

    *“Mr. Farquhar and his friends regret their inability
    to leave their boat, but would esteem Mr. Clay’s company
    if he cares to visit them.”*

“Bully!” exclaimed Bethune. “You’ve sealed it
with a thumb-mark, and—well, we haven’t an envelope.”

When the gig’s crew rowed away with the note the
three men gathered together in the little cabin.

“Will he come, do you think?” Moran asked.

“Oh, yes; but he’ll take his time, and get his supper
first comfortably,” Bethune replied. “I’m rather anxious
about the thing, because if he doesn’t come we can
look out for trouble.”

“If that’s what he wants, he’ll get it,” Moran
drawled, from his corner on a locker.

Jimmy sat smoking in thoughtful silence. He had
learned that Clay was cunning and unscrupulous; and,
if worse came to worse, they were cut off from any outside
help by leagues of lonely sea. Their enemy had a
strong crew who were, no doubt, well paid and ready
to do his bidding; for Jimmy knew that Clay would not
have sailed on such an errand with men he could not
trust. The sloop’s party would be hopelessly outmatched
if he used force; and it would be difficult to
obtain redress afterward, because they were only three
in number, and all interested in the undertaking, while
Clay would have many witnesses, who could claim to be
independent. The situation needed careful handling,
and Jimmy was glad that Bethune was on board. For
all that, if things came to the worst, Clay should not
find them easy victims.

Presently he went out to look at the weather. The
rain had stopped and low mist hung about, but a half-moon
was rising in a patch of clear sky. The swell
heaved, long and smooth, about the sloop, which swung
up and down with a regular motion. Jimmy could
see the yacht’s anchor light not far away and the yellow
blink from her saloon windows, but he could hear
nothing that suggested preparations for sending off a
boat. As it was cold in the cockpit, he returned to the
cabin, where the others had lighted the lamp, and none
of them said much for the next hour. They could hear
the loose halyards slap the mast and the water splash
about beneath the floorings, and the soft lapping of the
tide along the planking.

Moran suddenly raised his hand, and, after their long
wait in suspense, it was a relief to hear the measured
splash of oars.

“That means he’s willing to make terms,” Bethune
said.

Five minutes later the yacht’s boat ran alongside and
Clay climbed on board.

“You can take a run ashore, boys, and come off
when we signal,” he said to his crew, and then turned
to Jimmy. “I’ve come for a talk.”

“Will you come below,” said Jimmy, moving back
the scuttle-slide. “Be careful how you get down:
there’s not much room.”

Clay bumped his head before he found a place on a
locker, where he sat silent for a moment, looking about.
The light of the bulkhead lamp revealed the rough discomfort
of the narrow cabin. Condensed moisture
glistened on the low roof-beams; the floorings were
damp and littered with coils of rope. The end of a
torn sail projected from the forecastle door, and damp
blankets were loosely spread on the lockers to dry in the
warmth of the rusty stove. All this indicated stern,
utilitarian economy, and the men’s ragged, work-stained
clothes were in keeping with it; but Clay noticed
that their expression was resolute.

In the meanwhile they were studying him, and it
struck them that he looked ill. His face was flabby
and there were heavy pouches under his eyes.

“So my invitation didn’t bring you off!” he said.
“Were you afraid I might carry you out to sea?”

“Not exactly,” Bethune replied. “One would not
suspect you of so crude a plan. Can’t you take it that
we were afraid of a change of wind? You see, it’s a
rather exposed position.”

“That’s so,” Clay agreed; “you have no steam to
help you ride out a breeze. But we’ll get down to
business. I made you an offer of five thousand dollars
to give me the first chance of cleaning up this wreck.
I’ll now go a thousand dollars better.”

“Is that your limit?”

“It is; you’ll save time by realizing it. I’ve bid up
to the last cent I think worth while.”

“Suppose we decline?”

“You would be foolish. You have no claim on the
wreck; in a sense, I have, and if we can’t come to some
understanding I begin work at once. My yacht can
hang on through a gale of wind and with our outfit we
can get something done in pretty bad weather. You
have a small sailing-boat and poor, cheap gear. As
soon as a breeze gets up you’ll have to quit.”

“I imagine you haven’t yet mentioned all your advantages
over us,” Bethune suggested.

Clay looked at him keenly and then smiled. “That’s
so. I’m trying to be polite.”

“In fact, you’re keeping your strongest arguments
in reserve. Unless we agree to your proposition,
there’s not much chance of our recovering anything
from the wreck?”

“You’re pretty near the mark,” Clay answered, smiling
confidently.

“The odds seem against us. Perhaps I’d better be
candid. The truth is, we have already recovered something
of importance.”

Clay’s expression became intent.

“Then you’re smarter than I thought and you played
your hand well the last time I met you. However, it
will probably save us all trouble if we put our cards on
the table. What have you got?”

Bethune took out his notebook.

“To begin with, two bags of gold; the weight and
marks, so far as we could make the latter out—”

“Shucks!” interrupted Clay. “They don’t count.
You can keep your share of their salvage. Come to
the point.”

“One iron-clamped, sealed case. The stencil marks,
although partly obliterated, appear to be D.O.C. in a
circle; the impress on the seals to attached tracing.
Contents”—Bethune paused and looked steadily at
Clay—“I dare say you know what these are?”

“Do you?” Clay asked sharply.

“We opened the case.”

There was silence for a few moments and all were
very still. Clay’s voice was not so steady when he
spoke again.

“Where is the case?”

“Not here,” said Bethune dryly. “If we don’t
turn up to claim it within a fixed time, or if any attempt
is made to obtain possession of it in our absence
it will be handed to the underwriters.”

“You seem to have taken precautions,” Clay remarked.

“We did the best we could,” Bethune admitted with
a modest air.

“Imagining that you might sell the box to me?”

“No!” Jimmy interposed sternly. “That was not
our plan. When my partner first let you make an offer
for the wreck—”

Clay stopped him with a gesture.

“It was to lead me on—you needn’t explain. Very
well; I suggested putting our cards down, and now I’ll
tell you something you don’t suspect. There’s a duplicate
of that box on board and it contains the gold.”

Jimmy started, Moran gazed at Clay with knitted
brows, and Bethune looked frankly puzzled. Clay
seemed quietly amused at their surprise.

“You don’t understand?” he said. “After all,
there’s no reason why you should do so; but the truth
of my statement is easily tested. Now I’ll ask you a
question to which I want a straight answer. What are
you going to do with the gold you get?”

“Deliver it to the underwriters and claim salvage,”
said Jimmy promptly.

“That’s all? You have no other plans?”

“That is all.”

“Then I’ll exchange the case which holds the gold
for the one you have. You can’t recover it without my
help.”

For a time no one spoke. The three partners looked
at one another in perplexed indecision, while Clay sat
quietly still. There was a mystery behind the matter
to which they could find no clue, and Clay would obviously
not supply it. They did not know what to
think.

“Do you know where to find this case?” Bethune
asked.

“I believe so. I suggest that one of you come down
to help me; Mr. Farquhar for preference.”

“Then you think of going down!” Jimmy exclaimed.

“I am going down the first thing to-morrow,
whether you come or not. But what about my offer?”

“We can’t answer yet,” said Bethune. “It needs
some thought.”

“Very well,” Clay agreed. “For all that, I must
make a start in the morning. If you prefer, we can
let the matter stand over until we find the case.” He
paused and smiled at Jimmy. “You don’t look a nervous
man and you needn’t hesitate. I’ve never put on
a diving dress and you have had some experience; and
I’m willing to use your boat and let your friends control
the pumps.”

“I’m not afraid,” retorted Jimmy. “The difficulty
is that the way into the strong-room is not yet open.
It will take at least a day to remove the sand that has
banked up against the opening.”

“Then I suppose I must wait, but I’ll send my diver
across to help you at daybreak,” said Clay. “When
everything is ready you can let me know. Now, if you
have no suggestion to make, I think I’ll get back.”

Moran signaled to the boat’s crew, and when Clay
had gone they sat down again in the cabin with thoughtful
faces.

“I’ll admit that things have taken an unexpected
turn,” Bethune remarked. “It’s obvious that we’re
on the track of a secret of some importance which
might explain a cunning fraud, but the matter’s complicated
by the shipping of the genuine box of gold, and
I can’t determine yet how far it’s our business to investigate
it.”

“You don’t seem so ready at forming theories as
usual,” Jimmy commented.

“I’ve made one or two and they look rather plausible
until you test them. However, as it might be dangerous
to jump to conclusions about the course we ought
to take, I think we’d better wait. And now, as we’re
to start at daybreak, it might be wise to go to sleep.”

CHAPTER XXIX—THE HIDDEN GOLD
============================

The breeze was light at daybreak, and while the
island still loomed shapeless and shadowy across
the leaden water the yacht’s gig brought Clay’s diver
and an excellent set of pumps. As soon as they were
rigged the diver and Moran went below and took their
turn with the others during the first half of the day, for
there was still a good deal to be done before they could
clear a passage into the hold. They sent Clay word
of their progress and at noon Aynsley was rowed
across to the sloop.

“Although you refused last night, I hope you’ll come
on board to lunch,” he said, after greeting them pleasantly.

“We have too much on hand,” Jimmy replied. “In
fact, we’re not going to stop for a meal. It’s unusually
fine weather and we must get into the strong-room before
dark. I expect it will take us three or four hours
yet.”

“It’s a good excuse,” returned Aynsley. “In a
way, I’m glad you’re too busy to come, because I imagine
my father is very keen on finishing the job, and
I don’t want him to get worrying about the delay.”
He paused, and added frankly: “I’m going to ask a
favor. He’s not well, and I gather that you and he are
to some extent opposed. Now I can’t expect you to
sacrifice your interest, but you might try to avoid any
heated dispute as far as possible. Excitement isn’t
good for him.”

“We can promise that,” said Jimmy. “It looks as
if you knew nothing about the business.”

“I don’t. And, more than that, I have no wish to
learn anything.”

“We’re not in a position to tell you much if you
pressed us; but it struck us that your father wasn’t
looking very fit, and it might be better if you stopped
him from going down.”

“I can’t,” Aynsley answered with a smile. “I’m
afraid I haven’t much control over him.”

Early in the evening Clay came on board and sat in
the cockpit while the men relieved each other below.
He asked a question now and then, but for the most
part waited quietly, watching the bubbles that rose in
milky effervescence.

At last the diver came up, and was followed closely
by Bethune, bringing a rope.

“The strong-room’s open,” he said exultantly.
“Heave on that line and see what you get!”

Moran pulled with a will, for there was some resistance
to be overcome, and Jimmy leaned down in strong
excitement when a wooden case smeared with sand
broke the surface. Seizing it he came near to being
dragged over the rail, and Bethune had to help him to
lift it on board. Clay examined the case coolly, studying
the half-washed-out marks.

“You ought to get something handsome for salvage
on that, and I won’t contest your claim,” he said.
“Keep it on board if you like; our diver’s paid by the
day. Now, if you’re ready, we’ll go down.”

They carefully fastened on his dress, but when Bethune
gave him a few instructions he said his own man
had told him all he needed to know during the voyage.
Jimmy put on his helmet and went first down the ladder,
waiting at the bottom for Clay. It was, he felt, a
strange experience to be walking along the sea-floor
with a man who had been his enemy; but he was now
master of the situation. Indeed, he had to help his
companion when they reached the entrance to the hold
and he did not think that Clay could have crept up the
dark passage between the shaft tunnel and the hanging
weed on the ship’s crushed side without his assistance.
Their lamps glimmered feebly through the
water that sucked in and out, and it was no easy matter
to keep signal-lines and air-pipes clear. Clay, however,
though awkward and somewhat feeble in his
movements, showed no want of nerve.

When they crawled into the strong-room he stood
still, moving his lamp. The pale flashes wavered to
and fro, searching the rough, iron-bound planks, until
they stopped, fixed upon one spot. Clay beckoned
Jimmy toward it, and then, losing his balance, lurched
and swayed in a ludicrous manner before he could
steady himself. Jimmy thought the man must be mistaken,
for he had indicated a plank in the deck between
two iron plates, although, as the wreck had fallen
over, the plank was on one side of them, instead of being
overhead. He turned to Clay with a questioning
motion of his hands, but the flicker of light was still
fixed upon the same spot. Jimmy raised the crowbar
he had brought and drove it into a joint nearly level
with his head, and Clay indicated that he was doing
right.

Jimmy knew that he had no time to lose. Clay was
not in good health, and had already been under water
as long as was safe for a man unaccustomed to the
pressure. If he broke down, it would be difficult to get
him out of the hold. For all that, Jimmy was reluctant
to abandon the search a moment before it was necessary.
It was getting dark, the stream was gaining
strength, and it did not seem probable that any one
could get down again that night. Jimmy wanted to
finish his task.

The beam he attacked was soft, but two bolts ran
through it and an iron strap was clamped along its
edge. The rotten timber tore away in flakes, but
Jimmy could not break out a large piece, and the iron
fastenings deflected his bar. He glanced at his companion,
who encouraged him by a gesture; and then
fell to work again with determined energy. He did
not know how long he continued, but he was disturbed
by a movement of the water and saw Clay swaying
slackly to and fro. It looked as if he were about to
fall, but his heavy boots and buoyant dress kept him upright.
Still he might go down, and Jimmy knew that it
is hard to recover one’s balance in a diving dress. Clay
must be got out at once. Jimmy seized his arm and
made his way toward the opening, thrusting his companion
along the side of the shaft tunnel.

It was with keen relief that he dragged him clear of
the splintered beams at the entrance to the hold and
stepped out on the level bottom of the sea. No light
came down through the water, even the shadow of the
sloop above was no longer discernible; but Jimmy had
his signal-line for guide and followed it with his hand
on Clay’s shoulder, until he distinguished the ripple of
the tide about the ladder.

Pushing his companion toward it, he watched his
clumsy ascent and then clambered up. When he got
on board Clay was sitting on deck, but he sank back
limply against the cabin top as they took his helmet
off. It was nearly dark, but they could see that his lips
were blue, and that his livid face was mottled by faint
purple patches. He gasped once or twice, and then began
to fumble awkwardly at the breast of the diving
dress.

“I know what he wants!” cried Aynsley. “Get
these things off him as quick as you can! Somebody
bring me a spoon!”

They hurriedly stripped the canvas covering from
the half-conscious man, and, taking a small bottle from
his vest pocket, gave him a few drops of the liquid. It
took effect, for in a few moments Clay feebly raised
himself.

“Better now; not used to diving,” he said, and
turned to Jimmy as Aynsley and a seaman helped him
into the waiting gig. “We’ll get the case next time.”

The gig pulled away, and the three men watched it
disappear into the darkness.

“It’s lucky you were able to bring him up,” Bethune
observed.

“I was scared at first,” Jimmy confessed. “Perhaps
I should have come up sooner, but he seemed determined
to stop.”

“What about the case?”

“We hadn’t time to get at it. You see, it’s not in
the strong-room. He made me start cutting out the
underside of the deck.”

“The deck!” exclaimed Moran. “Then they must
have put the stuff in the poop cabin!”

“I don’t think so. I expect there’s a shallow space
between the main beams and the cabin floor.”

“And that’s where the case is? It strikes me as
curious; distinctly curious!”

“I dare say; I didn’t think of that. The most important
thing is that we ought to reach the case in about
an hour.”

“It’s too risky. The tide’s running strong now, and
it’s going to be very dark. We have kept clear of serious
trouble so far, and I see no sign of wind.”

Jimmy reluctantly agreed to wait until the morning
and Bethune went below to get supper ready.

At daybreak Aynsley pulled across in the yacht’s
small dinghy, and his face had an anxious look as he
entered the *Cetacea’s* cabin, where Jimmy was cleaning
some of the pump fittings by lamplight.

“How is Mr. Clay?” Jimmy asked.

“He looks very ill. I left him getting up and sculled
across as quietly as I could to have a talk with you.
Can you do anything to prevent his going down? I
don’t think he’s fit for it.”

“I’m afraid not. You see, we’re at variance, in a
way, and if we made any objections he’d get suspicious.”

“You couldn’t play some trick with the diving gear?
I’m worried about him; the pressure and exertion might
be dangerous.”

“We might put our own pump out of action, but we
couldn’t meddle with yours, and he might insist on going
alone.”

“That wouldn’t do,” said Aynsley. “I wouldn’t
hesitate to smash our outfit, but he’d get so savage about
it that the excitement would do more harm than the
diving.”

“Then you’ll have to reason with him.”

Aynsley smiled.

“I’ve been trying it ever since we dropped anchor,
and it hasn’t been a success; you don’t know my
father.” He gave Jimmy a steady look. “He means
you to be his companion, and although I’ve no claim on
you, I want you to promise that you’ll take care of
him.”

Everything considered, it struck Jimmy as curious
that he should be the recipient of this request; but he
sympathized with Aynsley, and imagined that his anxiety
was justified. Clay had treated them harshly, but
he was ill and apparently powerless to injure them further.

“Very well,” he promised. “I’ll do the best I can.”

“Thanks!” responded Aynsley in a grateful tone.
“I can trust you, and I’ve a notion that my father
feels safe in your hands; though he’s not confiding,
as a rule.”

“If you’ll wait a minute we’ll give you some coffee,”
Bethune said hospitably.

“No, thanks!” replied Aynsley. “I must get back
before I’m missed. There’d be trouble if my irascible
father guessed why I’d come here.”

He jumped into the dinghy and sculled her silently
into the mist that drifted between the vessels; and half
an hour later Clay came off with the diver in the gig.
His face had a gray, pinched look, and Jimmy noticed
that he breathed rather hard after the slight effort of
getting on board the sloop.

“I think you had better let me finish the job, sir,”
he said. “You’d be more comfortable if you waited
quietly on board until we brought up the case.”

“I’m going down,” Clay answered shortly. “You
might not be able to get at it without my help.”

“Anyway, you can wait until we break through the
deck. It will shorten the time you need stay below.”

After some demur, Clay agreed to this; but he suggested
that Moran and Bethune should clear the ground
instead of sending his own diver, and in a few minutes
they were under water. It was some time before they
came up, and when they had undressed Clay looked
hard at Bethune.

“Have you cut the hole?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Bethune; “I think it’s big enough.”

“You didn’t go through?”

“No; we’d been down quite long enough.”

“Give me that brandy,” Clay said to a steward in
the waiting gig, and turned to Jimmy when he had
drained a small wineglass. “Now we’ll get to work as
soon as we can.”

Jimmy went down the ladder and Clay followed
him steadily across the sand. The tide was low, the
stream slack, and the dim green water was filled with
strange refractions of the growing light above. The
sloop rode overhead, a patch of opaque shadow, and
the wreck loomed up, black and shapeless, in front.
They reached her without trouble, and Jimmy switched
on his lamp and carefully cleared Clay’s air-pipe and
line before he crawled into the dark gap. The man
seemed to move with greater ease and confidence than
he had shown on the previous day, and Jimmy felt
reassured as he guided him along the side of the shaft
tunnel. Glancing at the long streamers of weed that
wavered mysteriously through the gloom, he remembered
the sense of fear and shrinking he had had to
overcome on his first few descents. It looked as if he
need not be anxious about his companion.

It was more difficult to get him into the strong-room,
but they entered it safely and Jimmy saw that
Bethune and Moran had thrown up a bank of sand
under the hole between the beams. This would make
it easier to reach, but as he was arranging his air-pipe
preparatory to entering Clay made an imperative sign.
Jimmy felt surprised, because the man obviously meant
that he was going first. Though it would not be hard
to scramble up after seizing a timber, the feat would
require some exertion, and Jimmy tried to make this
clear, but Clay disregarded his signaled objections. It
was impossible to explain himself properly in pantomime,
and, as Clay seemed determined, Jimmy let
him go. He might grow suspicious and perhaps combative
if force were used to detain him.

Jimmy helped him up, and then felt anxious as
Clay’s swollen legs and heavy boots disappeared
through the hole. The space above must be low, and
was probably cumbered with wreckage, but Jimmy
saw that Clay’s air-pipe and signal-line ran steadily
through the gap, which implied that he found no difficulty
in moving about. Faint flashes of light, broken
up into wavering reflections, came out of the hole and
Jimmy switched off his lamp so that he could see them
better. Though he meant to keep his promise to
Aynsley, he admitted that the tension he felt was not
solely on Clay’s account. The recovery of the case
was of great importance to his party, and if they failed
to secure it now a change in the weather might frustrate
the next attempt or perhaps place the gold altogether
out of reach.

After a while it struck Jimmy that Clay ought to
come out. The man was unaccustomed to diving and
was in precarious health; moreover, if he could not
get at the case, Jimmy meant to try. He pulled the
line, and got a signal in answer that gave him no excuse
for interfering; so he waited until the pipe and
line began to run backward. Then a light flashed
sharply as if in warning, and as Jimmy turned on his
lamp a dark object fell from the gap. It was large
and square and, striking the sand with its edge, darkened
the disturbed water.

Thrilled with a sense of triumph, Jimmy turned to
help Clay, who was coming out of the hole; but as
Clay’s legs dangled he lost his grip and fell backward.
He did not come down violently, but sank until one
foot touched the sand, and then made fantastic contortions.
His buoyant dress supported him and he
looked a grotesque figure as he lurched about.
Jimmy, however, was alarmed, for it dawned on him
that this was not the result of inexperienced clumsiness.
Clay had lost control of his limbs: he was too
weak to keep the balance between his heavy helmet
and his weighted boots. Indeed, he was obviously
helpless, and it would be a difficult task to get him out
of the wreck; but it must be set about at once.

Jimmy dragged him through the opening into the
hold and felt keen relief when he saw that both pipes
ran clear; then he guided him to the tunnel and, letting
him lean on it, pushed him along. Clay was a big,
heavy man, but his weight was counteracted by the
air in his dress, and he could be moved with a push almost
like a floating object. Sometimes he moved too
far and fell away from the tunnel. Jimmy long afterward
remembered with a shudder the time they spent
in reaching the outlet. He could not use his lamp,
because he needed both hands; and he was horribly
afraid that the pipes and lines might get foul. He
believed that he threw Clay down and dragged him out
into the open water by his helmet, but he had only a
hazy recollection of the matter.

When they reached the level sand, Jimmy signaled
urgently with his line, and got a reply. Then the
rope he looped round Clay’s shoulders tightened and
he guided and steadied him as they were drawn toward
the ladder. A few moments later Clay was
lifted on to the *Cetacea’s* deck, and Jimmy sat down
on the cabin top, feeling very limp.

When somebody took off his helmet he saw Clay lying
on the deck, with Aynsley bending over him holding
a spoon to his mouth. Jimmy thought he could
not get him to take the restorative, but he was too
dazed and exhausted to notice clearly, and shortly
afterward Clay was lifted into the gig. It headed for
the yacht, the crew pulling hard, and Jimmy turned to
Bethune.

“I was afraid I couldn’t get him up,” he said
weakly. “He seems pretty bad.”

“I think he is; but you don’t look fit yourself.”

“The dizziness is the worst,” murmured Jimmy.
“I’ll go below and lie down. But I’m forgetting; we
found the case.”

Bethune helped him into the cabin, and made him
comfortable on a locker. He had a bad headache and
a curious sense of heaviness which grew worse when
the pain lessened. In a short time, however, he had
fallen into a deep sleep.

And while he slept, Moran went below and brought
up the case.

CHAPTER XXX—THE LAST OF THE WRECK
=================================

Thick fog lay upon the water when Jimmy
wakened. He slipped off the locker and, standing
with his bent head among the deckbeams, looked
at Bethune with heavy eyes.

“Is it dark?” he asked. “How long have I
slept?”

“It is not dark yet. How do you feel?”

“I think I’m all right. Did you get the case?”

“Sure!” smiled Bethune. “It’s safe under the
floorings and heavy enough to make the salvage worth
having. But I came down to bring you this note from
Aynsley. One of his men brought it and his gig’s
waiting alongside.”

Jimmy opened the note and read it aloud in the dim
light of the cabin.

    *“I shall consider it a favor if you will come across
    at once. My father seems very ill and he insists on
    seeing you.”*

“I’d better go,” Jimmy said. “After all, we
couldn’t have got the case without his help, and, in
a way, I’m sorry for him. He must have known he
was running a big risk, but he was very plucky.”

“It can’t do much harm,” Bethune agreed. “Somehow
I feel that we have nothing more to fear from
him. For all that, I wish I could go with you.”

“I suppose that wouldn’t do,” said Jimmy thoughtfully.

“No; you can’t take your lawyer along when you
visit a sick man. Still, if he’s not quite as bad as
Aynsley thinks, you may as well be on your guard.”

Jimmy got into the waiting boat and the men plied
the oars rhythmically. A bank of clammy fog rested
on the slate-green heave that moved in from seaward
in slow undulations. The damp condensed on the
boat’s thwarts and her knees were beaded with moisture.
The air felt strangely raw, and the measured
beat of the surf rose drearily from the hidden beach.
At intervals the tolling of a bell sounded through the
noises of the sea; and when the yacht appeared, looming
up gray and ghostly, her rigging dripped, her deck
was sloppy, and the seamen at the gangway had a limp,
bedraggled look. Everything seemed cheerless and
depressing; and Aynsley’s face was anxious as he
hurried toward Jimmy.

“It was good of you to come,” he said. “I hope
you’re none the worse.”

“Not much. I’m sorry your father has suffered
from the trip, but I really did my best.”

“I’m sure of that,” Aynsley responded. “But he’s
waiting to see you.”

He led Jimmy into a handsome teak deckhouse between
the masts, and opened a door into the owner’s
cabin, which occupied the full width of the house.
Two electric lamps were burning, rich curtains were
drawn across the windows to shut out the foggy light,
and a fire burned cheerfully in an open-fronted stove,
encased in decorated tiles. Its pipe was of polished
brass; the walls and the ceiling were enameled a spotless
white, with the moldings of the beams picked out
in harmonious color; two good marine pictures hung
on the cross bulkhead. The place struck Jimmy as being
strangely luxurious after the cramped, damp cabin
of the sloop; but he soon forgot his surroundings
when his eyes rested on the figure lying in the corner-berth.

Clay had thrown off the coverings and was propped
up on two large pillows. His silk pajamas showed the
massiveness of his short neck and his powerful chest
and arms; but his face was pinched and gray except
where it was streaked with a faint purple tinge.
Jimmy could see that the man was very ill.

“I hear you got the case,” Clay began in a strained
voice, motioning Jimmy to a seat.

“Yes. The others brought it up; I haven’t examined
it yet.”

“You’ll find it all right.” Clay smiled weakly. “I
suppose you know there’s another case and a couple of
small packages still in the strong-room?”

“We understood so.”

“Get them up; they’re in the sand. You can have
my diver, and it shouldn’t take you long. You’re welcome
to the salvage; it isn’t worth fighting you about.
After that, there will be nothing left in her. I give
you my word for it, and you can clear out when you
like.”

“None of us wants to stay; we have had enough.
I suppose you have no idea of going down again?”

“No,” Clay answered rather grimly; “it doesn’t
seem probable. I haven’t thanked you yet for bringing
me up.” He turned to Aynsley. “Mr. Farquhar
stuck to me when I was half conscious and helpless.
I’d like you to remember that. Now I want a quiet
talk with him.”

Aynsley left them, and Clay was silent for a moment
or two. He lay back on the pillows with his
eyes closed, and when he spoke it seemed to be with an
effort.

“About the bogus case? What are you going to
do with it?”

“We have been too busy to think of that. You
spoke of an exchange, but of course we haven’t the
thing here—”

“No,” said Clay. “Your partner’s pretty smart
and I guess you have got it safely locked up in one of
the Island ports. The chances are that you won’t be
able to give it to me.”

Jimmy understood him. Clay seemed to know that
he was very ill. He lay quiet again, as if it tired him
to talk.

“It has been a straight fight on your side,” he resumed
after his short rest. “I guess you might give
that box to Osborne. You’re white men, and, though
you might perhaps make trouble about it, the thing’s
no use to you. You know Osborne?”

“Yes,” Jimmy answered rather awkwardly, because
he saw what the question implied. Clay had judged
him correctly; for Jimmy had no wish to extort a price
for keeping a dark secret. He thought he could answer
for his comrades, though he would not make a
binding promise without their consent.

“I believe you know Ruth Osborne,” Clay went on
with a searching glance at him.

Jimmy was taken off his guard, and Clay noticed his
slight start and change of expression.

“I met Miss Osborne on board the *Empress*,” he replied
cautiously.

Clay smiled.

“Well,” he said, “she’s a girl who makes an impression,
and my notion is that her character matches
her looks.” He paused and went on with a thoughtful
air: “Anyhow, she wouldn’t have Aynsley.”

Jimmy colored. Clay’s manner was significant,
but not hostile. Ill as the man was, Jimmy imagined
that he was cleverly playing a game, and, with some
object, was trying to turn his recent opponent into an
ally. For all that, Jimmy thought his motive was
good.

“I mustn’t keep you talking too long,” Jimmy said.
He did not wish to discuss Miss Osborne.

“I soon get tired; but there’s something I must
mention. You’ll clean the wreck out in a few hours,
and then you may as well blow her up. My diver
will help you, and we have some high-grade powder
and a firing outfit.”

“It might be wise. If she washed up nearer the
bight she would be dangerous. The island’s charted,
and I dare say vessels now and then run in.”

Clay looked at him with a faint twinkle.

“Yes; I think we can take it that she’s a danger.
I’ll tell my man to give you the truck you want and you
had better get finished while the weather’s fine.”

Moving feebly, he held out his hand in sign of dismissal,
and Jimmy took it. He had no repugnance to
doing so, but he felt that he was making his helpless
enemy a promise.

Aynsley was waiting on deck and insisted on
Jimmy’s staying to dinner. Although well served, it
was a melancholy meal, and Jimmy had a sense of
loneliness as he sat at the long table. Aynsley was
attentive to his comfort and tried to make conversation,
but he was obviously depressed.

“What are your plans?” he asked.

“We start to get out the last of the gold at daybreak,”
Jimmy answered. “If we’re fortunate, it
should take only three or four hours.”

“And then?”

“I agreed with your father that we had better blow
up the wreck.”

“You should get that done before dark to-morrow.”

“I think so, if the water keeps smooth. In fact,
I dare say we’ll have finished in the afternoon.”

“That’s a relief,” declared Aynsley. “Perhaps I’m
not tactful in reminding you that I don’t know—and
don’t want to know—what your business with my
father is, but he’s seriously ill, and we ought to get
away at once in order to put him in a good doctor’s
hands as soon as possible. The trouble is that he
won’t hear of our leaving until you have completed
the job.”

“We’ll lose no time,” Jimmy assured him. “The
glass is dropping, but I don’t expect much wind just
yet.”

“Thanks!” Aynsley responded with deep feeling.
“There’s another thing—if the wind’s light or unfavorable,
we’ll start under steam and could tow you
south as long as it keeps fine. It may save you a few
days. And you could stay with us if your friends can
spare you. To tell the truth, it would be a kindness
to me. I’m worried, and want somebody to talk to.”

Jimmy agreed, and was shortly afterward rowed
back to the sloop.

By noon the next day they had brought up the last
of the gold. After a hasty luncheon, they went down
again, but their next task took some time, because the
diver insisted on clamping the charges of dynamite
firmly to the principal timbers and boring holes in
some. Then a series of wires had to be taken below
and coupled, and it was nearly supper time when
Jimmy came up from his last descent.

A faint breeze flecked the leaden water with ripples
too languid to break on the sloop’s bows; the island
was wrapped in fog, and the swell was gentle. Only
a dull murmur rose from the hidden beach. To seaward
it was clearer and the yacht rode, a long white
shape, lifting her bows with a slow and rhythmic
swing, while a gray cloud that spread in a hazy smear
rose nearly straight up from her funnel. The sloop’s
cable was hove short and everything was ready for departure.
Her crew sat in the cockpit watching the
diver fit the wires to the contact-plug of the firing battery.

The men on the sloop were filled with keen impatience.
They had borne many hardships and perils
in those lonely waters, and, now that their work was
finished, they wanted to get away. There was a mystery
connected with the wreck, but they thought they
would never unravel it, and, on the whole, they had no
wish to try. They were anxious to see the end of her
and to leave the fog-wrapped island.

“I guess we’re all ready,” the diver said at last.
“See that you have left nothing loose to fall overboard:
she’ll shift some water.”

He inserted the firing-plug; and a moment afterward
the sea opened some distance ahead and rolled
back from a gap in the bottom of which shattered
timber churned about. Then a foaming wave rose
suddenly from the chasm, tossing up black masses of
planking and ponderous beams. A few, rearing on
end, shot out of the water and fell with a heavy splash
among fountains of spray, while a white ridge swept
furiously toward the sloop. It broke before it reached
her, but she flung her bows high as she plunged over
the troubled swell, and the yacht rolled heavily with a
yeasty wash along her side.

Jimmy ran forward with a sense of keen satisfaction
to break out the anchor. The powerful charge had
done its work; the wreck had gone.

While the *Cetacea* drifted slowly with the stream
the yacht’s windlass began to clank, and a few minutes
later she steamed toward the smaller craft. Her
gig brought off a hawser, and a message inviting
Jimmy to come on board. As soon as he reached her
deck the gig was run up to the davits and the throb
of engines quickened. The sloop, swinging into line
astern, followed along the screw-cut wake, and in half
an hour the fog-bank about the island faded out of
sight.

Jimmy felt more cheerful when he dined with Aynsley
in the saloon. The depression that had rested on
them all seemed to have been lifted with the disappearance
of the wreck. Even Clay appeared to be brighter.
He sent a request for Jimmy to come to him as soon as
he finished dinner.

When Jimmy entered the cabin, Clay lay in his
berth, comfortably raised on pillows. He gave Jimmy
a friendly nod.

“She’s gone? You made a good job?”

“Yes,” Jimmy answered cheerfully. “We didn’t
spare the dynamite.”

Clay beckoned him forward, and, reaching out
awkwardly to a small table by his berth, took up a
glass of champagne. Another stood near it, ready
filled.

“I make a bad host and soon get tired, but Aynsley
will do his best for you,” he said cordially. He smiled
and raised his glass. “Good luck to you; you’re a
white man!”

Jimmy drained his glass, and took Clay’s from his
shaking hand. When the elder man thanked him with
a gesture, Jimmy saw that he was too ill to talk, and he
went out quietly and joined Aynsley on deck.

He spent three days on board the yacht, which
steamed steadily south, but late on the fourth night a
steward awakened him.

“It’s blowing fresh, sir,” he said. “The captain
thought you’d like to know your boat’s towing very
wild and he can’t hold on to her long.”

Jimmy had been prepared for such an emergency,
and he was on deck in five minutes, fully dressed with
his sea-boots and slickers on; and Aynsley joined him
in the lee of the deckhouse with a pilot coat over his
pajamas. The engines were turning slowly, and the
rolling of the yacht and the showers of spray showed
that the sea was getting up.

“They’re launching the gig,” Aynsley said. “I
wish we could keep you, but I suppose your friends
need you?”

“Thanks! They couldn’t navigate her home.”

Jimmy ran toward the bulwarks and shouted to a
group of seamen:

“Don’t bother with that ladder, boys!”

Somebody lighted a blue flare on the deckhouse top,
and the strong light showed the gig lurching on the
broken heave on the yacht’s lee side. Near by, the
*Cetacea* lay plunging with her staysail up, while a
dark figure on her deck flashed a lantern. Jimmy
shook hands with Aynsley and sprang up on the rail;
then, leaning out, seized a davit-fall and slid swiftly
down. A man released the tackle-hook and pushed
off the gig; the oars splashed and a sea swept her
away from the yacht. In a few minutes Jimmy
jumped on board the sloop and helped Moran to cast
off the hawser while the gig struggled back. Another
flare was burning, and he saw the boat hoisted in.
Then the blaze sank down and, with a farewell blast of
her whistle, the steamer vanished into the dark.

Spray leaped about the rolling sloop, her low deck
was swept by the hurling sea, and a tangle of hard,
wet ropes swung about the mast.

“We’ve double-reefed the mainsail and bent on the
storm-jib,” Moran said, above the noise of the sea.
“She’ll carry that lot with the wind on her quarter.”

“She ought to,” replied Jimmy. “Up with the
throat!”

Fumbling in the dark, they hoisted the thrashing
sail, and when the *Cetacea* listed down until her rail
was in the foam Jimmy went aft to relieve Bethune at
the helm.

“She’ll make a short passage if this breeze holds,”
he said cheerfully. “As I’ve had three nights’ good
sleep, I’ll take the first watch.”

While the sloop was driving wildly south before the
following seas, or beating slowly in long tacks when
the breeze fell light and drew ahead, the yacht skimmed
over the water at her best speed; and one gray morning
she steamed up Puget Sound, and a low blast of
her whistle rang dolefully as she passed Osborne’s
house. Clay had made his last voyage; she brought
his lifeless body home.

CHAPTER XXXI—A GIFT FROM THE DEAD
=================================

Jimmy and his companions sat on the balcony
formed by the flat roof of the veranda in front
of Jaques’ store. It was a fine evening and a light
breeze stirred the dust in the streets of the wooden
town. Beyond the ugly, square-fronted buildings that
straggled down to the wharf, the water lay shining in
the evening light, and through a gap the sloop showed
up distinctly, riding in the harbor mouth. On the
other hand, a blaze of crimson burned above the crest
of a hill and the ragged pines stood out harshly sharp
against the glow. Work was over for the day, and
groups of men lounged in chairs on the sidewalks outside
the hotels, while here and there a citizen and his
family occupied the stoop of his dwelling.

Jimmy had briefly related their adventures in the
North, though nothing had yet been said about the
party’s future plans. Now, however, Jaques and his
wife were waiting to discuss them.

“Clay must have died soon after you left the
yacht,” the storekeeper said. “As you believe his
son is friendly, we have no opposition to fear; and we
may as well settle what is to be done.”

“Bethune is our business manager,” Jimmy said.
“Perhaps he will give us his opinion.”

Bethune leaned forward with a thoughtful air.

“In the first place, the matter is not so simple as it
looks. We don’t know the whole story of the wreck,
and I’m inclined to think we’ll never learn it. On the
other hand, there’s much to be guessed, and one could
form a theory which would be rather hard to contradict.
In fact, except for certain prejudices, I believe
we could make some money out of it.”

“You can call them prejudices, if you like,” Mrs.
Jaques broke in. “For all that, it would be wiser to
act up to them.”

“It’s possible,” Bethune agreed. “Just the same,
we’re in a rather responsible position.”

“I’m a trader,” Jaques remarked. “I want a fair
profit on the money I lay out; but I stop at that. All
the money I take is for value supplied.”

Jaques turned to Jimmy.

“Now that we’re talking about it, did you see where
Clay got that case?”

“I didn’t; nor did anybody else. We were too busy
to trouble about examining the hole he crawled into.
I suppose there must have been a space between the
top of the strong-room and the floor of the poop
cabin.”

“It’s a curious place to stow a box of gold. You
can understand their putting the sham case in the
strong-room if they meant to wreck the boat; but
then why didn’t they ship the genuine stuff by another
vessel?”

“That,” said Bethune, smiling, “is the point where
my theory breaks down. The only explanation I can
think of seems too far-fetched to mention.”

“We will let it go,” Mrs. Jaques interposed quickly.
“What do you suggest doing with the gold you
brought home?”

“We’ll take it to the underwriters and press for all
the salvage we can get. If they’re not inclined to be
liberal, we’ll go to court.”

“And the sham box? Will you give them that?”
Mrs. Jaques asked.

Jimmy had been expecting the question, and he saw
that he must speak. He knew that a fraud had been
plotted in connection with the wreck; but it was not
his business to investigate the matter. He admitted
that this view might be challenged, but he was determined
to act upon it. Suspicion rested on Osborne;
but Jimmy had made up his mind that, whatever happened,
Ruth should not suffer on his account. No sorrow
or hint of shame must rest on her. Moreover, he
had, in a sense, made Clay a promise; the dying man
had trusted him.

“I claim that case,” he said quietly. “I told Clay
I’d give it to Osborne.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then
Jaques looked up.

“Well,” he said, “I’m not sure that’s not the best
way out of it. What’s your idea, Mr. Bethune?”

“On the whole, I agree with you. Somebody may
have meant to wreck the vessel, but we have no proof
to offer; and, after all, it’s the gold that concerns us,
and the underwriters who paid for it when lost will
get it back. This ought to satisfy them; and I don’t
see that it’s our part to go any further into the matter.”
He smiled as he added: “I’ll admit it’s a
course that seems likely to save us a good deal of
trouble.”

They decided to deposit the gold in the vaults of
an express company in Victoria, and that Bethune
should then open negotiations with the insurers.

“I guess I could sell the *Cetacea* for you at
a moderate price,” Jaques said. “One of the boys here
thinks of going into the deep-water fishery.”

“I’d be sorry to part with the boat, but we have
no use for her,” Jimmy replied. “Our idea is that
if we can get enough from the insurance people we
might make a venture in the towing and transport
line. A small wooden, propeller tug wouldn’t cost
very much; and we might even begin with a big launch
or two.”

“It ought to pay,” declared Jaques. “The coasting
trade’s pretty good; in fact, I often have to wait
some time before I can get my truck brought up.”

“It’s only beginning,” Bethune said. “The coastline
of this province is still practically undeveloped,
but it’s studded with splendid natural harbors, and
the extension of the new railroads to the sea will give
trade a big impetus. The men who get in first will
make their profit. Of course, I’m looking forward
a few years to the time when the narrow waters will
be covered with steamboats, but in the meanwhile
there’s a living to be picked up by towing booms for
the sawmills and collecting small freight among the
northern settlements.”

He spoke with enthusiasm, and Jaques looked
eager.

“I guess you’re right. First of all, you have to
see the underwriters; then if you have any use for a
few more dollars, let me know. I might help you in
several ways.”

They talked the project over, though Bethune and
Jaques took the leading part, and Jimmy sat by Mrs.
Jaques in a state of quiet content. At the cost of much
hardship and toil, he had done what he had undertaken,
and now a promising future was opening up.
He had confidence in Bethune’s judgment; the path
they were starting on might lead to fortune. The
thought of Ruth Osborne beckoned Jimmy forward.
He was determined that none of the obstacles they
would no doubt meet with should turn him aside. He
had not his partner’s versatile genius, but he was endowed
with a cool courage and a stubborn tenacity
which were likely to carry him far.

With a gesture his hostess indicated her husband
and Bethune.

“They’re getting keen, but I must say that Tom’s
not often mistaken in business matters. He seems to
think your prospects are good.”

“We must try to make them good,” Jimmy responded.
“It was a fortunate thing for us that we
met your husband. We were in a very tight place
when he helped us.”

“I’ve wondered why you didn’t go to sea again before
that happened. It would have been the easiest
way out of your troubles.”

Jimmy grew confidential.

“I had a strong reason for not wishing to leave the
province.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Jaques, and beamed upon
him. “I understand. I hope you have made a wise
choice. Falling in love is rather a serous thing. I
suppose she’s pretty?”

“She’s beautiful!”

Mrs. Jaques smiled.

“So you stayed in Vancouver on her account! She
would naturally wish to keep you.”

“I have no reason for believing that,” Jimmy answered
with a downcast expression.

“You mean—”

Mrs. Jaques gave him a searching look before she
finished her sentence:

“—that you don’t know whether she is fond of you
or not?”

Jimmy hesitated, and the blood crept into his face
as he thought of the night he had helped Ruth out of
the launch.

“It may be a long time before I find out,” he said.
“The trouble is that she’s a rich man’s daughter.”

“What is his name? Your confidence is safe.”

“Osborne.”

Mrs. Jaques showed her surprise, and Jimmy
laughed.

“Oh, of course you think I’m mad. Now and then
I feel sure of it myself.”

She studied him quietly for a moment. He was
handsome, and had an honest, good-humored face,
but there was a hint of force in it. He looked reliable,
a man to trust, and Mrs. Jaques had a warm
liking for him.

“No,” she said; “I don’t think so. Perhaps you’re
rash; but, after all, daring’s better than cautious timidity—it
carries one farther. Of course, there will
be difficulties; but I wouldn’t despair. This a country
where a bold man has many chances.”

“Thank you,” murmured Jimmy. “You have
made me hopeful.” He looked up abruptly as Bethune
addressed him. “Oh, yes,” he said hastily. “Quite
so.”

“Quite so!” exclaimed Bethune. “My impression
is that you haven’t heard a word I said.”

“I believe that’s possible,” Mrs. Jaques laughed.
“However, he has a good excuse. You can’t blame
him for talking to me.”

The party broke up soon afterward, and the next
morning the sloop sailed for Victoria. Jimmy spent
several anxious days in the city before he got a telegram
from Bethune informing him that he had come
to terms with the underwriters. They were more liberal
than Jimmy had hoped, and he thought there
should be money enough to launch the new venture
in a modest way. He gave the express company orders
to deliver the gold, and then set off to visit Osborne.

It was evening when he reached the house. He entered
it longing to see Ruth and wondering how she
would greet him, but disturbed about his meeting with
her father. He was shown at once into the library,
and Osborne rose to receive him.

“Aynsley Clay told me that you would call, and I
am glad you have done so,” he said cordially. “I
hope you will stay for a few days.”

“Thanks, I’m afraid not,” Jimmy answered. “Perhaps
I had better get my business done. I really
came because Clay asked it; he made me promise to
bring you something. I left it in the hall.”

Osborne rang a bell and a square package neatly
sewed up in canvas was brought in. Jimmy placed
it on the table as soon as they were alone, and began
to cut the stitches.

“I don’t know whether you’ll be surprised or not,”
he said, as he uncovered a strong wooden box which
showed signs of having long been soaked in water.

“That!” exclaimed Osborne, dropping into the
nearest chair. “Who found that box?”

“I did—in the steamer’s strong-room.”

Beads of perspiration stood on Osborne’s forehead,
and he was breathing with difficulty.

“Do you know—what it contains?” he gasped.

“Yes,” Jimmy answered quietly. “It isn’t gold.
Some of the stuff is still inside but I took the rest out
to save weight.”

Osborne leaned back in his chair, limp from the
shock.

“When did you find it?” he asked.

“About eight months ago, roughly speaking.”

“And Clay knew about it all along?”

“No. We didn’t tell him until a week before his
death.”

“That sounds curious,” Osborne said suspiciously.
“Since you were silent so long, why did you speak
about the thing at last?”

“It looked as if we might have trouble. Clay could
have prevented our working, and when he came off
to talk matters over we told him about the case. In
the end, he lent us his diver and all the assistance he
could.”

“And was that the only concession he made?”

“Yes,” said Jimmy with a flush. “It was all we
demanded and all we got. It would simplify things
if you took that for granted.”

“I suppose you know you were easily satisfied?”
Osborne’s tone was ironical.

Jimmy made no response.

“Am I to understand that the case is mine absolutely,
to do what I like with?” Osborne asked.

“Yes. You may regard it as a gift from Clay.”

“Who knows anything about the matter besides
yourself?”

“My two partners, and a storekeeper who financed
us, and his wife. They’re to be trusted. I’ll answer
for them.”

“Well,” said Osborne quietly, “you’ll allow me to
remark that you and your friends seem to have acted
in a very honorable manner. That Clay should send
me the case was, in a sense, characteristic of him; but
I had no claim on you. If you won’t resent it, I
should like to thank you for the line you have taken.”

“I haven’t finished my errand yet. You probably
know that we salved a quantity of the gold, but you
cannot have heard that we recovered and have accounted
for every package that was insured.”

Osborne looked puzzled. He indicated the box on
the table.

“You mean counting this one?”

“No; we found a duplicate, containing gold of rather
more than the declared weight, on which the underwriters
have paid our salvage claim.”

Osborne started, and his face expressed blank astonishment.

“But it sounds impossible! I can’t understand—”

“It’s puzzling,” Jimmy agreed. “There’s obviously
a mystery; but, after talking the thing over,
my partners and I decided that we wouldn’t try to
unravel it.”

“Perhaps you are wise. You are certainly considerate.
But, still, I don’t see—Did you find the
thing in the strong-room?”

“Not in the room. Clay showed me where to cut
a hole in the roof. He crawled through and brought
out the box. I imagine it was hidden among the deckbeams,
but we hadn’t time to examine the place.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Osborne; for a light dawned on
him as he remembered his partner’s determined attempt
to break through the cabin floor on the night of the
wreck. “Perhaps you are right. So the insurance
people paid your claim and asked no questions. Did
they seem satisfied?”

“Yes. I think the matter’s closed.”

There was keen relief in Osborne’s face, and the
slackness of his pose suggested the sudden relaxing of
a heavy strain. He sat very still for a few moments
and then got up.

“Mr. Farquhar,” he said, “you must guess the satisfaction
with which I have heard your news. Indeed,
I feel that I must think over it quietly. If you
will excuse me for a while, Miss Dexter and my daughter
will be glad to entertain you.”

“But I must get back as soon as possible,” Jimmy
objected, feeling that to stay, as he longed to do, would
be embarrassing both to himself and to his host.

“You can’t leave before to-morrow,” said Osborne,
smiling. “There’s no night boat now, the launch is
under repairs, and my car’s in town. I’m afraid
you’ll have to put up with our hospitality.”

He rang the bell, and when Jimmy left him he sat
down with knitted brows. He wondered where Clay
had got the gold. Then suddenly his fist clenched
tightly and his frown grew deeper: he remembered
that somebody had worked out the alluvial mine before
they reached it. There was cause for grave suspicion
there, particularly as the case had been put on
board secretly, without appearing on the ship’s papers,
which would have brought it to Osborne’s knowledge.

The box of gold, however, was not of the first importance.
Clay, on his deathbed, perhaps by way of
making reparation, had sent him a gift which had
banished the apprehensions that had haunted him for
years. Whatever Clay had done, Osborne could forgive
him now. At last he was a free man: the only
evidence against him was in his hands, and he meant
to destroy it at once. After all, he had bitterly regretted
his one great offense; and his partner’s last act
had been to save him from its consequences.

CHAPTER XXXII—THE BARRIERS GO DOWN
==================================

When Jimmy was shown into the large, cool
drawing-room, he stood awkwardly still, with
a thrill of keen satisfaction and an effort for self-control.
He had so far seen little of Osborne’s house,
and the beauty of the room had its effect on him.
Curtains, rugs, furniture and pictures formed harmonies
of soft color and delicate design, which seemed
to him a fitting environment for the occupant of the
room.

Ruth wore a clinging evening dress, and Jimmy had
hitherto seen her only in traveling and outing clothes.
He could not have told how the dress was cut, nor
have described its shade, but he knew it was exactly
what she ought to wear. The way it hung about her
hinted at the graceful lines of her figure; it matched
the purity of her coloring and showed up the gloss of
her hair. But although the effect was admirable, it
was daunting, in a sense. She was wonderfully beautiful
and in her proper place; he felt himself rough
and awkward, and was conscious of his disadvantages.

Then, as she came toward him, his heart began beating
hard. He thought of their last meeting with embarrassment.
He had expected to find some change
of manner in her that would, so to speak, keep him
at a distance. There was, however, no hint of this.
It looked as if she had not forgotten how he had helped
her from the launch, but had somehow recognized
it and its consequences. He was not a clever reader
of other people’s minds, but he knew that they were
nearer than they had ever been before.

As she gave him her hand Ruth smiled up at him,
but she spoke in a very matter-of-fact voice.

“I am glad you have come at last. It is pleasant
to know that you have got back safely.” She pouted
prettily. “No doubt you had some business with my
father, which explains the visit.”

“It gave me an excuse for doing what I wished.”

“Did you need an excuse? We gave you an open
invitation.”

“I felt that I did,” Jimmy answered slowly; and
Ruth understood. He was diffident but proud, and
shrank from entering her circle by favor. She preferred
that he should regard her, however, not as the
daughter of a rich man but as an attractive woman.

“You are too retiring,” she rebuked him smilingly.
“But I shall not begin by finding fault. I want you
to tell me some of your exciting adventures. Aynsley
Clay was here, but he could not tell us much about you—and
he was, of course, in trouble.”

“Yes,” said Jimmy softly. “I’m sorry for him.
He’s a man you soon feel a strong liking for; and there
was a good deal to admire in his father. In fact, we
were on very friendly terms during the last few days
we spent at the wreck.”

Ruth was silent for a moment. Then:

“Tell me about the wreck,” she requested.

“It’s rather a long story, and you may find it tiresome.”

“I’ve asked you to tell it.”

Jimmy was glad of the opportunity, because he was
determined that she should have no cause to doubt her
father. There was much still unexplained, but she
must not suspect this, for it was unthinkable that she
should bear any trouble from which he could save her.
Still, he saw that he must be careful, for there were
points which needed delicate handling.

While he began the narrative Ruth studied him carefully.
He looked very virile and handsome with his
bronzed skin, his steady eyes, and his figure fined
down by privation and toil. Indeed, he had somehow
an air of distinction; but he had changed and developed
since she first met him. This was a different
man from the pleasant, easy-going steamship officer.
He had grown alert and determined, but he had lost
nothing of his sincerity. He could be trusted without
reserve, and she felt that she liked him even better than
before.

His story of their adventures in the North was
deeply interesting to the girl; and she prompted him
with leading questions now and then, for she was
keenly anxious to learn the truth about the wreck.
For the last few months she had been troubled by dark
suspicions.

“But, in spite of everything, you reached the gold!”
she exclaimed at last.

“Yes,” said Jimmy, seizing the opening he had
waited for. “We got it all.”

“All!” For a moment Ruth was thrown off her
guard by a shock of relief that was poignant in its intensity.

“I believe so,” Jimmy answered. “Anyway, we
got every case that was insured. The underwriters
seemed perfectly satisfied.”

A wave of color flushed Ruth’s face. She had, it
seemed, tormented herself without a cause. Her father,
whom she had suspected, was innocent. There
was no dark secret attached to the wreck, as she had
unjustly thought. Jimmy had banished her fears.
The hardships he had borne had bought her release
from a haunting dread.

She realized that he might wonder at her agitation,
but, after all, this did not count. She was carried
away by gratitude to him.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, feeling the
inadequacy of the words. “It makes a thrilling tale.”

“If it has pleased you, I’m content.”

“Pleased me! Well, I can assure you that it has
done so.”

“Then I’m rewarded,” said Jimmy boldly, losing
his head as he saw the gratitude in her eyes. “That’s
all I wanted; finding the gold is less important.”

Ruth saw what was happening; his restraint was
breaking down, and she meant to give it the last
blow.

“And yet you must have been determined to get the
gold, since all you had to face didn’t daunt you.”

“Yes,” said Jimmy with a steady look, “I wanted
it badly, for a purpose.”

“Didn’t you want it for itself? That would have
been a very natural thing.” Ruth hesitated. “But
you haven’t mentioned your real reason.”

He gathered courage from the glance she gave him,
though the next moment she turned her head.

“I’m half afraid, but it must be told. I was a
steamboat mate without a ship, a laborer about the
wharves and mills, and all the time I had a mad ambition
locked up in my heart. Then my partner, Bethune,
showed me a chance of realizing it, and I took
that chance.”

“It must have been a strong ambition that sent you
up to fight with the gales and ice.”

“It was. In fact, it was stronger than my judgment.
I knew it was a forlorn hope, but I couldn’t
give it up. You see, I had fallen in love with a girl.”

“Ah! I wonder when that happened? Was it
one night when you met the Sound steamer with your
launch?”

“Oh, no; long before that. It began one afternoon
at Yokohama, when a girl in a dust-veil and the prettiest
dress I’d ever seen came up the *Empress’s* gangway.”

“Then it must have been very sudden,” Ruth answered
with a blush and a smile. “The veil was
rather thick, and she didn’t speak to you.”

“That didn’t matter. She smiled her thanks, when
I drew away a rope, and I’d never got so sweet and gracious
a look. After that there were calm evenings
when the *Empress* swung gently over the smooth
heave and the girl left her friends and walked up and
down the deck with me. I knew I was a presumptuous
fool, but as soon as my watch was over I used
to wait with an anxious heart, hoping that she might
come.”

“And sometimes she didn’t.”

“Those were black nights,” said Jimmy. “While
I waited I tried to think it would be better if I saw
no more of her. But I knew all the time that I couldn’t
take that prudent course.” He paused with an appealing
gesture. “Ruth, haven’t I said enough?”

“Not quite. Did you think, when you went to find
the wreck, that your success would make me think of
you with more favor?”

“If the wreck had been full of gold, it would not
have made me your equal; but I knew what your
friends would think. It would have been insufferable
that you should have had to apologize to them for
me.”

Ruth gave him a smile that sent a thrill through
him.

“Dear,” he said suddenly, “I want you—that’s all
in the world that matters.”

She yielded shyly when he gathered her to him;
and the little gilt clock on the mantel, with its poised
Cupid, seemed to tick exultantly in the silence that followed.

A half-hour had passed when they heard footsteps
in the hall, and Osborne came in. He glanced at them
sharply, and Jimmy’s triumphant air and Ruth’s blush
confirmed his suspicions.

“Ah!” he said. “I imagine you have something
to tell me?”

“That is true,” said Jimmy; and Ruth smiled at her
father.

“There is no reason why you should object, and you
needn’t pretend to be vexed!” she pouted.

“I think Mr. Farquhar and I must have a talk,”
Osborne answered quietly.

He made Jimmy sit down when Ruth had left them.

“Now,” he began, “I’ll confess to some surprise,
and though, from what I’ve seen and heard of you, I
can find no fault of a personal nature, there are some
drawbacks.”

“Nobody realizes that better than myself,” Jimmy
answered ruefully. “In fact, I can honestly say that
they seemed serious enough to prevent my hopes from
ever being realized until half an hour ago. The only
excuse I can make is that I love your daughter.”

“It’s a good one, but, unfortunately, it doesn’t quite
cover all the ground. May I ask about your plans for
the future?”

“I’m afraid they’re not very ambitious, but they
may lead to something. My partners and I intend to
start a small towing and transport business with the
salvage money.”

Osborne asked for an outline of the scheme, and
listened with interest while Jimmy supplied it. The
venture had obviously been well thought out, and he
believed it would succeed. Farquhar and his friends
had carried out their salvage operations in spite of
Clay’s opposition, which spoke well for their resourcefulness
and determination. Knowing something of his
late partner’s methods, he could imagine the difficulties
they had had to meet.

“I think you have chosen a suitable time, because
it looks as if we were about to see a big extension of
the coasting trade,” he said. “There is, however, the
disadvantage that you’ll have to start in a small way.
Now it’s possible that I might find you some more
capital.”

“No, thanks!” said Jimmy firmly. “We have
made up our minds not to borrow.”

Osborne gave him a dry smile.

“I suppose that means that you don’t see your way
to taking any help from me?”

Jimmy felt embarrassed. As a matter of fact, he
still suspected Osborne of complicity in some scheme
to make an unlawful profit out of the wreck; and in
that sense his offer might be regarded as a bribe.

“We feel that it would be better if we stood, so to
speak, on our own feet,” he said.

“Perhaps you’re right. However, I don’t think you
need object if I’m able to put any business in your
way; but this is not what I meant to talk about. I
cannot consent to an engagement just now, but after
you have been twelve months in business you may
come to me again, and we’ll see what progress you are
making.”

“And in the meanwhile?” Jimmy asked anxiously.

“You are both free; I make no other stipulation.
If Miss Dexter approves, my house is open to you.”

A few minutes afterward Jimmy found Ruth in the
hall.

“Well?” she asked. “Was he very formidable?”

“I believe I got off better than I deserved.” Jimmy
told her what Osborne had insisted on.

“So you are free for another year! I wonder
whether you’re fickle.”

“I’m bound hand and foot forever! What’s more,
I’ll hug my chains. But your father hinted that if I
wished to see you, I’d have to win your aunt’s approval.”

“That won’t be hard,” Ruth laughed. “If you
have no confidence in your own merits, you can leave
it to me. Now, perhaps, you had better come and see
her.”

Miss Dexter spent some time talking to Jimmy, and
he found her blunt questions embarrassing; but she
afterward remarked to her niece: “I like your sailor.
He looks honest, and that is the great thing. Still,
for some reasons, I’m sorry you didn’t take Aynsley,
whom I’m fond of. It’s curious how little that young
man resembles his father.”

“Clay had his good points,” Ruth said warmly.
“He was very generous, and, although I don’t quite
understand the matter, I think he really lost his life
because he wanted to clear himself of all suspicion for
his son’s sake.”

“It’s possible; there was something very curious
about the wreck. He was a brigand, my dear; perhaps
a rather gallant and magnanimous one, but a brigand,
for all that.”

Osborne had come in quietly while she was talking.

“I owe Clay a good deal, and feel that he deserved
more sympathy than he got,” he said. “He had his
detractors, but the people who found most fault with
him were not above suspicion themselves.”

“You are all brigands at heart,” Miss Dexter declared.

“I’m afraid there’s some truth in that,” Osborne admitted
with a smile.

Jimmy left the house the next morning, and soon
after he opened his modest office in Vancouver Aynsley
called on him.

“I’ve come to congratulate you, first of all,” he
said. “No doubt, you know you are an exceptionally
lucky man.”

“I’m convinced of it,” Jimmy answered. “But in
a sense, you’re premature; I’m only on probation
yet.”

He was conscious of some embarrassment, because
he had learned from Clay about Aynsley’s affection
for Ruth.

“Well, there’s another matter. We raft a good
deal of lumber down to the sea for shipment, and now
and then buy logs of special quality on the coast. I
don’t see why you shouldn’t do our towing for us. I
suppose you’re open for business?”

“We surely are.” Jimmy gave him a steady look.
“You’re very generous in offering me a lift up.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then
Aynsley smiled.

“I’ll admit that if I’d ever had a chance before you
entered the field, I might have felt very bitter, but I
know I hadn’t one from the first. As Ruth has taken
you, I’m trying sincerely to wish you both happiness;
and, if you don’t mind my putting it so, I’ve a feeling
that she might have chosen worse.”

“Thank you!”

“Well, we’ll let that go. I suspect my father had
some reason for being grateful to you; he gave me
the impression that you had taken a load off his mind.
I’m in your debt on that score, but quite apart from
this, it might be advantageous to both of us if you did
our towing. Suppose we see what we can make of it
as a business proposition?”

They had arrived at a satisfactory arrangement when
Aynsley left the office, and during the next few weeks
more work was offered the new firm than they could
comfortably attend to. In a few months they decided
to buy a large and powerful tug, which was
somewhat out of repair, and after refitting her they
found that they were able to keep her busy. Then
they were fortunate in towing one or two exceptionally
large booms of logs safely down the coast in bad
weather, and it soon became known that they could
be relied on. When the work was difficult Jimmy
took charge of it in person with Moran’s help, while
Bethune attended to the office and secured the good
opinion of their customers.

It was, however, not until early in the next year
that they really made their mark. A big American
collier had stranded and been damaged when approaching
the Wellington mines, and Jimmy assisted the salvors
in getting her off. Then the owners, deciding
that it would be cheaper to send her home for repairs,
asked for tenders for towing her to Portland. Getting
a hint from the captain, Jimmy hurried back and held
a consultation with his partners.

“We must get this contract, even if we make nothing
out of it,” Bethune declared. “It’s our first big
job and will give us a chance of showing what we can
do. I suppose you feel confident about taking her
down the coast?”

“It won’t be easy. She has lost her propeller and
carried her stern-frame away. The jury rudder they
have rigged won’t steer her well, and I don’t think
the plates they’ve bolted on to her torn bilge will keep
out much water if she gets straining hard. However,
I’ll try it if you can find me another tug. She’s too
big for one boat to hold.”

“There’s the old *Guillemot*. We ought to get her
cheap on a short charter.”

Jimmy told him to see what he could do, and the
next day Bethune sent off a formal offer. On receiving
it, the managing owner of the collier crossed the
boundary to consult with the captain.

“I’d like to give the San Francisco people the contract,”
he said. “They’re accustomed to this kind of
thing, and their boats are the best on the Pacific. They
ask a big sum, but I feel we can rely on them.”

“You can rely on Farquhar. The salvage gang
wouldn’t have got her off if it hadn’t been for him.”

“I understand his firm’s a small one. His bid’s
low, but he says he can tow her down.”

“Then you had better let him,” advised the captain.
“What that man undertakes he’ll do. I’ve seen him at
work.”

He said more to the same purpose, with the result
that Bethune secured the contract, and Jimmy left
Vancouver with two tugs immediately afterward.
They passed Victoria with the broken-down vessel in
fine weather, but that night it began to blow, and the
gale that followed lasted a fortnight. What was
worse, it blew for the most part straight in from the
Pacific, piling a furious surf on shore. Three days
after Jimmy left the Strait, the chartered tug put back
with engines disabled, badly battered by the gale.
Her skipper stated that he had left Jimmy with a
broken hawser, hanging on to the collier, which was
dragging him to leeward, nearer the dangerous coast.
After that an incoming steamer reported having passed
a disabled vessel with a tug standing by in the middle
of a furious gale, but although in a dangerous position,
she showed no signals and the weather prevented
a close approach. Then there was no news for some
time.

When offers to reinsure the collier were asked for,
Bethune was summoned to Osborne’s house. He
found it difficult to express a hopeful view, and Ruth’s
anxious look haunted him long after he left. Then,
as public interest was excited in the fate of the missing
vessel, paragraphs about her began to appear in
the newspapers. It was suggested that she and the
tug had foundered in deep water, since no wreckage
had been found along the coast.

At last, when hope had almost gone, she reeled in
across the smoking Columbia bar one wild morning
with her tug ahead, and Jimmy found himself famous
when he brought her safe into harbor. Escaping from
the reporters, he went off in search of coal, and put
to sea as soon as he could; but the grateful captain
talked, and the papers made a sensational story of
the tow. It appeared that Jimmy had smashed two
boats in replacing broken hawsers in a dangerous sea,
and had held on to the disabled vessel while she drove
up to the edge of the breakers that hammered a rocky
coast. Then a sudden shift of wind saved them, but
the next night the collier broke adrift, and he spent
two days stubbornly searching for her in the haze and
spray. She was in serious peril when he found her,
but again he towed her clear, and afterward fought a
long, stern fight that seemed bound to be a losing one
against the fury of the sea.

Jimmy arrived in Vancouver early one morning,
and that afternoon he reached Osborne’s house, looking
gaunt and worn. Osborne met him in the hall and
gave him his hand in a very friendly manner.

“I must congratulate you,” he said. “You have
lifted your firm into first rank by one bold stroke. If
you allow your friends to help you, there’s an opportunity
for a big development of your business.”

“That isn’t what concerns me most,” Jimmy replied
meaningly.

“Well,” smiled Osborne, “I think I’m safe in trusting
Ruth to you. Though the year’s not up yet, you
have made good.”

As Ruth came forward Osborne moved away, and
the girl looked at Jimmy with glowing eyes before she
yielded herself to his arms.

“I’ve been hearing wonderful things about you,
dear, but, after all, I knew what you could do, and
now I only want to realize that I’ve got you safely
back,” she said.

.. class:: center

   THE END

| POPULAR COPYRIGHT NOVELS
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| Abner Daniel … *Will N. Harben*
| Adventures of a Modest Man … *Robert W. Chambers*
| Adventures of Sherlock Holmes … *A. Conan Doyle*
| After House, The … *Mary Roberts Rinehart*
| Ailsa Paige … *Robert W. Chambers*
| Air Pilot, The … *Randall Parrish*
| Alton of Somasco … *Harold Bindloss*
| Andrew The Glad … *Maria Thompson Daviess*
| Ann Boyd … *Will N. Harben*
| Anna the Adventuress … *E. Phillips Oppenheim*
| Armchair at the Inn, The … *F. Hopkinson Smith*
| As the Sparks Fly Upward … *Cyrus Townsend Brady*
| At the Mercy of Tiberius … *Augusta Evans Wilson*
| At the Moorings … *Rosa N. Carey*
| Aunt Jane of Kentucky … *Eliza Calvert Hall*
| Awakening of Helena Richie … *Margaret Deland*
|
| Bandbox, The … *Louis Joseph Vance*
| Bar 20 … *Clarence E. Mulford*
| Bar 20 Days … *Clarence E. Mulford*
| Barrier, The … *Rex Beach*
| Battle Ground, The … *Ellen Glasgow*
| Bella Donna … *Robert Hichens*
| Beloved Vagabond, The … *William J. Locke*
| Ben Blair … *Will Lillibridge*
| Beth Norvell … *Randall Parrish*
| Betrayal, The … *E. Phillips Oppenheim*
| Beulah (Illustrated Edition) … *Augusta J. Evans*
| Bob Hampton of Placer … *Randall Parrish*
| Bob, Son of Battle … *Alfred Ollivant*
| Brass Bowl, The … *Louis Joseph Vance*
| Broad Highway, The … *Jeffery Farnol*
| Bronze Bell, The … *Louis Joseph Vance*
| Buck Peters, Ranchman … *Clarence E. Mulford*
| Butterfly Man, The … *George Barr McCutcheon*
| By Right of Purchase … *Harold Bindloss*
|
| Cabbages and Kings … *O. Henry*
| Calling of Dan Matthews, The … *Harold Bell Wright*
| Call of the Blood, The … *Robert Hichens*
| Cape Cod Stories … *Joseph C. Lincoln*
| Cap’n Eri … *Joseph C. Lincoln*
| Cap’n Warren’s Wards … *Joseph C. Lincoln*
| Cardigan … *Robert W. Chambers*
| Car of Destiny, The … *C. N. and A. M. Williamson*
| Carpet From Bagdad, The … *Harold MacGrath*
| Casting Away of Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine … *F. R. Stockton*
| Chaperon, The … *C. N. and A. M. Williamson*
| Circle, The … *Katherine Cecil Thurston*
| Claw, The … *Cynthia Stockley*
| Colonial Free Lance, A … *Chauncey C. Hotchkiss*
| Coming of the Law, The … *Charles Alden Seltzer*
| Conquest of Canaan, The … *Booth Tarkington*
| Conspirators, The … *Robert W. Chambers*
| Cordelia Blossom … *George Randolph Chester*
| Counsel for the Defense … *Leroy Scott*
| Cry in the Wilderness, A … *Mary E. Waller*
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| Dark Hollow, The … *Anna Katharine Green*
| Day of Days, The … *Louis Joseph Vance*
| Depot Master, The … *Joseph C. Lincoln*
| Derelicts … *William J. Locke*
| Desired Woman, The … *Will N. Harben*
| Destroying Angel, The … *Louis Joseph Vance*
| Divine Fire, The … *May Sinclair*
| Dixie Hart … *Will N. Harben*
| Dominant Dollar, The … *Will Lillibridge*
| Dr. David … *Marjorie Benton Cooke*
|
| Enchanted Hat, The … *Harold MacGrath*
| Excuse Me … *Rupert Hughes*
|
| 54-40 or Fight … *Emerson Hough*
| Fighting Chance, The … *Robert W. Chambers*
| Financier, The … *Theodore Dreiser*
| Flamsted Quarries … *Mary E. Waller*
| For a Maiden Brave … *Chauncey C. Hotchkiss*
| Four Million, The … *O. Henry*
| From the Car Behind … *Eleanor M. Ingraham*
| Fruitful Vine, The … *Robert Hichens*
|
| Gentleman of France, A … *Stanley Weyman*
| Get-Rich-Quick-Wallingford … *George Randolph Chester*
| Gilbert Neal … *Will N. Harben*
| Girl From His Town, The … *Marie Van Vorst*
| Glory of Clementina, The … *William J. Locke*
| Glory of the Conquered, The … *Susan Glaspell*
| God’s Good Man … *Marie Corelli*
| Going Some … *Rex Beach*
| Gordon Craig … *Randall Parrish*
| Greyfriars Bobby … *Eleanor Atkinson*
| Guests of Hercules, The … *C. N. and A. M. Williamson*
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| Happy Island (Sequel to Uncle William) … *Jennette Lee*
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| Heart of the Desert, The … *Honore Willsie*
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| Herb of Grace … *Rosa N. Carey*
| Highway of Fate, The … *Rosa N. Carey*
| Homesteaders, The … *Kate and Virgil D. Boyles*
| Hopalong Cassidy … *Clarence E. Mulford*
| Honor of the Big Snows, The … *James Oliver Curwood*
| House of Happiness, The … *Kate Langley Bosher*
| House of the Lost Court, The … *C. N. Williamson*
| House of the Whispering Pines, The … *Anna K. Green*
| Household of Peter, The … *Rosa N. Carey*
| Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker … *S. Weir Mitchell, M.D.*
| Husbands of Edith, The … *George Barr McCutcheon*
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| In Defiance of the King … *Chauncey C. Hotchkiss*
| Indifference of Juliet, The … *Grace S. Richmond*
| Inez (Illustrated Edition) … *Augusta J. Evans*
| Infelice … *Augusta Evans Wilson*
| Initials Only … *Anna Katharine Green*
| Iron Trail, The … *Rex Beach*
| Iron Woman, The … *Margaret Deland*
| Ishmael (Illustrated) … *Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southward*
| Island of Regeneration, The … *Cyrus Townsend Brady*
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| Jane Cable … *George Barr McCutcheon*
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| Key to the Unknown, The … *Rosa N. Carey*
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| Knave of Diamonds, The … *Ethel M. Dell*
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| Lady Betty Across the Water … *C. N. and A. M. Williamson*
| Land of Long Ago, The … *Eliza Calvert Hall*
| Langford of the Three Bars … *Kate and Virgil D. Boyles*
| Last Trail, The … *Zane Grey*
| Last Voyage of the Donna Isabel, The … *Randall Parrish*
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| Lighted Way, The … *E. Phillips Oppenheim*
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| Lonesome Land … *B. M. Bower*
| Lord Loveland Discovers America *C. N. and A. M. Williamson*
| Lorimer of the Northwest … *Harold Bindloss*
| Lorraine … *Robert W. Chambers*
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| Love Under Fire … *Randall Parrish*
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| Maid at Arms, The … *Robert W. Chambers*
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| Missioner, The … *E. Phillips Oppenheim*
| Miss Gibbie Gault … *Kate Langley Bosher*

|
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