So she was his daughter. I might have guessed it; would have guessed
it if I had possessed the commonest of common-sense. I might have known
that the auto was Colton's. No other machine was likely to be traveling
on the Lower Road at that season of the year. She was the pretty
daughter of whom Dorinda had spoken to Mother. Well, she was pretty
enough; even I had to admit that. But I admitted it grudgingly. I hated
her for her beauty and fine clothes and haughty arrogance. She was the
incarnation of snobbishness.
But to be made twice ridiculous even by the incarnation of snobbishness
was galling. She was to be my next-door neighbor; we were likely to
meet almost anywhere at any time. When I thought of this and of the two
meetings which had already taken place I swore at the blue and white
water-pitcher on my bureau because it did not contain water enough to
drown me. Not that I would commit suicide on her account. She would not
care if I did and certainly I did not care whether she would care or
not; but if I were satisfactorily dead I probably should not remember
what a fool I had made of myself, or Fate had made of me.
Why had I not got out of that library before she came? Oh, if not, why
hadn't I stayed and told her father, in her hearing, and with dignity,
just what I thought of him and his remarks to me? But no; I had run
away. She--or that Victor--would tell of the meeting at the bridge, and
all my independence and the rest of it would be regarded as of a piece
with that, just the big-headed “smartness” of a country boor. In their
eyes I was a nuisance, that was all. A disagreeable one, perhaps, like
the Shore Lane, but a nuisance, one to laugh at and forget--if it could
not be gotten rid of.
Why had I gone with Colton at all? Why hadn't I remained at the
boathouse and there told the King of New York to go to the mischief? or
words to that effect. But I had, at all events, told him that. In spite
of my chagrin I could not help chuckling as I thought of it. To tell Big
Jim Colton to go to the devil was, in its way, I imagined, a privilege
enjoyed by few. It must have shaken his self-satisfaction a trifle.
Well, after all, what did I care? He, and his whole family--including
Victor--had my permission to migrate in that direction and I wished Old
Nick joy of their company.
Having derived this much satisfaction from my reflections, I went
downstairs. Dorinda was setting the table for supper. She looked at me
as I came in.
“Been visitin', I hear,” she observed, wiping an imaginary speck from
the corner of a plate with her “afternoon” apron.
“Yes,” said I.
“Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “Have a good time?”
I smiled. “I had an interesting one,” I told her.
“Um-hm, I judged so, from what Lute said.”
“Where is Lute?”
“Out in the barn, beddin' down the horse. That is, I told him to do
that, but his head was so full of you and what you told him you said to
Mr. Colton that I shouldn't be surprised if he's bedded down the hens
and was huntin' in the manger for eggs.”
“Lute thinks I've gone crazy,” I observed.
“Um-hm. He was all for fetchin' the doctor right off, but I told him I
cal'lated we could bear with your ravin's for a spell. Did you say what
he said you said?”
“I'm afraid I did.”
“Um-hm. Well, it didn't do any good, did it?”
“Good? What do you mean?”
“I mean he didn't obey orders--Colton, that is.”
“He hadn't when I left.”
“I thought not. I never saw any good come from profane language yet;
and, besides, judgin' from what I hear about the way that Colton man
lives, and what he does on Sundays and all, he'll make the port you sent
him to when his time comes. All you need is patience.”
I laughed, and she began sorting the plated spoons. We had silver ones,
but Dorinda insisted on keeping those to use when we had company. In
consequence we used them about twice a year, when the minister came.
“Of course,” she said, “I ain't askin' you what happened over there or
why he wanted to see you. But I give you fair warnin' that, if I don't,
Lute will. Lute's so stuffed with curiosity that he's li'ble to bust the
stitches any minute.”
“I'll tell you both, at supper,” I said.
“Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “Well, I can wait, and Lute'll have to. By
the way,” she added, seeing me about to enter Mother's room, “if it's
anything too unpleasant I wouldn't worry Comfort with it. She'll want to
know, of course, but I'd sort of smooth the edges.”
Mother did want to know, and I told her, “smoothing the edges” all I
could. I omitted my final order to “Big Jim” and I said nothing whatever
about his daughter. Mother seemed to think I had done right in refusing
to sell, though, as usual, she was ready to make allowances for the
other side.
“Poor woman,” she said, “I suppose the noise of the wagons and all that
are annoying to any one with weak nerves. It must be dreadful to be in
that condition. I am so sorry for her.”
She meant it, too. But I, remembering the Colton mansion, what I had
seen of it, and contrasting its splendor with the bare necessity of
that darkened bedroom, found it hard to spare pity for the sufferer from
“nerves.”
“You needn't be,” I said, bitterly. “I imagine she wouldn't think of
you, if the conditions were reversed. I doubt if she thinks of any one
but herself.”
“You shouldn't say that, Roscoe. You don't know. You have never met
her.”
“I have met the rest of the family. No, Mother, I think you needn't be
sorry for that woman. She has everything under the sun. Whereas you--”
“Hush! hush! There is one thing she hasn't got. She hasn't a son like
you, Boy.”
“Humph! That must be a terrible deprivation. There! there! Mother, I
won't be disagreeable. Let's change the subject. Did Matilda Dean come
to see you this afternoon?”
“No. I presume she was too busy. But, Roscoe, it is plain enough why
Captain Dean spoke to you about the Lane at the office this morning. He
must have heard, somehow, that Mr. Colton wished to buy it.”
“Yes. Or, if he didn't hear just that, he heard enough to make him guess
the rest. He is pretty shrewd.”
“You promised him you wouldn't sell without telling him beforehand.
Shall you tell him of Mr. Colton's offer?”
“If he asks me, I shall, I suppose.”
“I wonder what he will do then. Do you suppose he will try to persuade
the Selectmen to buy the Lane for the town?”
“I don't know. I shouldn't wonder.”
“It will be harder to refuse the town's offer.”
“Yes. Although the town can't afford to pay Colton's prices. I believe
that man would have raised his bid to a thousand, if I had let him. As a
matter of business and nothing else, I suppose I am foolish not to push
the price as high as possible and then sell. The land is worthless to
us.”
“I know. But this isn't just a matter of business, is it? And we DON'T
need the money. We're not rich, but we aren't poor, are we, Boy.”
“No. No, of course not. But, Mother, just see what I could do--for
you--with a thousand dollars. Why, there are so many little things,
little luxuries, that you need.”
“I had rather not get them that way. No, Roscoe, I wouldn't sell to Mr.
Colton. And I think I wouldn't sell to the town either.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because we don't have to sell, and selling to either party would
make ill-feeling. I should--of course I'm only a woman; you are a man
and know much more about such things than I--but why not let matters
stay just as they are? The townspeople can use the Lane, just as they
have always done, and, as I told you before, every one has been so kind
to us that I like to feel we are doing a little in return. Let them use
the Lane, without cost. Why not?”
“What do you think the Coltons would say to that?”
“Perhaps they don't understand the real situation. The next time you see
Mr. Colton you could explain more fully; tell him what the Lane means to
the town, and so on. I'm sure he would understand, if you told him that.
And then, if the sight of the wagons was too annoying, he could put up
some kind of a screen, or plant a row of fir trees by the fence. Don't
you think so?”
I imagined the great man's reply to such a suggestion. However, I
did not express my thoughts. I told Mother not to worry, I was sure
everything would be all right, and, as Dorinda called me to supper, I
went into the dining-room.
Lute was waiting for me at the table, and Dorinda, after taking the
tray into Mother's room, joined us. Lute was so full of excitement and
curiosity that he almost forgot to eat, a miracle of itself and made
greater by the fact that he did not ask a single question until his wife
asked one first. Then he asked three in succession. Dorinda, who was
quite as curious as he but would not have shown it for the world,
stopped him at the beginning of the fourth.
“There! there!” she said, sharply, “this is supposed to be a meal, not a
parrot shop, and we're humans, not a passel of birds on a telegraph wire
all hollerin' at once. Drink your tea and stop your cawin', Lute Rogers.
Ros'll tell us when he gets ready. What DID Mr. Colton want of you,
Roscoe?”
I told them as much of the interview at the Coltons' as I thought
necessary they should know. Lute kept remarkably quiet, for him, until
I named the figure offered by the millionaire. Then he could hold in no
longer.
“Five hundred!” he repeated “Five hundred DOLLARS for the Shore Lane!
Five--”
“He raised it to six hundred and fifty before I left,” I said.
“SIX hundred! Six hundred--and FIFTY! For the Shore Lane! Six hun--”
“Sshh! shh!” cut in Dorinda. “You sound like Sim Eldredge sellin'
somethin' at auction. DO be quiet! And you told him, Roscoe--?”
“I told you what I told him,” I said.
“Um-hm. I ain't forgot it. Be quiet, Lute. Well, Roscoe, I cal'late you
know your own affairs best, but, judgin' from some hints Matildy Dean
hove out when she was here this afternoon, I don't believe you've heard
the last from that Shore Lane.”
“Matilda Dean!” I repeated. “Why, Mother said Matilda wasn't here
to-day.”
“Um-hm. Well, she was here, though Comfort didn't know it. I took pains
she shouldn't. Matildy come about three o'clock, in the buggy, along
with Nellie. Nellie was doin' the drivin', of course, and her mother
was tellin' her how, as usual. I don't wonder that girl is such a
meek, soft-spoken kind of thing. Between her pa's bullyin' and her ma's
tongue, it's a wonder she's got any spirit left. It would be a mercy if
George Taylor should marry her and take her out of that house. Matildy
had a new book on Spiritu'lism and she was figgerin' to read some of it
out loud to Comfort, but I headed her off. I know _I_ wouldn't want to
be all stirred up about 'tests' and 'materializations' and such, and so
I told her Comfort was asleep.”
“She wasn't asleep, neither,” declared Lute. “What did you tell such a
whopper as that for? You're always sailin' into me if I stretch a yarn
the least mite. Why, last April Fool Day you give me Hail Columby for
jokin' you about a mouse under the kitchen table. Called me all kinds of
names, you did--after you got down off the table.”
His wife regarded him scornfully. “It's pretty hard to remember which IS
that partic'lar day with you around,” she said. “I'd told Comfort she'd
ought to take a nap and if she wan't takin' it 'twan't my fault. I wan't
goin' to have her seein' her granddad's ghost in every corner. But,
anyhow, Matildy made a little call on me, and, amongst the million other
things she said, was somethin' about Cap'n Jed hearin' that Mr. Colton
was cal'latin' to shut off that Lane. Matildy hinted that her husband
and the Selectmen might have a little to say afore 'twas closed. If
that's so I guess you may hear from him as well as the Colton man,
Roscoe.”
“Perhaps,” I said. I could see no use in repeating my conversation with
Captain Jed.
Dorinda nodded.
“Goin' to tell the town to go--where you sent the other one?” she asked,
dryly.
“I don't know.”
“Humph! Well,” with some sarcasm, “it must be fine to be in a position
where money's no object. I never tried it, myself, but it sounds good.”
I did not answer.
“Um-hm,” she said. “Well, anyhow it looks to me--Lute, you keep
still--as if there was goin' to be two parties in Denboro afore this
Lane business is over. One for the Coltons and one against 'em. You'll
have to take one side or the other, won't you, Roscoe?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Goin' to set on the fence, hey?”
“That's a good place TO sit, isn't it?”
Dorinda smiled, grimly.
“If it's the right kind of a fence, maybe 'tis,” she observed.
“Otherwise the pickets are liable to make you uncomf'table after a
spell, I presume likely.”
I went out soon after this, for my evening smoke and walk by the bluff.
As I left the dining-room I heard Lute reiterating his belief that I
had gone crazy. Colton had said the same thing. I wondered what Captain
Jed's opinion would be.
Whether it was another phase of my insanity or not, I don't know, but
I woke the next morning in pretty good spirits. Remembrance of the
previous day's humiliations troubled me surprisingly little. They did
not seem nearly so great in the retrospect. What difference did it make
to me what that crowd of snobs did or said or thought?
However, there was just enough bitterness in my morning's review of
yesterday's happenings to make me a little more careful in my dress. I
did not expect to meet my aristocratic neighbors--I devoutly wished it
might be my good luck never to meet any of them again--but in making
selections from my limited wardrobe I chose with more thought than
usual. Dorinda noticed the result when I came down to breakfast.
“Got your other suit on, ain't you,” she observed.
“Yes,” said I.
“Goin' anywheres special?”
“No. Down to the boathouse, that's all.”
“Humph! I don't see what you put those blue pants on for. They're awful
things to show water spots. Did you leave your brown ones upstairs?
Um-hm. Well, I'll get at 'em some time to-day. I noticed they was
wearin' a little, sort of, on the bottoms of the legs.”
I had noticed it, too, and this reminder confirmed my suspicions that
others had made the same observations.
“I'll try and mend 'em this afternoon,” went on Dorinda, “if I can find
time. But, for mercy's sake, don't spot those all up, for I may not get
time, and then you'd have to wear your Sunday ones.”
I promised, curtly, to be careful, and, after saying good morning to
Mother, I went down to the boathouse and set to work on the engine. It
was the only thing in the nature of work that I had to do, but, somehow
or other, I did not feel like doing it any more than I had the day
before. A little of my good spirits were wearing off, like the legs of
my “other” trousers, and after an hour of intermittent tinkering I
threw down the wrench and decided to go for a row. The sun was shining
brightly, but the breeze was fresh, and, as my skiff was low in the
gunwale and there was likely to be some water flying, I put on an old
oilskin “slicker” and sou-wester before starting.
I had determined to row across the bay over to the lighthouse, and ask
Ben Small, the keeper, if there were any signs of fish alongshore. The
pull was a long one, but I enjoyed every stroke of it. The tide was
almost full, just beginning to ebb, so there was scarcely any current
and I could make a straight cut across, instead of following the
tortuous channel. My skiff was a flat bottomed affair, drawing very
little, but in Denboro bay, at low tide, even a flat-bottomed skiff has
to beware of sand and eel-grass.
Small was busy whitewashing, but he was glad to see me. If you keep a
lighthouse, the average lighthouse, you are glad to see anybody. He put
his brush into the pail and insisted on my coming to the house, because
“the old woman,” his wife, would want to hear “all the sewin' circle
news.” “It's the biggest hardship of her life,” said Ben, “that she has
to miss sewin' circle when the bay ices in. Soon's it clears she's at me
to row her acrost to the meetin's. I've took her to two this spring,
but she missed the last one, on account of this whitewashin', and she's
crazy to know who's been talked about now. If anything disgraceful has
happened for the land sakes tell her; then she'll he more reconciled.”
I had nothing disgraceful to tell, but Mrs. Small was glad to see
me, nevertheless. She brought out doughnuts and beach-plum jelly and
insisted on my sampling both, the doughnuts because they were just made
and she “mistrusted” there was too much flour in them, and the jelly
because it was some she had left over and she wanted to see if I thought
it was “keepin'” all right. After this, Ben took me out to see his
hens, and then we walked to the back of the beach and talked fish. The
forenoon was almost gone when I got back to the skiff. The tide had
ebbed so far that the lightkeeper and I had to pull the little boat
twenty feet to launch her.
“There!” said Ben, “now you're afloat, ain't you. Cal'late you'll have
to go way 'round Robin Hood's barn to keep off the flats. I forgot about
the tide or I wouldn't have talked so much. Hello! there's another craft
about your size off yonder. Somebody else out rowin'. Two somebodys. My
eyes ain't as good for pickin' em out as they used to be, but one of 'em
IS a female, ain't it?”
I looked over my shoulder, as I sat in the skiff and saw, out in the
middle of the bay, another rowboat with two people in it.
“That ain't a dory or a skiff,” shouted Ben, raising his voice as
I pulled away from him. “Way she sets out of water I'd call her a
lap-streak dingy. If that feller's takin' his girl out rowin' he'll have
to work his passage home against this tide . . . Well, so long, Ros.
Come again.”
I nodded a goodby, and settled down for my long row, a good deal longer
this time on account of the ebb. There was water enough on this side of
the bay, but on the village side the channel made a wide detour and
I should be obliged to follow it for nearly a mile up the bay, before
turning in behind the long sand bar which made out from the point beyond
my boathouse.
The breeze had gone down, which made rowing easier, but the pull of the
tide more than offset this advantage. However, I had mastered that tide
many times before and, except that the delay might make me late for
dinner, the prospect did not trouble me. I swung into the channel and
set the skiff's bow against the current. Then from the beach I had just
left I heard a faint hail. Turning my head, I saw Ben Small waving his
arms. He was shouting something, too, but I was too far away to catch
the words.
The lightkeeper continued to shout and wave. I lifted an oar to show
that he had my attention. He recognized the signal, and began pointing
out over the water astern of me. I looked where he was pointing. I could
not see anything out of the ordinary. Except for my own skiff and the
gulls, and the row boat with the two persons in it there was nothing
astir on the bay. But Ben kept on waving and pointing. At last I decided
that it must be the row boat he was pointing at. I stopped rowing and
looked.
The row boat was a good distance off and its occupants were but specks.
Now one of the specks stood up and waved its arms. So far as I could
see, the boat was drifting; there were no flashes of sunlight on wet
blades to show that the oars were in use. No, it was drifting, and, as I
looked, it swung broadside on. The standing figure continued to wave its
arms.
Those people must be in trouble of some sort, I decided, and it was
evident that Small thought so, too. There could no imminent danger
threaten for, on a day like this, with no sea running, there was nothing
to fear in the bay. If, however, they should drift out of the bay it
might be unpleasant. And they certainly were drifting. I resigned myself
to the indefinite postponement of my dinner, swung the skiff about, and
pulled as hard as I could in the direction of the row boat.
With the tide to help me I made good progress, but, even at that, it
took me some time to overtake the drifting craft. She was, as Ben had
said, a lap-streaked, keel-bottomed dingy--good enough as a yacht's
tender or in deep water, but the worst boat in the world to row about
Denboro bay at low tide. Her high rail caught what breeze there was
blowing and this helped to push her along. However, I got within easy
hailing distance after a while and called, over my shoulder, to ask what
was the matter.
A man's voice answered me.
“We've lost an oar,” he shouted. “We're drifting out to sea. Lend us a
hand, will you?”
“All right,” I answered. “I'll be there in a minute.”
Within the minute I was almost alongside. Then I turned, intending to
speak again; but I did not. The two persons in the dingy were Victor--I
did not know his other name--and Mabel Colton.
I was wearing the oilskin slicker and had pulled down the brim of
my sou'wester to keep the sun from my eyes; therefore they had not
recognized me before. And I, busy at the oars and looking over my
shoulder only occasionally, had not recognized them. Now the recognition
was mutual. Miss Colton spoke first.
“Why, Victor!” she said, “it is--”
“What?” asked her companion. Then, looking at me, “Oh! it's you, is it?”
I did not answer. Luck was certainly against me. No matter where I went,
on land or water, I was fated to meet these two.
Victor, apparently, was thinking the same thing. “By Jove!” he observed;
“Mabel, we seem destined to . . . Humph! Well? Will you give us a hand?”
The most provoking part of it was that, if I had known who was in that
rowboat, I could have avoided the encounter. Ben Small could have gone
to their rescue just as well as I. However, here I was, and here they
were. And I could not very well go away and leave them, under the
circumstances.
Victor's patience was giving way.
“What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Aren't you going to help us?
We'll pay you for it.”
I pulled the skiff a little closer and, drawing in my oars, turned and
picked up the slack of my anchor rope.
“Here,” I said, brusquely; “catch this line and I'll tow you.”
I tossed him the loop of rope and he caught it.
“What shall I do with it?” he asked.
“Hold it, just as it is, for the present. What became of your other
oar?”
“Lost it overboard.”
“Why didn't you throw over your anchor and wait where you were?”
I think he had not thought of the anchor, but he did not deign to
explain. Instead he began pulling on the rope and the two boats drew
together.
“Don't do that,” I said. “Wait.”
I untied the rope, where it was made fast to the skiff's bow, and with
it and the anchor in my hands, scrambled aft and wedged the anchor under
the stern thwart of the little craft.
“Now,” I said, “you can pull in the slack until you get to the end. Then
make it fast to your bow somewhere.”
I suppose he did his best to follow instructions, but the rope was a
short one, the end jerked loose suddenly and he went backward in a heap.
I thought, for an instant, that he was going overboard and that mine
would be the mixed pleasure of fishing him out.
Miss Colton gave a little scream, which changed to a ripple of laughter.
I might have laughed, too, under different circumstances, but just now I
did not feel like it. Besides, the rope, having flown out of his hands,
was in the water again and the two boats were drifting apart.
“What did you do that for?” demanded the fallen one, scrambling to his
knees. I heard a sound from the dingy's stern as if the young lady was
trying to stifle her merriment. Victor, doubtless, heard it, too.
“Where are you going?” he sputtered, angrily. “Give me that rope.”
I gave it to him, literally gave it, for I pulled alongside and put the
end in his hands.
“Tie it in the bow of your boat,” I said. He did so. I drew in the slack
until a fair towing length remained and made it fast. While he was busy
I ventured to glance at Miss Colton. Her eyes were snapping with fun
and she seemed to be enjoying the situation. But, catching my look, her
expression changed. She turned away and looked indifferently out to sea.
I swung the skiff's bow around.
“Where do you want to go?” I asked.
Victor answered. “Back to Mr. Colton's landing,” he said. “Get as much
of a move on as you can, will you? I'll make it worth your while.”
I was as anxious to get there as he was. I did not care for a quarrel,
and I knew if he continued to use that tone in his remarks to me I
should answer as I felt. I pulled with all my strength, but against the
tide towing was hard work.
Victor sat on the amidships thwart of the dingy, with his back to me.
But Miss Colton, seated in the stern, was facing me and I could not help
looking at her. She did not look at me, or, if she did, it was as if I
were merely a part of the view; nothing to be interested in, one way or
the other.
She was beautiful; there was no doubt of that. Prettier even, in the
blue and white boating costume and rough-and-ready white felt hat, than
she had seemed when I saw her in the auto or her father's library. She
represented the world that I had lost. I had known girls like her. They
had not as much money as she, perhaps, but they were just as well-bred
and refined, and almost as pretty. I had associated with them as an
equal. I wondered what she would say, or think, if she knew that.
Nothing, probably; she would not care enough to think at all. It did
not matter to me what she thought; but I did wish I had not put on those
fool oilskins. I must look more like a country longshoreman than ever.
If I had any doubts about it they were dispelled when I had rowed the
two boats up the bay until we were abreast the Colton mansion. Then
Victor, who had been talking in a low tone with his fellow passenger in
the dingy, looked at the distant shore and, over his shoulder, at me.
“Here!” he shouted. “Where are you going? That's the landing over
there.”
“I know,” I answered. “But we shall have to go around that flat. We
can't cross here.”
“Why? What's the reason we can't?”
“Because there isn't water enough. We should get aground.”
He stood up to look.
“Nonsense!” he said. “There's plenty of water. I can't see any flat, or
whatever you call it.”
“It's there, though you can't see it. It is covered with eelgrass and
doesn't show. We shall have to go a half mile further before we turn
in.”
“A half mile! Why, confound it! it's past one o'clock now. We haven't
any time to waste.”
“I'm sorry, but we can't cross yet. And, if I were you, I shouldn't
stand up in that boat.”
He paid no attention to this suggestion.
“There are half a dozen boats, bigger than these, by the landing,” he
declared. “There is water enough for them. What are you afraid of? We
haven't any time to waste, I tell you.”
I did not answer. Silence, on my part, was the safest thing just then. I
continued rowing up the bay.
Miss Colton spoke to him and he sat down, a proceeding for which I was
thankful. They whispered together for a moment. Then he turned to me.
“See here,” he said; “this lady and I have an appointment. We must get
ashore. Go straight in. If you're afraid I'll take the risk. If there is
any danger I'll pay for that, too.”
There was no question of risk. It was a certainty. I knew that channel.
“We can't cross here,” I said, shortly.
“Why, confound you--”
“Victor!” cautioned Miss Colton.
“Hush, Mabel! This is ridiculous. You and I saw two boats go straight
out from the beach this morning. We went out that way ourselves. Here
you--Paine, or whatever your name is--we've had enough of this. I've
hired you to take us ashore, and I want to go there and not a half mile
in another direction. Will you do as I tell you?”
When the dingy and the other boats crossed the flat the tide had been
hours higher, of course; but I was in no mood to explain--to him.
“No,” I said, shortly.
“You won't? Then you give me an oar and I'll row the rest of the way
myself.”
There were only two oars in the skiff, but I could get on perfectly well
with one. And it would serve him beautifully right to let him go. But
there was the girl. I hesitated.
“Give me that oar,” he repeated, angrily. “You won't? Then, by Jove,
I'll do without it. Stop! Stop where you are! do you understand. We
don't require your services any longer.”
He turned and began untying the tow line. I stopped rowing.
Miss Colton looked troubled.
“Victor!” she cried. “What are you doing?”
“I know what I'm doing. Can't you see this fellow's game? The longer the
row the higher his price, that's all. He can't work me. I've seen his
kind before. Don't be frightened. If we can't do anything else we can
anchor and wait until they see us from the house.”
Idiot! At that point the channel was deep and the bottom soft mud. I
doubted if his anchor would touch and, if it did, I knew it would not
hold. I backed water and brought the skiff alongside the dingy, the rail
of which I seized and held.
“Keep off!” ordered Victor, still fumbling with the rope. “We don't want
your help.”
I wasted no breath on him. I addressed my remarks to the girl.
“Miss Colton,” I said, “will you listen to me, please. You can't anchor
here because your anchor will not hold. And you can't cross that flat at
this stage of the tide. I can give you an oar, of course, but it won't
do any good. My oars are too light and small for your boat. Unless you
wish to drift back where you were, or beyond, you must let me tow you
around the head of this flat.”
I don't know what answer she might have made. None, perhaps; although I
am sure she was listening. But Victor, who had succeeded in untying the
tow line, cut in ahead of her.
“Mabel,” he warned, “don't pay any attention to him. Didn't your father
tell us what he was? There!” throwing the end of the rope overboard
and addressing me; “now, you may clear out. We've done with you.
Understand?”
I looked at Miss Colton. But I might as well have looked at an iceberg.
I slid one of my oars over into the dingy.
“There you are,” I said, grimly. “But I warn you that you're in for
trouble.”
I let go of the rail and the boats fell apart. Victor seized the
borrowed oar with a triumphant laugh.
“Your bluff wouldn't work, would it, Reuben,” he sneered. “I'll send you
the oar and your pay later. Now, Mabel, sit tight. I'll have you ashore
in fifteen minutes.”
He began rowing toward the weed-covered flat. I said nothing. I
was furiously angry and it was some moments before I recovered
self-possession sufficiently to get my remaining oar over the skiff's
stern and, by sculling, hold her against the tide. Then I watched and
waited.
It was not a long wait. Victor was in difficulties almost from the
beginning. The oar belonging to the dingy was a foot longer than the one
I had given him and he zig-zagged wildly. Soon he was in the edge of the
eelgrass and “catching crabs,” first on one side, then on the other.
The dingy's bow slid up on the mud. He stood up to push it off, and the
stern swung around. Getting clear, he took a fresh start and succeeded
only in fouling again. This time he got further into the tangle before
he grounded. The bow rose and the stern settled. There was a mighty
splashing, as Victor pushed and tugged, but the dingy stuck fast. And
there she would continue to stick for four hours unless I, or some one
else, helped her off.
I did not want to help. In fact, I looked all up and down the bay before
I made a move. But it was dinner time and there was not another soul
afloat. More than that, I noticed, as I had not noticed before, that
brown clouds--wind clouds--were piling up in the west, and, if I was
anything of a prophet, we would have squalls and dirty weather long
before those four hours were over. And the dingy, in that position, was
not safe to face a blow. No, as the small boys say, it was “up to me.” I
wished it was not, but it was.
So again I went to the rescue, but this time in an entirely different
frame of mind. My anger and resentment had settled to a cold
determination, and this trip was purely business. I was not at a
disadvantage now, as I had been when I first met that girl and her
friend, in “Big Jim” Colton's library. I was master of this situation
and master I intended to be.
I sculled the skiff straight in to the edge of the flat, at a point
where the bank sloped sharply to deep water. I threw over my anchor,
shortened the rope and made it fast. Then I stepped out into water above
my shoe tops and waded toward the dingy. The water was icy cold, but I
did not know it at the time.
I splashed through the eelgrass. Victor saw me coming and roared an
angry protest. He was still trying to push the boat off with an oar.
“Here!” he shouted. “You keep away. We don't want you.”
I did not care what he wanted. I splashed alongside the dingy and looked
at her and the position she was in. My mind was made up instantly.
“You'll never get her off if you both stay aboard,” I said. “Let the
lady move amidships and you get out and wade.”
He glared at me as if I were as crazy as Colton or Lute had declared me
to be. Then he laughed contemptuously.
“You go back where you came from,” he ordered. “I'm running this.”
“Yes, I've noticed that. Now I'll state the facts as plainly as I can.
This boat is fast aground in the mud, the tide is still going out, and
there are squalls coming. She must be got off or there may be danger.
You can't get her off until she is lightened. Will you get out and
wade?”
He did not answer; instead he continued to push with the oar. I turned
to the girl.
“Miss Colton,” I said, “I must ask you to stand up. Be careful when you
rise.”
She made no move, nor did she reply. The look she gave me was enough.
“You must stand up,” I repeated, firmly. “Either your--this
gentleman--must get out, as I tell him to, or I shall have to carry you
to my skiff. We haven't any time to spare.”
She gazed at me in blank astonishment. Then the color flamed in her
cheeks and her eyes flashed.
“We don't wish your help,” she said, icily.
“I'm sorry, but that makes no difference. I--”
Victor whirled on me, the oar in his hands. I thought for an instant he
was going to strike me with it.
“You blackguard!” he shouted. “Will you go away?”
I looked at him and then at her. It had to be done, and my mind was made
up to do it. I waded in until the water was almost to my knees, and I
was abreast the stern of the stranded boat.
“Miss Colton,” I said, “I am going to carry you to my skiff. Are you
ready?”
“You--Why!--” she breathed.
I stooped, lifted her in my arms, and ploughed through the weeds and
water. The mud was soft and my feet sank into it. She struggled.
“You must keep still,” I said, sharply, “or I shall drop you.”
She gasped, but she stopped struggling. From behind me I heard a roar of
rage from Victor.
I carried her to the anchored skiff and, plunging in still deeper,
seated her on the stern thwart.
“Sit there, please, and don't move,” I said. “I shall be back as soon as
I've got your boat afloat.”
I waded back to the dingy. Victor was frantic, but he did not disturb
me. The worst of my unpleasant job was over.
“Now sit down,” I ordered. “Do you hear me? Sit down and sit still.”
“You--you--” he stammered.
“Because if you don't sit down,” I continued serenely, “you're likely to
tumble overboard. I'm going to push this boat off.”
The first push helped to make up his mind. He sat, involuntarily. I
pushed with all my might and, slowly and jerkily, the dingy slid off
the shoal. But there were others all about. With one hand on the bow
I guided her between them and to the edge of the channel. Then, wading
along the slippery bank, I brought her to the skiff. My passenger had
been making remarks in transit, but I paid no attention to them.
I made the rope fast for towing, took my oar from the dingy, pulled up
the skiff's anchor and climbed aboard.
“Sit where you are,” I said to Victor. “Miss Colton, please keep as
still as possible.”
I ventured to look at her as I said this, but I looked but once. All the
way home I kept my gaze fixed on the bottom boards of the skiff.
I made the landing just in time. In fact, the squall struck before I was
abreast the Colton place. The channel beyond the flat, which we had so
lately left, was whipped to whitecaps in a moment and miniature breakers
were beating against the mud bank where the dingy had grounded.
Under the high bluff it was calm enough. The tide was too low to make
use of the little wharf, so I beached the skiff and drew the towed
boat in by the line. I offered to assist Miss Colton ashore, but she,
apparently, did not see my proffered hand. Victor scrambled out by
himself. No one said anything. I untied the rope and pulled it in. Then
I prepared to push off.
“Here!” growled Victor. “Wait a minute.”
I looked up. He was standing at the edge of the water, with one hand in
his pocket. Miss Colton was behind him.
“Well?” I asked.
“I haven't paid you yet,” he said, sullenly. “How much?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I knew, of course, but it pleased me to
make him say it.
“Why, how much for towing us in? What's your price? Come, hurry up.”
“I haven't any price. I'm not in the salvage business.”
“Not--Say, don't bargain. What's your price, I ask you?”
“Nothing, of course. Very glad to have been of assistance.”
I took up my oars.
“Here!” he shouted. “Stop! hold on! Confound you! do you suppose we
don't intend to pay you for this?”
I shook my head. “It has been a pleasure,” I said, sweetly. “Good day.”
I rowed off, but all the way down to my boathouse I smiled contentedly.
I had seen the look on Mabel Colton's face. I rather thought I had
evened the account between us; at least I had reduced the balance a
trifle. This time it was not I who appeared ridiculous.
Dorinda saw me when I entered the kitchen. Her hands were upraised.
“My soul and body!” she exclaimed. “LOOK at them pants! LOOK at 'em! And
I ain't had time to put a needle to your other ones yet!”