|THE life-saving crew were giving an exhibition drill. A number of
people, mostly women and children, were scattered about the beach (for
since the failure of the lumber and salt, that had expanded Liddington
into a city with four paved streets, the only important events were band
concerts and crew drills). Four girls in white-and-pink dresses, which
did not agree with their piled-up hats and fringed parasols, stood on
the sand.
Hunch Badeau commanded a square-nosed lumber schooner, the _Ed. C. Dean_,
which was just big enough to carry her two masts. He had come in that
morning with a picked-up cargo of merchandise from Milwaukee, unloaded
it, and now leaving Billy, the boy, in charge of the schooner, was
lounging up the beach with Bruce Considine, who made up the rest of the
crew. Hunch had been christened John, after a long line of John, and,
earlier, Jean Badeau, the first of whom had probably appeared on
the Lakes in a birch canoe. Hunch showed few traces of his ancestry,
excepting his black hair and an easily aroused flash in his eyes. He was
big, and he stooped a little, as if doorways and cabin ceilings were too
low for him.
“There she is,” said Bruce, pointing toward the white-and-pink group.
“That's her--the little one. She ain't bigger 'n a minute.”
Badeau looked critically at the group, then walked toward them.
“Hold on a minute, Hunch.”
“What for? Come along. I ain't seen a girl in weeks.”
“Don't go over yet. I ain't told her about you.”
“That's nothing. I guess she knows who I am.”
They stood near the girls, but fixed their eyes on the drill. After a
moment, Bruce glanced around at the little girl. She threw him a smile,
and he said, “Hello, Marne.”
“Her father's boss of the bridge gang on the Pere Marquette,” he
confided to Badeau, who was edging closer to the group.
“Wonder if they're going to do the upset drill,” Badeau said, in a loud
voice.
The girls giggled, and one said boldly, “Won't it be fun if they upset
the boat?” After this sign of favor they blushed, Then for several
minutes each party carried on a conversation intended for the ears of
the other, meanwhile drawing nearer. At length Considine found himself
at Mamie's side. Her elbow brushed against his.
“Who's your friend?” she asked. Considine stepped back, thus including
Badeau in the group.
“Hunch Badeau,” he said, “shake hands with Marne Banks.”
Mamie introduced them to the other girls, who were still giggling. Then
Badeau said to Mamie:
“Let's get over to the pier before the crowd gets all the good places.”
The party moved slowly toward the life-saving station, Considine walking
behind with the other three girls, and trying to show his freedom from
jealousy by jostling them playfully off the sidewalk.
It took Badeau and Mamie some time to get into a conversation. Then they
talked about Considine.
[Illustration: 0022]
“He's a fine fellow,” said Badeau. “Best man I ever had. Reg'lar as New
Years.” This was not entirely true, but it seemed a nice thing to say.
He saw that it pleased her, so he went on, with a wink, “You like him
pretty well, don't you?”
“Oh, I don't know's I do.”
“Well, I guess he likes you, anyhow.”
“Oh, no, he don't.”
“How do you know he don't?”
“'Cause I don't care one way or t' other.”
“You don't, eh?”
“No, I don't.”
“Well, I guess there's lots of girls that does.”
“Oh, I s'pose he's all right.”
After a silence Mamie glanced shyly up at him.
“Say, you're a friend of his, ain't you? You won't tell him what I say?”
“Should say not!” said Badeau, feeling in advance a little embarrassed.
Mamie poked at the sand with her parasol as they walked.
“Well--folks say he drinks.”
“Who says so?”
“Jess Bartlett's brother told Jess.” Badeau's eyes flashed.
“He's a dam' liar!”
“O--oh,” faltered Mamie.
There was a long silence. Then Badeau said, “Excuse me,” and looked out
over the water with a scared face. The girls who had played a part in
his life had not objected to profanity. When he had gathered enough
courage to look again at her, there was an expression on her face that
puzzled him. He did not know that he had pleased as well as startled
her. Soon they were at the pier and were talking more easily. To sit by
her, and to watch her bright eyes and her fresh coloring, pleased Hunch
in a way that he did not try to understand. He had such a good time that
he forgot Bruce, who was struggling to make conversation with the other
girls. When at last he went back to the schooner, he was thoughtful. She
seemed too good for Bruce.
In the afternoon Badeau took on a short cargo of hemlock cribbing, and
worked laboriously out of the sand-locked harbor and through the channel
between the long breakwaters. He could not afford a tug.
The next morning they lay at the wharf in Manitowoc. They ate their
supper in silence, the three of them about the table in the dirty cabin.
When they had finished, and Billy was cleaning up the dishes, Badeau
lighted his pipe and stretched out in his bunk. Considine was changing
his clothes.
“Where're you going?”
“There's a dance up at the hall.”
“You going?”
“Thought I might.”
“Say, Bruce, you got to quit drinking.”
“Who's drinking?”
“That's all right, you got to quit, right now. If you come back to-night
with a drop aboard, I'll knock it out of you.”
Considine hurried out nervously.
From ten till two that night Badeau sat on the rail and scanned the road
across the wharf. Billy was below asleep. It was a little after two
when three figures came down the street, arm in arm, singing a song
that could never be popular except in a lumber region. They stood on the
wharf for a long time, hugging one another and shaking hands. Then one
stumbled toward the schooner, calling out, “Goo' night! Goo' night!”
He came slowly across the wharf. He knew from past experience the
probability of a plunge overboard unless he aimed carefully at the
schooner.
A dark figure sat on the rail.
“Goo' night,” said Considine. He skillfully lowered himself to the
deck. “Say, ol' man, ain' mad, are you? Don' be mad.” He tried to touch
Badeau's shoulder, but missed it. Hunch rose, gripped his arm, and
jerked him clear of the deck. Considine fell on his back and looked up
vaguely. Then Hunch hammered him until he showed signs of returning
to his senses, and finished him off with a bucket of water. At last,
Considine, limp and crushed, sat on the cabin roof and breathed remorse.
“That's all right,” said Hunch. “Told you I'd knock it out of you, and
I'll do it again, too. This is where you quit drinking. Understand?” And
he knocked him down the gangway, and sat out on the deck for a long
time alone. He was thinking, not of Bruce, but of the girl with the blue
eyes, who was startled when he swore.