A RABBIT'S FOOT

It was fortunate that Cookie knew nothing of the solitary grave

somewhere on the island, with its stone marked with B. H. and a

cross-bones, nor that the inhabitant thereof was supposed to walk.

If he had, I think the strange spectacle of a lone negro in a small

boat rowing lustily for the American continent might soon have been

witnessed on the Pacific by any eyes that were there to see. And

we could ill have spared either boat or cook.

Yet even though unvexed by this gruesome knowledge, after two or

three days I noticed that Cookie was ill at ease. As the leisure

member of the party, I enjoyed more of Cookie's society than the

rest. On this occasion while the morning was still in its early

freshness he was permitting me to make fudge. But his usual

joviality was gone. I saw that he glanced over his shoulder at

intervals, muttering darkly to himself. Also that a rabbit's foot

was slung conspicuously about his neck.

Having made my fudge and set the pan on a stone in the stream to

cool, I was about to retire with a view to conducting a limited

exploring expedition of my own. The immunity of the umbrellas and

the assurances of Mr. Shaw--not personally directed to me, of

course; the armed truce under which we lived did not permit of

that--had convinced me that I had not to dread anything more

ferocious than the pigs, and the wildest of them would retire

before a stick or stone. Besides, I boasted a little automatic,

which I carried strapped about my waist in a businesslike manner.

Mr. Vane had almost got me to the point where I could shoot it off

without shutting my eyes.

Thus equipped, I was about to set off into the woods. Secretly I

had been rehearsing a dramatic scene, with myself in the leading

role:

_Treasure-seekers assembled, including a cold and cynical Scot.

Enter Virginia Harding. She wears an expression elaborately

casual, but there is a light of concealed triumph in her eye_.

_Aunt Jane_: You thoughtless child, where have you been? Really,

my state of mind about you--etc., etc.

_V. H._: Only for a stroll, dear aunt. And by the way, in case

it's of interest to any one, I might mention that during my walk I

fell over a boulder which happened to be marked with the letters B.

H. and a cross-bones.

_Immense commotion and excitement. Every gaze turned to V. H.

(including that of cynical Scot) while on every cheek is the blush

of shame at remembering that this is the same Young Person whom

Miss Higglesby-Browne was permitted to cut off by treaty from the

ranks of the authorised treasure-seekers_.

Lured by this pleasing vision I had turned my back on Cookie and

the camp, when I was arrested by an exclamation:

"Miss Jinny!"

I turned to, find Cookie gazing after me with an expression which,

in the familiar phrase of fiction, I could not interpret, though

among its ingredients were doubt and anguish. Cookie, too, looked

pale. I don't in the least know how he managed it, but that was

the impression he conveyed, dusky as he was.

"Miss Jinny, it mos' look lak yo' 'bout to go perambulatin' in dese

yere woods?"

"I am, Cookie," I admitted.

The whites of Cookie's eyes became alarmingly conspicuous. Drawing

near in a stealthy manner he whispered:

"Yo' bettah not, Miss Jinny!"

"Better not?" I repeated, staring.

He answered with a portentous head-shake.

"Oh, nonsense, Cookie!" I said impatiently, "There's not a thing on

the island but the pigs!"

"Miss Jinny," he solemnly replied, "dey's pigs and pigs."

"Yes, but pigs _is_ pigs, you know," I answered, laughing. I was

about to walk on, but once more Cookie intervened.

"Dey's pigs and pigs, chile--live ones and--dead ones.

"Dead ones? Of course--haven't we been eating them?"

"Yo' won't neveh eat dis yere kind o' dead pig, Miss Jinny.

It's--it's a ha'nt!"

The murder was out. Cookie leaned against a cocoa-palm and wiped

his ebon brow.

Persistently questioned, he told at last how, today and yesterday,

arising in the dim dawn to build his fire before the camp was

stirring, he had seen lurking at the edge of the clearing a white

four-footed shape. It was a pig, yet not a pig; its ghostly hue,

its noiseless movements, divided it from all proper mundane porkers

by the dreadful gulf which divides the living from the dead. The

first morning Cookie, doubtful of his senses, had flung a stone and

the spectral Thing had vanished like a shadow. On its second

appearance, having had a day and a night for meditation, he had

known better than to commit such an outrage upon the possessor of

ghostly powers, and had resorted to prayer instead. This had

answered quite as well, for the phantom pig had dissolved like the

morning mists. While the sun blazed, what with his devotions and

his rabbit's foot and a cross of twigs nailed to a tree. Cookie

felt a fair degree of security. But his teeth chattered in his

head at the thought of approaching night. Meanwhile he could not

in conscience permit me to venture forth into the path of this

horror, which might, for all we knew, be lurking in the jungle

shadows even through the daylight hours. Also, though he did not

avow this motive, I believe he found my company very reassuring.

It is immensely easier to face a ghost in the sustaining presence

of other flesh and blood.

"Cookie," said I sternly, "you've been drinking too much

cocoanut-milk and it has gone to your head. What you saw was just

a plain ordinary pig."

Cookie disputed this, citing the pale hue of the apparition as

against the fact that all our island pigs were black.

"Then there happens to be a blond pig among them that we haven't

seen," I assured him.

But the pig of flesh, Cookie reminded me, was a heavy lumbering

creature. This Shape was silent as a moonbeam. There was also

about it a dreadful appearance of stealth and secrecy--Cookie's

eyes bulged at the recollection. Nothing living but a witch's cat

could have disappeared from Cookie's vision as did the ghostly pig.

For a moment I wavered in my determination. What if the island had

its wild creatures after all? But neither lynx nor panther nor any

other beast of prey is white, except a polar bear, and it would be

unusual to meet one on a tropical island.

I decided that Cookie's pig was after all a pig, though still in

the flesh. I thought I remembered having seen quite fair pigs,

which would pass for white with a frightened negro in the dim light

of dawn. So far only black pigs had been visible, but perhaps the

light ones were shyer and kept to the remote parts of the island.

I consoled Cookie as best I could by promising to cross my fingers

if I heard or saw anything suspicious, and struck out into the

woods,

For all my brave words to Cookie, I had no intention of going very

far afield. From the shore of the cove I had observed that the

ground behind the clearing rose to the summit of a low ridge,

perhaps four hundred feet in height, which jutted from the base of

the peak. From this ridge I thought I might see something more of

the island than the limited environment of Lantern Bay.

As the woods shut out the last glimpse of the white tents in the

clearing, as even the familiar sound of the surf died down to a

faint, half-imagined whisper mingling with the rustling of the

palms overhead, I experienced a certain discomfort, which persons

given to harsh and unqualified terms might have called fear. It

seemed to me as if a very strong cord at the rear of my belt were

jerking me back toward the inglorious safety of camp. Fortunately

there came to me a vision of the three umbrellas and of Mr. Tubbs

heroically exposing his devoted bosom to non-existent perils, and I

resolved that the superior smiles with which I had greeted Aunt

Jane's recital should not rise up to shame me now. I fingered my

automatic and marched on up the hill, trying not to gasp when a

leaf rustled or a cocoanut dropped in the woods.

There was little undergrowth between the crowding trunks of the

cocoa-palms. Far overhead their fronds mingled in a green thatch,

through which a soft light filtered down. Here and there the close

ranks of the palms were broken by an outcropping of rock, glaring

up hot and sunbeaten at a distant patch of the sky. The air of the

forest was still and languid, its heat tempered like that of a room

with drawn blinds.

I gained the summit of the ridge, and stood upon a bare rock

platform, scantily sheltered by a few trees, large shrubs rather,

with a smooth waxy leaf of vivid green. On the left rose the great

mass of the peak. From far above among its crags a beautiful foamy

waterfall came hurtling down. Before me the ground fell away to

the level of the low plateau, or mesa, as we say in California,

which made up the greater part of the island. Cutting into the

green of this was the gleaming curve of a little bay, which in Mr.

Shaw's chart of the island showed slightly larger than our cove.

Part of it was hidden by the shoulder of the peak, but enough was

visible to give a beautiful variety to the picture, which was set

in a silver frame of sea.

I had not dreamed of getting a view so glorious from the little

eminence of the ridge. Here was an item of news to take back to

camp. Having with great originality christened the place Lookout,

I turned to go. And as I turned I saw a shape vanish into the

woods.

It was an animal, not a human shape. And it was light-footed and

swift and noiseless--and it was white. It had, indeed, every

distinguishing trait of Cookie's phantom pig. Only it was not a

pig. My brief shadowy glimpse of it had told me that. I knew what

it was not, but what it was I could not, as I stood there rooted,

even guess,

Would it attack me, or should I only die of fright? I wondered if

my heart were weak, and hoped it was, so that I should not live to

feel the teeth of the unknown Thing sink in my flesh. I thought of

my revolver and after an infinity of time managed to draw it from

the case. My fingers seemed at once nervelessly limp and woodenly

rigid. This was not at all the dauntless front with which I had

dreamed of meeting danger. I had fancied myself with my automatic

making a rather pretty picture as a young Amazon--but I had now a

dreadful fear that my revolver might spasmodically go off and wound

the Thing, and then even if it had meditated letting me go it would

certainly attack me. Nevertheless I clung to my revolver as to my

last hope.

I began to edge away crab-wise into the wood. Like a metronome I

said to myself over and over monotonously, _don't run, don't run_!

Dim legends about the power of the human eye floated through my

brain. But how quell the creature with my eye when I could not see

it? As for the hopeless expedient of screaming, I hadn't courage

for it. I was silent, as I would fain have been invisible. Only

my dry lips kept muttering soundlessly, _don't run, don't run_!

I did not run. Instead, I stepped on a smooth surface of rock and

slid downhill like a human toboggan until I fetched up against a

dead log. I discovered it to be a dead log after a confused

interval during which I vaguely believed myself to have been

swallowed by an alligator. While the alligator illusion endured I

must have lain comatose and immovable. Indeed, when my senses

began to come back I was still quite inert. I experienced that

curious tranquillity which is said to visit those who are actually

within the jaws of death. There I lay prone, absolutely at the

mercy of the mysterious white prowler of the forest--and I did not

care. The whole petty business of living seemed a long way behind

me now.

Languidly at last I opened my eyes. Within three yards of me, in

the open rock-paved glade where I had fallen, stood the Thing.

As softly as I had opened my eyes I shut them. I had an annoyed

conviction that they were deceiving me--a very unworthy thing for

eyes to do that were soon to be closed in death. Again I lifted my

lids. Yes, there it was--only now it had put an ear back and was

sniffing at me with a mingling of interest and apprehension..

The strange beast of the jungle was a white bull-terrier.

Abruptly I sat up. The terrier gave a startled sidewise bound, but

paused again and stood regarding me.

"Here, pup! Here, pup! Nice, nice doggums!" I said in soothing

accents.

The dog gave a low whine and stood shivering, eager but afraid. I

continued my blandishments. Little by little the forlorn creature

drew nearer, until I put out a cautious hand and stroked his ears.

He dodged affrightedly, but presently crept back again. Soon his

head was against my knee, and he was devouring my hand with avid

caresses. Some time, before his abandonment on the island, he had

been a well-brought-up and petted animal. Months or years of wild

life had estranged him from humanity, yet at the human touch the

old devotion woke again.

The thing now was to lure him back to camp and restore him to the

happy service of his gods. I rose and picked up my pistol, which

had regained my confidence by not going off when I dropped it.

With another alluring, "Here, doggums!" I started on my way. He

shrank, trembled, hesitated, then was after me with a bound. So we

went on through the forest. As we neared the camp the four-footed

castaway's diffidence increased. I had to pet and coax. But at

last I brought him triumphantly across the Rubicon of the little

stream, and marched him into camp under the astounded eyes of

Cookie.

At sight of the negro the dog growled softly and crouched against

my skirt. Cookie stood like an effigy of amazement done in black

and white.

"Fo' de Lawd's sake, Miss Jinny," he burst out at last, "am dat de

ghos'-pig?"

"It was, Cookie, but I changed him into a live dog by crossing my

fingers. Mind your rabbit's foot. He might eat it, and then very

likely we'd have a ghost on our hands again. But I think he'll

stay a dog for the present."

"Yo' go 'long, Miss Jinny," said Cookie valiantly. "Yo' think I

scared of any ghos' what lower hissel to be a live white mong'ol

dog? Yere, yo' ki-yi, yo' bettah mek friends with ol' Cookie,

'cause he got charge o' de grub. Yere's a li'le fat ma'ow bone

what mebbe come off'n yo' own grandchile, but yo' ain' goin' to

mind dat now yo' is trans formulated dis yere way." And evidently

the reincarnated ghost-pig did not.

With the midday reunion my hour of distinction arrived. The tale

of the ghost-pig was told from the beginning by Cookie, with high

tributes to my courage in sallying forth in pursuit of the phantom.

Even those holding other views of the genesis of the white dog were

amazed at his presence on the island. In spite of Cookie's

aspersions, the creature was no mongrel, but a thoroughbred of

points. Not by any means a dog which some little South American

coaster might have abandoned here when it put in for water. The

most reasonable hypothesis seemed to be that he had belonged to the

copra gatherer, and was for some reason left behind on his master's

departure. But who that had loved a dog enough to make it the

companion of his solitude would go away and leave it? The thing

seemed to me incredible. Yet here, otherwise unaccounted for, was

the corporeal presence of the dog.

I had named the terrier in the first ten minutes of our

acquaintance. Crusoe was the designation by which he was presented

to his new associates. It was good to see how swiftly the habits

of civilization returned to him. Soon he was getting under foot

and courting caresses as eagerly as though all his life he had

lived on human bounty, instead of bringing down his own game in

royal freedom. Yet with all his well-bred geniality there was no

wandering of his allegiance. I was his undisputed queen and lady

paramount.

Crusoe, then, became a member of the party in good and regular

standing--much more so than his mistress. Mr. Tubbs compared him

not unfavorably with a remarkable animal of his own, for which the

New York Kennel Club had bidden him name his own price, only to be

refused with scorn. Violet tolerated him. Aunt Jane called him a

dear weenty pettums love. Captain Magnus kicked him when he

thought I was not looking, Cuthbert Vane chummed with him in

frankest comradeship, and Mr. Shaw softened toward him to an extent

which made me mainly murmur _Love me, love my dog_--only reversed.

Not that I _in the least_ wanted to be loved, only you feel it an

impertinence in a person who so palpably does not love you to

endeavor to engage the affections of your bull-terrier.

As to Cookie, he magnanimously consented to overlook Crusoe's

dubious past as a ghost-pig, and fed him so liberally that the

terrier's lean and graceful form threatened to assume the contours

of a beer-keg.