When after those poignant moments in the boat I met Dugald Shaw in
commonplace fashion at the table, a sudden, queer, altogether
unprecedented shyness seized me. I sat looking down at my plate
with the gaucherie of a silly child.
The episode of the afternoon provided Mr. Tubbs with ammunition for
a perfect fusillade of wit. He warned Mr. Shaw that hereafter he
might expect Neptune to have a grudge against him for having robbed
the sea-god of his beauteous prey. I said I thought most likely it
was not Neptune that was robbed but sharks, but sharks not being
classic, Mr. Tubbs would have none of them. He said he believed
that if Mr. Shaw had not inopportunely arrived, Neptune with his
tripod would soon have up-reared upon the wave.
"Oh--_tripod_, Mr. Tubbs?" I said inquiringly.
"Yes, sure," he returned undaunted. "Them camera supports is named
for it, you know. But of course this gay gink of a Sandy had to
come buttin' in. Too bad the Honorable Bertie had partook so free.
He'd have looked the part all right when it come to rescuin' beauty
in distress. But Fortune bein' a lady and naturally capricious,
she hands the stunt over to old Sobersides here."
Just then old Sobersides cut across the flow of Mr. Tubbs's
sprightly conversation and with a certain harshness of tone asked
Captain Magnus if he had had good sport on the other side of the
island. Captain Magnus, as usual, had seemed to feel that time
consecrated to eating was wasted in conversation. At this
point-blank question he started confusedly, stuttered, and finally
explained that though he had taken a rifle he had carried along
pistol cartridges, so had come home with an empty bag.
At this moment I happened to be looking at Cookie, who was setting
down a dish before Mr. Tubbs. The negro started visibly, and
rolled his eyes at Captain Magnus with astonishment depicted in
every dusky feature. He said nothing, although wont to take part
in our conversation as it suited him, but I saw him shake his great
grizzled head in a disturbed and puzzled fashion as he turned away.
After this a chill settled on the table. You felt a disturbance in
the air, as though wireless currents were crossing and recrossing
in general confusion. Mr. Tubbs began again on the topic of my
rescue, and said it was too bad Mr. Shaw's name wasn't Paul,
because then we'd be Paul and Virginia, he, he! My aunt said
encouragingly, how true! because they had lived on an island,
hadn't they? She had read the book many years ago, and had mostly
forgotten it, not having Mr. Tubbs's marvelous memory, but she
believed there was something quite sad about the end, though very
sweet. She agreed with Mr. Tubbs that Mr. Vane would have looked
most picturesque going to the rescue on account of his sash, and it
was too bad he had not been able, but never mind, it was most kind
of Mr. Shaw, and she was sure her niece appreciated it though she
was afraid she hadn't thanked Mr. Shaw properly.
By this time it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shaw had been most
inconsiderate in dashing out after me in that thoughtless manner.
He should have waked Cuthbert Vane and helped him to array himself
becomingly in the sash and then sent for a moving-picture man to go
out in another boat and immortalize the touching scene. All this
came seething to my lips, but I managed to suppress it. It was
only on Cuthbert Vane's account. As for my aunt and Mr. Tubbs, I
could have bumped their heads together as remorselessly as two
cocoanuts. I understood Aunt Jane, of course. In spite of the
Honorable Cuthbert's recent lapse, her imagination still played
about certain little cards which should announce to an envious
world my engagement to the Honorable Cuthbert Patrick Ruthmore
Vane, of High Staunton Manor, Kent. So such a _faux pas_ as my
rescue from drowning by a penniless Scotch seaman couldn't but
figure in her mind as a grievance.
I stole a glance at the recipient of these sorry thanks. His face
was set and--once I should have called it grim, but I knew better
now. There was nothing I could say or do. Any words of mine would
have sounded forced and puerile. What he had done was so far
beyond thanks that spoken gratitude belittled it. And yet, suppose
he thought that like the rest I had wished another in his place?
Did he think that--could he, with the memory of my arms about his
neck?
I only knew that because of the foolish hateful words that had been
said, the gulf between us was wider than before.
I sat dumb, consumed with misery and hoping that perhaps I might
meet his glance and so tell him silently all that words would only
mar. But he never looked at me. And then the first bitterness,
which had made even Cuthbert seem disloyal in wishing himself in
his friend's place, passed, and gave way to dreary doubt. Cuthbert
knew, of course, that he himself would have prized--what to Dugald
Shaw was a matter of indifference. Yes, that was it, and the worst
that Dugald Shaw was suffering now was boredom at hearing the
affair so everlastingly discussed.
So I began talking very fast to Mr. Vane and we were very gay and
he tied his own necktie on Crusoe on consideration that he be held
hereafter jointly. And--because I saw that Dugald Shaw was looking
now--I smiled lingeringly into the eyes of the beautiful youth and
said all right, perhaps we needn't quarrel over our mutual dog, and
then skipped off lightsomely, feeling exactly like a scorpion that
has been wounding itself with its own sting.
As I passed Cookie at his dishpan a sudden thought struck me.
"Cookie," I remarked, "you had a frightfully queer look just now
when Captain Magnus told about having taken the wrong cartridges.
What was the matter?"
Cookie took his hands out of the water and wiped off the suds,
casting about stealthy and mysterious glances. Then he rolled a
dubious eye at me.
"What was it, Cookie?" I urged.
"War am Cap'n now?"
"Down on the beach; he can't possibly hear you."
"You won't say nothin' to git Cookie in a rumpus?"
"Cross my heart to die, Cookie."
"Well, den"--Cookie spoke in a hoarse whisper--"Cap'n say he forgit
to take his gun ca'tridges. Miss Jinny, when he come back, I see
him empty his gun ca'tridges out'n his belt and put back his pistol
cartridges. So dere now!"
I turned from Cookie, too surprised to speak. Why had Captain
Magnus been at pains to invent a lie about so trivial a matter? I
recalled, too, that Mr. Shaw's question had confused him, that he
had hesitated and stammered before answering it. Why? Was he a
bad shot and ashamed of it? Had he preferred to say that he had
taken the wrong ammunition rather than admit that he could get no
bag? That must be the explanation, because there was no other.
Certainly no imaginable errand but the one assigned could have
taken the captain to the other side of the island.
Several days went by, and still the treasure was unfound. Of
course, as the unexplored space in the cave contracted, so daily
the probability grew stronger that Fortune would shed her golden
smile upon us before night. Nevertheless, it seemed to me that the
optimistic spirits of most were beginning to flag a little. Only
Mr. Shaw, though banned as a confirmed doubter and pessimist,
now by the exercise of will kept the others to their task. It
took all Cuthbert Vane's loyalty, plus an indisposition to be
called a slacker, to strive against the temptation to renounce
treasure-hunting in favor of roaming with Crusoe and me. As for
Captain Magnus, his restlessness was manifest. Several times he
had suggested blowing the lid off the island with dynamite, as the
shortest method of getting at the gold. He was always vanishing on
solitary excursions inland.
Mr. Tubbs remarked, scornfully, that a man with a nose for money
ought to have smelted out the chest before this, but if his own
nasal powers were of that character he did not offer to employ them
in the service of the expedition. Miss Higglesby-Browne, however,
had taken to retiring to the hut for long private sessions with
herself. My aunt reverentially explained their purpose. The
hiding-place of the chest being of course known to the Universal
Wisdom, all Violet had to do was to put herself in harmony and the
knowledge would be hers. The difficulty was that you had first to
overcome your Mundane Consciousness. To accomplish this Violet was
struggling in the solitude of the hut.
Meanwhile Mr. Tubbs sat at the feet of Aunt Jane, reading aloud
from a volume entitled _Paeans of Passion_, by a celebrated lady
lyric poet of our own land.
After my meeting with Captain Magnus in the forest, Lookout Ridge
was barred to me. Crusoe and I must do our rambling in other
directions. This being so, I bethought me again of the wrecked
sloop lying under the cliffs on the north shore of the cove. I
remembered that there had seemed to be a way down the cliffs. I
resolved to visit the sloop again. The terrible practicality of
the beautiful youth made it difficult to indulge in romantic
musings in his presence. And to me a derelict brings a keener tang
of romance than any other relic of man's multitudinous and futile
strivings.
The descent of the gully proved an easy matter, and soon I was on
the sand beside the derelict. Sand had heaped up around her hull,
and filled her cockpit level with the rail, and drifted down the
companion, stuffing the little cabin nearly to the roof, Only the
bow rose free from the white smother of sand. Whatever wounds
there were in her buried sides were hidden. You felt that some
wild caprice of the storm had lifted her and set her down here, not
too roughly, then whirled away and left her to the sand.
Crusoe slipped into the narrow space under the roof of the cabin,
and I leaned idly down to watch him through a warped seam between
the planks. Then I found that I was looking, not at Crusoe, but
into a little dim enclosure like a locker, in which some small
object faintly caught the light. With a revived hope of finding
relics I got out my knife--a present from Cuthbert Vane--and set
briskly to work widening the seam.
I penetrated finally into a small locker or cubby-hole, set in the
angle under the roof of the cabin, and, as subsequent investigation
showed, so placed as to attract no notice from the casual eye. I
ascertained this by lying down and wriggling my head and shoulders
into the cabin. In other words, I had happened on a little private
depository, in which the owner of the sloop might stow away certain
small matters that concerned him intimately. Yet the contents of
the locker at first seemed trifling. They were an old-fashioned
chased silver shoe-buckle, and a brown-covered manuscript book.
The book had suffered much from dampness, whether of rains or the
wash of the sea. The imitation leather cover was flaking off, and
the leaves were stuck together. I seated myself on the cabin roof,
extracted a hairpin, and began carefully separating the
close-written pages. The first three or four were quite illegible,
the ink having run. Then the writing became clearer. I made out a
word here and there:
. . . . directions vague . . . . my grandfather . . . .
man a ruffian but . . . . no motive . . . . police of
Havana . . . . frightful den . . . . grandfather made
sure . . . . registry . . . . _Bonny Lass_ . . . .
And at that I gave a small excited shriek which brought Crusoe to
me in a hurry. What had he to do, the writer of this journal, what
had he to do with the _Bonny Lass_?
Breathlessly I read on:
. . . . thought captain still living but not
sure . . . . lost . . . . Benito Bon . . . .
I closed the book. Now, while the coast was clear, I must get back
to camp. It would take hours, perhaps days, to decipher the
journal which had suddenly become of such supreme importance. I
must smuggle it unobserved into my own quarters, where I could read
at my leisure. As I set out I dropped the silver shoe-buckle into
my pocket, smiling to think that it was I who had discovered the
first bit of precious metal on the island. Yet the book in my
hand, I felt instinctively, was of more value than many
shoe-buckles.
Safely in my hammock, with a pillow under which I could slip the
book in case of interruption, I resumed the reading. From this
point on, although the writing was somewhat faded, it was all, with
a little effort, legible.