Kit looked about, but could not see the launch. The dark mass was a thick

belt of trees, but he did not know, and did not think Mayne knew, where

they were, and the easy motion indicated that the tide was carrying the

steamer on. Much to his relief, the indistinct wall of forest seemed to

bend back, away from the sea. It looked as if they were entering the

lagoon; and then he heard the telegraph and the rattle of rudder chains.

The screw shook the vessel as it spun hard-astern, and the bows began to

swing. It was, however, too late; the forecastle would not clear the

mangroves, and Kit knew the water was deep among their roots. Shouting to

Adam, he seized the rails and waited for the shock. It came, for there

was a crash, and a noise of branches breaking. The steamer rolled,

recoiled, and forged on into the forest.

Some minutes later, Mayne stopped his engines and there was a curious

quietness as he came up to Adam.

"We are fast in the mud, sir. Although she'll take a list when the tide

falls, we may be able to work cargo. I'll lay out an anchor in the

morning and try to heave her off, but I calculate it will be full moon

before she floats."

CHAPTER VII

THE MANGROVE SWAMP

Early next morning, Kit went on deck. Although it was hot, everything

dripped with damp, and sour-smelling mist drifted past the ship. Her

masts and funnels slanted and Kit could hardly keep his footing on the

inclined deck. When he looked over the rail, the rows of wet plates ran

up like a wall above broken mangrove roots and pools of slime. Smashed

trunks and branches were piled against the bows and dingy foliage

overhung the vessel's lower side.

Kit walked aft. The screw was uncovered, and shallow, muddy water, dotted

by floating scum, surrounded the stern, which projected into the lagoon.

In one place, however, a mud-bank touched the bilge, and three or four

men, standing on planks, cautiously tried its firmness. They were wet and

splashed, and one who ventured a few yards from the plank sank to his

waist. The others pulled him out and then they climbed a rope ladder. Kit

thought the experiment proved that nothing useful could be done until the

tide flowed round the ship.

Another gang was moving a kedge-anchor across the deck, while a few more

coiled heavy ropes beside the winch. Mayne obviously meant to try to

heave the vessel off, but Kit thought he would not succeed until the moon

was full. In the meantime, cargo could only be landed when there was

water enough to float boats up to the ship, and Kit glanced across the

lagoon. There were no mangroves on the other side, although thick timber

grew close down to a belt of sand. Below this was mud, across which he

imagined heavy goods could not be carried. The heat and steamy damp made

him languid, and he went to Adam's room. Adam had got up and sat,

half-dressed, on the lower berth with a glass on the floor close by. His

hands shook and there was no color in his lips.

"It's rather early for a strong cocktail, but I felt I needed bracing,"

he said. "What do you think about our chance of getting her off?"

"I imagine it's impossible for another week and don't see how we'll get

the cargo out."

"Don't you?" said Adam grimly. "It has got to be done. If Mayne finds the

job too big, I'll put it through myself."

"You ought to leave before the malaria knocks you down," Kit rejoined.

"If I had the power, I'd make you go."

Adam smiled. "You mean well, boy, but you don't understand, and if you

plot with Mayne to bluff me, I'll surely break you both. Now go and see

if the president's men have arrived. Then you can tell Mayne to rig his

derricks and take the hatches off."

Kit went out and after a time three or four figures appeared among the

trees across the lagoon. They came down to the mud, but when Kit shouted,

asking if they could launch a canoe, one shrugged and they turned back.

"I reckon the old man means us to get busy with the cargo," Mayne

remarked.

"Yes," said Kit. "I understand he's ready to undertake the job if we find

it too much for us."

"He's a hustler, sure! So far as I can see, the thing can't be done, but

if Askew wants it done, I guess we've got to try. We'll carry out the

kedge and make fast a warp or two when the tide flows. He'll expect it,

though I don't reckon much on our chance of floating her."

By degrees the muddy water crawled up the plates and the _Rio Negro_ rose

upright; the haze melted and it got fiercely hot when the sun shone. A

canoe, manned by half-breed peons, crossed the lagoon, and with heavy

labor the kedge-anchor was hoisted out and hung between two boats.

Half-naked men toiled at the oars until the lashings were cut and the

boats rocked as the anchor sank. Then their crews, dragging large stiff

warps, forced their way among the mangrove roots and made the ropes fast

where they could. They came back exhausted, dripping with water and

daubed by slime, and Mayne went to the bridge.

The sun pierced the narrow awning and there was not a breath of wind. The

lagoon shone with dazzling brightness and the iron deck threw up an

intolerable heat. Kit felt the perspiration soak his thin clothes, and

big drops of moisture trickled down Adam's yellow face as he sat with

half-shut eyes, in a canvas chair. By and by he took out his watch, and

Kit noted that he moved it once or twice before he could see the time.

"Hadn't you better get busy?" he asked Mayne.

The telegraph clanged, the engines panted, and the _Rio Negro_ began to

shake as the screw revolved. There was no movement but the racking throb,

until Mayne raised his hand and winch and windlass rattled. Puffs of

steam blew about, the cable rose from the water with a jar, and the warps

ran slowly across the winch-drums, foul with greasy scum.

"Hold on to it!" Mayne shouted. "Get in the last inch!"

His voice was drowned by the rattle of chain and hiss of steam, but the

uproar began to die away and the sharp clatter of small engines changed

to spasmodic jars. Then somebody shouted, there was a crash, and the end

of a broken warp, flying back, tore up the dazzling water. The windlass

stopped, and a few moments later a clump of mangroves swayed. Kit heard

green wood crack, as a rope that had stretched and strained began to

move. Then Mayne raised his hand.

"Let go; stop her! You're pulling up the trees."

There was a sudden quietness except for the insistent throb of the screw,

and Mayne turned to Adam.

"If the cable holds, I can smash the windlass, but I can't heave her

off."

"Very well. You quit and get the cargo out. Better hustle while

she's upright."

Mayne went down the ladder and when he unlocked the iron door of the

after wheel-house a gang of men brought out a row of small-boxes. A

mulatto from the beach, who wore neat white clothes and an expensive hat,

counted the boxes and then gave Adam a receipt.

"Don Hernando will be glad to get these goods and we will start at once,"

he said. "Although I have a guard, it will be safe to reach the town

before the president's enemies know."

"That would be prudent, señor," Adam agreed, and turned to Kit when the

mulatto went away.

"I have done my part and it's Alvarez's business to see the chests get

through. Well, we have both taken some chances since he was a

Customs-clerk and I a _contrabandista_ running the old _Mercedes_, but I

reckon this is my rashest plunge. Anyhow, if I get my money back or not,

I've put up the goods. Now you can tell Mayne to break out the guns."

Mayne gave orders, derrick-booms swung from the stumpy masts, pulleys

rattled, and heavy cases rose from the holds. The boats, however, could

not get abreast of the forward hatch and the cases had to be moved across

slippery iron plates to the after derrick that hoisted them overboard. It

was exhausting work, and the heat was intolerable. The white crew threw

off their soaked clothes and toiled half-naked in the sun that burned

their skin, but Adam left the awning and went about in the glare.

At first, the mates grumbled with indignant surprise. Their employer was

breaking rules; working the cargo was their business and nobody else must

meddle. Besides, they had not met a shipowner able to superintend the

job. One who ventured a protest, however, stopped in awkward

embarrassment when Adam gave him a look, and the others soon admitted

that few captains knew more about derricks and slings. Nevertheless, Kit

was anxious as he watched his uncle. He knew Adam would pay for this and

wondered how long he could keep it up.

At noon, the peons refused another load and when Adam addressed them in

virulent Castilian, coolly pulled the boats away from the ship. When they

had rowed a short distance they stopped and one got up.

"More is not possible, señor," he said. "To work in this sun is not

for flesh and blood. After we have slept for an hour or two, we will

come back."

Adam felt for his pistol, but hesitated, with his hand at his silk belt,

and Kit thought he looked very like a Buccaneer.

"It might pay to plug that fellow, and I'd have risked it when I came

here in the _Mercedes_. Still, I guess Don Hernando has enough trouble."

Mayne, standing behind him, grinned. "I reckon that fixes the thing.

Don't know I'm sorry the dagos have lit out; my crowd are used up and

ready to mutiny."

For two hours the tired crew rested while the water sank and the steamer

resumed her awkward list. Then the boats came back and the men crawled

languidly about the slanted deck, until Adam went among them with bitter

words. The sea breeze was blowing outside, but no wind could enter the

gap in the trees, and foul exhalations from warm mud and slime poisoned

the stagnant air. Kit's head ached, his eyes hurt, and his joints were

sore; he felt strangely limp and it cost him an effort to get about.

All the while the winches hammered and pulleys screamed as the cases came

up and the empty slings went down. The heat got suffocating and the slant

of masts and deck made matters worse, because the men must hold the

derricks back with guys while the heavy goods cleared the coamings of the

hatch. Much judgment was needed to drop them safely in the boats. Men

gasped and choked, quarreled with each other, and growled at the mates,

but somehow held on while the tide ebbed and the sun sank nearer the

mangroves' tops. It dipped when the breathless peons pushed the last boat

away from the _Rio Negro's_ side, and the noisy machines stopped.

Darkness spread swiftly across the lagoon and a white fog, hot and damp

as steam, rose from the forest and hung about the ship. Everything was

very quiet, for the men were too limp to talk, but a murmur came out of

the distance where the long swell beat upon the shoals. Kit and Mayne sat

in the chart-room, with a jug of iced liquor on the table in front.

Sometimes they spoke a few words and sometimes smoked in silence, while

Adam lay on the settee, saying nothing. At length, he got up and a

steward helped him to his room. Somehow the others felt it a relief that

he had gone.

"I can hustle, but your uncle makes me tired," Mayne remarked. "If you

get what I mean, it's like watching a dead man chase the boys about; you

feel it's unnatural to see him on his feet. Well, one has to pay for

fooling with a climate like this, and I'm afraid the bill he'll get will

break him. Can't you make him quit?"

"I can't; I've tried."

"The curious thing is he knows the cost," Mayne resumed. "Knows what's

coming to him unless he goes."

"Yes," said Kit in a thoughtful voice, "I believe he does know and

doesn't mind. This makes it rough on me. I'm powerless to send him off

and I'm fond of the old man."

Mayne made a sign of agreement. "He's a pretty tough proposition and was

worse when he was young; but I've risked my life to serve him. The

Buccaneer holds his friends."

Kit said nothing. He was anxious and depressed and soon went off to bed.

When work began next morning, Adam was on deck and superintended the

landing of the cargo in spite of Kit's protest. Kit thought the day was

hotter than the last, and after an hour or two's disturbed sleep in his

stifling room, found it hard to drag himself about. When the exhausted

peons stopped at noon, he lay under the awning and kept close to Adam

when they resumed. He did not like his uncle's fixed frown and thought it

was caused by the effort he made to keep at work. If not, it was a hint

of pain he stubbornly tried to overcome. Besides, his step was dragging

and his movements were awkward.

About the middle of the afternoon, Adam stood near the noisy winch while

a case was hoisted. The winch-man looked up when the heavy load, hanging

from the derrick, swung across the slanted deck.

"Hold her while they steady the boom!" Adam shouted and seized the rope

that slipped round the drum.

The winch-driver was watching the others who struggled with the guy, and

perhaps forgot it was not a strong man who had come to his help. For a

moment or two, Adam kept his grip, and then his hands opened and he

staggered back. Somebody shouted, a pulley rattled, and the case, running

down, crashed against the steamer's rail. Kit ran forward, but reached

the spot a moment too late, for Adam lay unconscious on the iron deck.

They picked him up and carried him to the bridge, where it was a little

cooler than his room, but for some time he did not open his eyes. Then he

looked about dully and seeing Kit gave him a feeble smile.

"You're in charge now, partner; keep the boys hustling," he said.

"There's the coffee to load up when you have put the guns ashore. Looks

as if I had got to leave the job to you."

He turned his head, drew a hard breath, as if it had hurt him to speak,

and said nothing more. The work, however, went on until it got dark, and

when the mist rose from the mangroves and a heavy dew began to fall they

carried Adam to his room. He slept for part of the night while Kit

watched, but now and then tossed about with delirious mutterings. When

morning came he did not wake and Kit, looking at his pinched, wet face,

went on deck with a heavy heart. He had sent for the Spanish doctor, but

thought it did not matter much if Señor Martin came or not. In another

day or two he would be alone.

CHAPTER IX

ADAM'S LAST REQUEST

It was nearly full moon, the night was calm, and the flowing tide rippled

among the mangrove roots. Clammy vapor drifted about the ship and big

drops fell from the rigging and splashed upon the deck. A plume of smoke

went nearly straight up from the funnel, and now and then the clang of

furnace-slice and shovel rose from the stokehold, for Mayne hoped to

float the vessel next tide. For the most part, however, the men were

asleep and it was very quiet in the room under the poop. A lamp tilted at

a sharp angle gave a feeble light that touched Adam's face. Kit sat on a

locker opposite, looking anxious and worn.

"You loaded up some of the coffee," Adam remarked in a strained voice.

"Half of it, I think; the rest's on the beach," said Kit. "It's doubtful

if we'll get the next lot, since Señor Martin understands the fighting

has begun."

"The lot you have shipped will be something to score against the account;

it's prime coffee and ought to sell well. I'd like you to get the

rubber, but Alvarez can't wait long for the goods Mackellar has ready for

the boat. Another voyage and you can pull out for the old country. I'd

reckoned on going with you, but that's done with."

Kit said nothing. The doctor had come and gone, for he was needed

elsewhere and could not help the sick man. One could indulge him and make

things comfortable for a few days but that was all, he said, and Kit saw

that Adam knew. By and by the latter resumed:

"I've been thinking about Peter and Ashness. I'd have liked to see the

old place and the fells again, and when I was half asleep I thought I

heard the beck splash among the thorns and the pee-wits crying. Well, you

are going back, and you'll marry that girl. Though it will cost you

something to see Alvarez through, you ought to be rich enough."

"You mustn't talk too much," said Kit. "Señor Martin told you to rest."

Adam smiled. "It doesn't matter now if I rest or not. My brain's clearer

and I'll talk while I can. I never told you much about my early life, but

I'm going to do so, because there's something I want to ask."

"Then, you have only to ask it," Kit replied.

"I know," said Adam, feebly. "You're staunch. Well, you have seen the

despatch-box in the office, marked _Hattie G._, though I lost the old

boat long before you came out. She was a coal-eater and didn't pay to

run, but I kept her going until she hit the reef. My first steamboat--I

got her when she was going cheap; but she was bought with my wife's

money, and called after her.

"I met Hattie in Florida about the year you were born. She was

Vanhuyten's cousin and the finest thing that ever wore a woman's shape.

Northern grit and Southern fire, for she sprang from New England and good

Virginia stock; I've seen no woman with her superb confidence. Well, I

was a _contrabandista_ with some ugly tales against my name, but I fell

in love with Hattie and married her in a month."

Adam was silent for a few minutes, and while Kit mused, shovels clinked

in the stokehold and the vessel began to lift. The tilted lamp

straightened and its light rested on Adam's wasted form. His silk

pyjamas rather emphasized than hid his gauntness; he looked strangely

worn and weak, but Kit could picture the strong passion of his

love-making. There was something fierce and primitive about the old

Buccaneer, and it was not hard to see how he had, so to speak, swept the

romantic girl off her feet by the fiery spirit that had burned him out.

Yet he had never talked about other women, and though he knew the South,

Kit thought he had cared for none.

"I left her in a few weeks," Adam went on. "Alvarez was putting up for

president and my savings were at stake. Hattie went home to Virginia

while I helped Alvarez on the coast. He was hard up against it, though

he's been president three times since. Well, when things looked blackest,

I was knocked out in Salinas swamps, by fever and a bullet that touched

my lungs. They took me to the old Indian mission--we were cut off from

the ship--and Father Herman put the _rurales_ off my track. I've sent him

wine and candles, he's at the mission yet; it stands between thick forest

and swamps like this, and the padre's the only white man who has lived

there long. Get down the chart and I'll show you the landing place."

Kit did so, feeling that he ought to indulge a sick man's caprice, and

Adam, after giving him clear directions, was quiet for some minutes. Then

he began again, with an effort:

"Vanhuyten told Hattie, and I found out afterwards, that she had had

trouble at home. Her folks had never trusted me and wanted to keep her

back, but she had rich friends who sent her out, like an American

princess, on a big steam yacht. She got to the mission when I was at my

worst, and finding I could not be moved, sent the yacht away. It was some

days before I knew she had come. There was no doctor to be got. Alvarez

could not send help, and the government soldiers were hunting for his

friends, but Father Herman knew something about medicine and Hattie

helped him better than a trained nurse. I can see her now, going about

the mud-walled room in her clean, white dress, without a hint of

weariness in her gentle eyes. That was when she thought I was watching,

but sometimes at night her head bent and her figure drooped.

"It was blisteringly hot and when the sun went down the poisonous steam

from the swamps drifted round the spot. Sometimes I begged her not to

stay, and sometimes I raged, but Hattie could not be moved and my weak

anger broke before her smiles. She was strong and would not get fever,

she said; she had come to nurse me, and, if I insisted, would go home

when I was well."

Adam stopped and asked for a drink, and afterwards Kit hoped he had gone

to sleep, but he presently roused himself again.

"I have got to finish, partner, because there's a reason you should hear

it all. By and by Father Herman had to nurse us both, and when I got

better Hattie died. We buried her by torchlight in the dusty mission

yard--she was a Catholic--you'll see the marble cross. I've been lonely

ever since, and that's partly why I sent for you; Peter came next to

Hattie and you are Peter's son. Now I'm ready to pull out and somehow I

think Hattie will find me when I'm wandering in the dark. Love like hers

is strong. But I want you to listen when you have given me another

drink."

Kit held the glass to Adam's cracked lips. He drank and lay still,

breathing hard, and Kit heard the ripple of the tide. The _Rio Negro_ was

getting upright and as the lamp turned in its socket the light moved

across the wall. After a time, Adam resumed in a clearer voice:

"All I have is yours; Mackellar will prove the will, but you'll see

Alvarez out, as I meant to do. Another thing; Mayne will get the old boat

off tomorrow, and when he's loaded up I want you to take me out and land

me on the creek I marked behind Salinas Point. He can fly the flag

half-mast; I'll have started on the lone trail then. You'll hire some

half-breed boys at the _pueblo_ in the swamp, and take me to the mission

and lay me beside my wife. Hattie was a Catholic and you can tell Father

Herman that what she believed was good enough for me. Afterwards, you'll

send him now and then the box of candles he will tell you about. They're

to burn in the little chapel before Our Lady of Sorrows, where Hattie

used to pray I might get well. You'll do this for me?"

"I will," Kit answered with forced quietness. "Then I've finished," said

Adam. "I'm going to sleep now and mayn't talk much again."

He turned his head from the light and presently Kit, hearing him breathe

quietly, went out on deck.

At high-water next day, the _Rio Negro_ floated off the mud and when she

swung to her anchor Kit went into Adam's room. Adam was very weak, but

looked up.

"Get the coffee on board; I'm afraid you won't have time for the next lot

and the rubber," he said. "Tell Finlay to bank his fires. You'll want

steam to take me out."

Kit understood, and nodded because he could not speak, and Adam, giving

him a quiet smile, went to sleep again.

Some hours later, Mayne joined Kit, who had gone on deck for a few

minutes.

"That's the last of the _hacienda Luisa_ coffee," he said, indicating a

boat alongside. "The peons tell me the next lot's coming down, but if we

ship it, we'll miss the tide."

"You can close the hatches. The coffee must wait."

"It's high-grade stuff and brings top price. I sure don't like to leave

it to spoil."

"We must risk that," Kit said quietly.

"There's another thing; Pedro, the clerk, reckons they're fighting near

Salinas and the president's not popular in that neighborhood. Looks as if

you might have some trouble to take the old man to the mission."

"It's possible," said Kit. "I'm going to try. Have everything ready for

us to get off to-night."

Mayne lifted his hand to his cap. "Very well, sir. We'll start as soon as

there's water enough."

He went away, but Kit knew what he meant. The captain had done his duty

by indicating obstacles, but he approved his new master's resolve and

owned his authority. Kit was persuaded he would have Mayne's loyal help

and went back to Adam's room. When it was getting dark, Adam moved his

head as the engines began to throb and the propeller churned noisily in

the shallow water. It stopped after a few turns and steam blew off.

"Finlay's giving her a trial spin," Adam remarked, in a very faint voice.

"I see you've got things fixed and I'm ready to start." He stopped and

shut his eyes for a minute or two, and Kit did not know if he was

conscious or not. Then he resumed in a strained whisper: "All's ready;

ring for full-speed. I'm going to meet my wife."

He drew a hard breath, sighed, and did not speak again. An hour

afterwards, Mayne met Kit coming out of the room, and glancing at his

face took off his cap.

"I guess it hits you hard and I'll miss him, too," he said. "I'll not get

another master like the Buccaneer."

He went off to give some orders and Kit sat down, feeling very desolate.

When the tide had risen and flowed past, oily smooth, under the full

moon, the windlass began to rattle and the cable clanged. The anchor came

up and when the engines shook the ship Mayne pulled the whistle-line and

a long blast rolled across the woods. Next moment a rocket soared and

burst in a shower of colored lights.

"Vanhuyten and Askew's signal! The head of the house is making his last

trip," the captain remarked.

The echoes sank, the colored lights burned out, and the measured beat of

engines jarred upon the silence as the _Rio Negro_ went to sea. For a

time the land breeze blew the steam of the swamps after her, and masts

and funnels reeled through a muggy haze as she lurched across the

surf-swept shoals. She floated high and light, her muddy side rising like

a wall as she steadied between the rolls that dipped her channels in the

foam. Outside, the swell was regular and the roll long and rhythmical;

the haze thinned, the air got sweet and cool, and the hearts of the crew

got lighter as she steamed out to open sea. For all that, men lowered

their voices and trod quietly when they passed the poop cabin where her

dead owner lay.

At sunrise, Mayne hoisted the house-flag, and the Stars and Stripes

drooped languidly half way up the ensign staff, until the glassy calm

broke and the sea breeze straightened the blue and silver folds. By and

by he changed the course and mountains rose ahead, although a bank of

cloud hid the plain and mangrove forest at their feet. In the afternoon,

he searched the haze with his glasses, and getting a bearing stopped the

engines near Salinas Point at dusk.

"If the weather's good, I'll wait three days," he said. "Then, if you

send no word, I'll pull out for Havana and get the engines properly

fixed. Better take this bag of Spanish money; minted silver goes and you

may find the dagos shy of the president's notes."

Kit took the money, a boat was swung out, and four sailors carried the

plain, flag-wrapped coffin down the ladder. They were rough men, but Kit

imagined he could trust them. Another crew picked up the oars, greasy

caps were lifted, the _Rio Negro's_ whistle screamed a last salute, and

the boat stole away. Mayne steamed off to anchor on good holding ground,

and Kit sat at the tiller, with his eyes fixed on the misty coast.

It was dark when he heard breakers and saw the glimmer of surf. There

were shoals all round him, but he had been told about a bay where a creek

flowed through a sheltered channel. He did not know if he could find the

channel, and if not the boat might be wrecked, but something must be left

to luck and they pulled on before the curling swell. She struck, and

stopped until a comber rolled up astern. It broke and half buried her in

rushing foam, but she lifted, lurched ahead, and did not strike again.

The men were nearly knee-deep as they baled the water out and one was

afterwards idle because his oar had gone. In spite of this, they made the

creek and drifted quietly into the gloom of the mangroves with the

flowing tide.

After a time, the water got shallow and they pushed her across the mud

while leaves and rotting branches floated up the creek. No light pierced

the forest, and the feeble beam of Kit's lantern scarcely touched the

shadowy trunks that moved past until they came to an opening. Kit thought

this was the spot he had been told about and turned the boat. She would

not float to the bank and he and his four men got out and lifted the

coffin. They sank in treacherous mud, but reached a belt of sand riddled

by land-crab's holes. All was very quiet except for the ripple of the

tide and the noise made by the scuttling crabs. The sand, however, was

dry and warm and they sat down to wait for morning when the boat went

away.

CHAPTER X

THE ROAD TO THE MISSION

The sun was high when Kit and his tired men reached the village. He was

wet with sweat and the moisture that had dripped upon him from the leaves

in the early morning, and the men gasped when they put down their load.

Two wore greasy engine-room overalls, and two ragged suits of duck; their

soft hats were stained and battered and they looked like ruffians.

Although Mayne paid good wages, respectable seamen avoided the _Rio

Negro_ and her crew were, as a rule, accustomed to fight with knives and

sandbags on disorderly water-fronts. Now they carried pistols, hidden as

far as possible, but ready for use.

Small, square mud houses occupied the hole in the forest. Where the

plaster had not fallen off, their white fronts were dazzling, but they

were dirty and ruinous and the narrow street was strewn with decaying

rubbish. Although the _pueblo_ had once prospered under Spanish rule, it

was now inhabited by languid half-breeds of strangely mixed blood,

engaged in smuggling and revolutionary plots. They stood about the

doorways, barefooted and ragged, watching Kit with furtive black eyes.

"I want porters and a guide to the mission," he told the _patron_, who

lounged against a wall smoking a cigar.

"It is a long way, señor, and the road is bad. Besides, one cannot travel

when the sun is high."

"The road is, no doubt, safer then than in the dark."

"That is true," agreed the other with a philosophic shrug. "The country

is disturbed."

"I must start at once," Kit said firmly. "I am willing to pay for

the risk."

The _patron_ spoke to the others in a harsh dialect, but none of the

loafing figures moved.

"They say the risk is great," he remarked. "There has been fighting and

the president's soldiers are in the woods."

"The president's soldiers will not meddle with us," Kit answered,

incautiously.

For a moment the half-breed's eyes were keen, but his dark face resumed

its inscrutable look.

"Then the señor is a friend of the president's?"

"If we meet his soldiers, they will let me pass."

"The soldiers are not the worst. There are the _rurales_; men without

shame, who shoot and ask no questions. However, we will see if I can find

porters, if the señor will wait until the afternoon."

Kit distrusted the fellow and thought he had an object for putting off

the start. He had been warned that the _Meztisos_ sympathized with the

rebels, and imagined that his party's safety depended on its speed. But

he did not want to look impatient, and, imitating the other's

carelessness, sat down and lighted a cigarette while he pondered. To

begin with, he suspected that the _patron_ would prevent his meeting any

of the president's soldiers who might be about, and it would be prudent

to finish his business and get back to the ship before Galdar knew he was

in the woods. His men claimed to be American citizens and Mayne knew

where he had gone, but the latter's statements might be doubted if the

party disappeared. It was known that Askew was engaged in a risky trade

and the captain's story would look more romantic than plausible.

Kit saw he must depend upon his own resources and presently noted that a

man was leaving the village. The fellow kept behind the group in the

street as far as he could and moved quickly. There was something stealthy

about his movements and when he looked back, as if to see if Kit were

watching, the latter got up.

"Stop that man," he said.

"But he is going to his work, señor," the _patron_ objected.

"In this country, one does not work while the sun is high," said Kit,

who rather ostentatiously pulled out his pistol. "Call him back!"

The _patron_ shouted and the man returned, but Kit kept his pistol

in his hand.

"Nobody must leave the _pueblo_ until I start," he said. "I want porters

and am willing to pay."

"Very well," the patron agreed, shrugging. "Perhaps I can find a few men,

but they will want the money before they go."

For a time, Kit bargained. The sailors were tired, and few white men are

capable of much exertion in the tropic swamps. He must have help, and

doubting if the _Meztisos_ could be trusted, thought it best to offer a

sum that would excite their greed, but stipulated that half would not be

paid until they returned. When the _patron_ was satisfied Kit turned to

the sailors.

"You'll have to hustle, boys," he said. "The sooner we make the mission,

the sooner we'll get back, and I reckon nobody wants to stop in these

swamps. There's something beside your wages coming to you."

"That's all right, boss," one replied. "The old man drove hard, but he

paid well and he was white. You can go ahead; we'll put the job over."

The peons took up the stretcher-poles lashed to the coffin, a relief

party went behind and they set off. Nobody spoke and the _Meztisos'_ bare

feet fell silently on the hot sand, although Kit heard the dragging tramp

of the sailors' muddy boots. In the open space round the village, the sun

burned their skin and they pushed on as fast as possible for the twilight

of the woods.

Here and there a bright gleam pierced the gloom, but for the most part

deep shadow filled the gaps between the trunks. Creepers laced the great

cottonwoods, tangled vines crawled about their tall, buttressed roots,

and hung in festoons from the giant branches. Some of the trees were

rotten and orchids covered their decay with fantastic bloom. The forest

smelt like a hothouse, but the smell had an unwholesome sourness. Growth

ran riot; green things shot up, choked each other, and sank in fermenting

corruption.

Kit did not know if it was a relief to escape from the glare of the

clearing or not. The sun no longer burned him, but he could hardly

breathe the humid air, and effort was almost impossible.

All the same, he pushed on, floundering in muddy pools and sinking in

belts of mire. The road had been made long since, by slave labor, when

the Spaniards ruled, and had fallen into ruin, like the country, when

their yoke was broken. Kit could trace the ancient causeway across the

swamps and wondered when another strong race would put their stamp on the

land. The descendants of the conquerors had sunk into apathetic sloth;

the blood of the dark-skinned peoples that ran in their veins had

quenched the old Castilian fire.

When the light was fading, the porters declared the swamps in front were

dangerous and put down their load, and after some trouble the white men

lighted a fire. A heavy dew began to drip from the leaves and the blaze

was comforting in the gloom that swiftly settled down. Kit had brought a

piece of tarpaulin and spread it between the roots of a cottonwood. He

did not mean to go to sleep, but his head ached and he was worn out by

physical effort and anxious watching. By and by his eyes got heavy and he

sank down in a corner of the great roots.

The fire had burned low when he looked up and a bright beam that touched

a neighboring trunk indicated that the moon was high. All was very quiet

but for the splash of the falling dew; the glade was a little brighter,

and rousing himself with an effort, he glanced about. He saw the white

men's figures, stretched in ungainly attitudes on a piece of old canvas.

They were all there, but he could not see the _Meztisos_. Getting up, he

walked into the gloom and then stopped with something of a shock. There

was nobody about.

For a few moments, Kit thought hard. To begin with, he had been rash to

pay half the porters' wages before they started. The money was a large

sum for them and they had stolen away; perhaps because they were

satisfied and afraid of meeting the president's soldiers, or perhaps to

betray the party to the rebels for another reward. If the latter

supposition were correct, Kit thought he ran some risk. Galdar's friends

knew he could not be bribed and that Adam was ill, although it was hardly

possible they knew he was dead. They would see that Kit had now control

and since his help was valuable to the president might try to kill him.

His best plan was to push on.

He wakened the sailors, who grumbled, but picked up the coffin when he

tersely explained the situation. Wet bushes brushed against them,

soaking their thin clothes, trailers caught their heads, and the road

got wetter and rougher until they came to a creek. Kit could not tell

how deep it was; the forest was very dark and only a faint reflection

marked the water.

"We must get across, boys," he said, and the others agreed. They were

hard men, but the dark and silence weighed them down and excited vague

superstitious fears. It was a gruesome business in which they were

engaged and they did not like their load.

They plunged in and one called out hoarsely when he stumbled and the

lurching coffin struck his head. Another gasped, as if he were choking,

while he struggled to balance the poles. The current rippled round

their legs; it was hard to pull their feet out of the mud, and when

there was a splash in the dark they stopped, dripping with sweat that

was not altogether caused by effort. One swore at the others in a

breathless voice.

"Shove on, you slobs!" he said. "The old man's getting heavier while

you stop. I want to dump him and be done with the job. Guess I've

had enough."

Splashing and stumbling, they went forward and when they struggled up the

bank Kit wiped his wet face. For a moment or two he had thought the men

would drop their load and as it jolted, vague and black, on their

shoulders, the creaking of the poles had jarred his nerves. He was going

to keep his promise, but he sympathized with the man who had had enough.

After they left the creek, the road got very bad and in places vanished

in belts of swamp. They sank in mud and stagnant water and no light

pierced the daunting gloom, but it was not hard to keep the proper line,

because one could not enter the jungle without a cutlass to clear a path.

At length, when the men were exhausted, the trees got thinner and the

moonlight shining through touched the front of a ruined building. The

rest was indistinct, but the building was large and had evidently

belonged to a sugar or coffee planter. The sailors stopped and Kit

studied a gap in the wall.

The gap did not look inviting and there were, no doubt, snakes and

poisonous spiders inside, but he could go no farther and the broken walls

offered some protection. Perhaps Kit was moved by an atavistic fear of

the dark forest, and he owned that he was influenced by the civilized

man's longing for the shelter of a house. They went in, and after putting

down the coffin in a room where vines crawled about the ruined wall, the

sailors entered the next. One frankly stated that they wanted to get away

from the coffin; Kit could stop and watch it if he liked, but it bothered

them to have the thing about.

Kit let them go, and sitting down in a corner among the rubbish lighted a

cigar. A moonbeam rested on the opposite wall and the room was not dark.

Some light came in through holes, although there was impenetrable gloom

beyond the door by which the men had gone. He could see the wet leaves of

the vines, and the black coffin, covered by the flag. But he was not

afraid of it; the man who lay there had been his friend and claimed the

fulfilment of his promise.

At the same time, it was soothing to hear the sailors' voices, until they

got faint and stopped. Afterwards the silence was burdensome, although a

small creature began to rustle in the wall. Kit did not know if it was a

snake or a spider, and was too tired to feel disturbed. By and by his

cigar fell from his mouth. He picked it up, but it fell again and his

head drooped.

The moonbeam had moved some distance when he opened his eyes and

straightened his body with a jerk. The room was nearly dark, and when he

thought about it afterwards, he imagined he was only half awake, for his

heart beat and he was conscious of an enervating fear. A dark object,

indistinct but like a man, stood beside the coffin.

With something of an effort, Kit recovered his self-control as the figure

turned and came towards him. It moved with a curious stealthy gait,

making no noise, and this was enough for Kit. He had no grounds for

distrusting the sailors, and they wore heavy boots. Trying not to change

his position, he felt for his automatic pistol. The butt caught a fold of

his sash and he was forced to bend his elbow in order to get it out. It

looked as if he would be too late, and he slipped as the movement

dislodged the rubbish on which he sat. Then, as he shrank with an

instinctive quiver from the prick of the knife, the figure swerved and

leaped back.

Kit threw up the pistol and pulled the trigger. There was a flash that

dazzled his eyes and a little smoke curled up, but when he leaned forward

his antagonist had gone. He heard no movement when he sprang to his feet

and almost imagined he had been dreaming, until the sailors shouted and

their boots rattled on the broken floor. They ran in and when Kit told

them what had happened went to the hole in the wall.

The moonlight touched the front of the building and part of the road was

bright, but the shadow of the forest had crept across the rest. All was

very quiet; there was no sound in the gloom. Then a flake of plaster fell

close behind Kit's head and a sharp report rolled across the trees. One

of the men shot at a venture and two of his companions ran savagely along

the road, until Kit called them back.

"Come in," he said when they returned. "You're a plain mark in the

moonlight and can't see the other fellow among the trees."

"Looks as if it was you he wanted," one replied. "Well, I guess we have

no use for being left without a boss, and since we don't like our

camping ground, you have got to come with us. We'll draw cuts for who's

to watch."

Kit went with them. He felt shaken, for the man who had brought down the

plaster was obviously a good shot. He imagined it was another who had

intended to stab him; in fact, a number of his enemies might be lurking

about. He was not, as a rule, vindictive, but the stealthy attack had

induced a dangerous mood and he was sorry he had missed the man. It was

hard to see why he had done so, but he had, perhaps, been half asleep.

Now, however, he resolved to watch until day broke.

CHAPTER XI

KIT KEEPS HIS PROMISE

It was getting light when the man on watch called Kit, who went to the

gap in the wall. Thin mist drifted about the trees and trailed across the

road. There was some open ground in front of the building, but behind

this the forest loomed in a blurred, shadowy mass.

"I reckon I saw something move where the fog's on the road," the

man remarked.

Kit saw nothing. His eyes were keen, for he had searched the hillsides

for sheep, but it looked as if they were not as keen as the sailor's, and

standing in the shadow he watched the indicated spot. After a minute or

two, a figure came out of the fog and signaled with a lifted hand.

"More of them around!" said the sailor grimly. "There's trouble coming to

them if they mean to corral us. Jake's at the side window, and he had to

get out of Mobile because he was too handy with his gun. Not often had to

pull mine, but I can shoot some."

"Quit talking!" Kit rejoined, and his mouth set firm when the

figure vanished.

He thought the rebels meant to surround the building. If so, they were

probably numerous, and the rifle shot some hours before justified the

supposition. They had first tried to kill him quietly and, finding this

impossible, had resolved to seize the party. Well, there was good cover

behind the broken walls, his men were a reckless lot, and he meant to

fight. He wished the others would begin, for standing, highly-strung, in

the dew was nervous work.

The light had got clearer when he noted a movement in a festoon of

trailing vines. The wet leaves shook as if somebody were cautiously

pulling them back, and Kit stiffened his muscles. It was a comfort to

feel his hand was steady, and although he had not used a pistol much he

was a good shot with a gun. He thought he could send a bullet through the

moving leaves, but wanted his lurking enemy to begin the fight.

A face appeared at an opening and an arm pushed through. The man was

coming out and Kit felt his nerves tingle. Then, as the fellow's

body followed his arm, the sailor said quietly, "Don't move, boss.

I'll fix him."

Next moment, Kit swung round, for the man who stepped out into the road

wore a white uniform. The sailor leaned against the wall to steady his

aim, and his tense pose and rigid hand indicated that he was pressing

the trigger.

"Hold on!" Kit shouted. "Don't shoot!"

The sailor lowered his pistol and Kit, springing out of the shadow,

waved his hat.

"Come forward. We are friends."

The _rural_ turned and called to somebody, and then joining Kit glanced

at the sailor's pistol with a dry smile.

"It looks as if I had run some risk. You did not mean to be surprised."

"No," said Kit; "one takes precautions. I came very near being surprised

last night."

"So the _Galdareros_ are about? We suspected something like this."

"I suppose it was why you meant to search the _hacienda_. But did

you see us?"

The _rural_ indicated a plume of smoke that curled up from behind the

ruined wall.

"We saw _that_. When one takes precautions it is prudent to see they are

complete."

Kit nodded. There was no use in getting angry; his men were rash and

careless, but, to some extent, this was why he had chosen them. They had,

no doubt, lighted the fire to cook breakfast.

"Where is your companion?" he asked.

"There are three of us; you will see the others in a few moments. They

watch the road farther on. It is usual for us to patrol in twos, but of

late some have not returned. A revolution is a bad time for _rurales;_

one pays old reckonings then."

Kit smiled. "I imagine it would have been bad for any _Galdarero_ who had

tried to steal away down the road. But I expect you know me?"

"We have orders about you, señor; you see a servant of yours," the

_rural_ answered with a bow. "But it might be better if you told us

your plans."

After giving him a cigarette, Kit sent the sailor to tell the others and

when the _rurales_ came up offered them a share of the breakfast his men

had cooked. While they ate he told them what had brought him there and

where he was going.

"So the American is dead? I have seen him at the presidio," one remarked.

"Well, señor, it would be prudent to finish your business at Salinas

to-night. After that, I do not know. There has been fighting and some of

the president's soldiers have been killed in the swamps."

"I must finish the business," Kit replied. "It does not matter what

happens afterwards."

The _rural_ nodded. "The American talked like that. Quick and short,

but what he said went. However, we will go to Salinas with you when you

are ready."

Kit got up and gave his men an order. "I am ready now."

They set off soon afterwards and reached the mission as the light was

fading. Two small, mud buildings and a little church stood among some

ruins in an opening, and a frail old man met the party at the gate. He

took off his hat when the sailors put down the coffin, and then listened

to Kit's quiet narrative.

"This poor place is yours; it was a prosperous mission long since," he

said. "In this country, men no longer build, but plot and destroy--it is

easier than the other. Now we will put the coffin in the church and then

I will give you food."

Father Herman drew back an old leather curtain and the smell of incense

met Kit as he stood at the door while the sailors went forward with their

load. The church was nearly dark, but Kit saw it had some beauty and

there were objects that hinted at more prosperous days. At the other end,

a ruby lamp glimmered and a wax candle burned with a clear flame before a

statue of the Virgin. Kit knew whence the candle came and that Hattie

Askew had knelt on the stones, beneath it, praying that her husband might

get well. Then he looked at Father Herman, with a doubt in his mind.

The other met his glance and smiled. "The greatest of these is charity,"

he said in Latin, and resumed in fine Castilian: "He was our benefactor,

a man who kept his word, and with such a wife I think our faith was his.

It is a gracious sentiment that they should not be parted."

"In a sense," Kit said quietly, "I think they have not been parted yet.

At the last he said, with confidence, he was going to meet his wife."

"Who knows?" said Father Herman. "There is much that is dark; but one

felt that his spirit reached out after hers. Well, I knew he would come

back; I have long expected him."

He went forward and lighted more candles when the sailors put down the

coffin, and the noise their boots made jarred Kit's nerves as they came

back. The light spread, touching the bare walls and tawdry decorations

about the shrines. It was a poor little church, falling into ruin, and

the beauty its pious builders had given it was vanishing. Yet something

redeemed it from being commonplace, and Kit felt a strange emotional

stirring as his eyes rested on the dim ruby lamp and the rude black

coffin. He thought the light of love could not be quenched and knew the

tender romance that had burned in the heart of the old Buccaneer. It was

with something of an effort he turned away, and followed Father Herman

across the corral.

Two hours later, red torches flared in the dark as they laid Adam in his

grave, and Kit, worn by anxiety and physical strain, listened dully to

the solemn Latin office. Then, when the old priest's voice died away, he

went back to the mission, where he fell asleep and slept twelve hours.

In the morning, he sat beneath a broken arch that had once formed part of

a cloister. Outside the patch of shadow, the sun beat upon dazzling sand,

and a few vivid green palm-fronds hung over a ruined wall. Beyond this

the forest rose, dark and forbidding, against the glaring sky. Although

the rest had refreshed Kit, he felt as if he had got older in the last

few days and now the strain had slackened he was lonely. So far, he had

obeyed orders and when doubtful looked to Adam for a lead, but Adam had

gone and left him control. All that belonged to his youth had vanished;

he was a man, with a man's responsibilities, and a man's problems to

solve. Presently Father Herman came up and sat down opposite. Although he

looked feeble, his glance was clear and kind.

"This house is yours, señor, and I am your servant," he said. "Yet I

cannot hope that you will remain long and the times are disturbed. If I

can help--"

"Since the rebels know I am here, it would not be safe to stay, but I

cannot reach Salinas Point before the steamer sails," Kit replied. "I

must get to Havana as soon as possible."

Father Herman thought for a few minutes and then resumed: "A small

schooner is loading at a beach not far off and I know the _patron_. He

would take you to Arenas, where the president has supporters and you

might get a ship. I think he sails to-night, but I will send a message."

Kit thanked him and went on: "You were my uncle's friend, and now I have

taken his place, you are mine. As you let him send you things the mission

needed, perhaps you will not refuse me."

"I had not hoped for this," Father Herman answered with a grateful look.

"The generous gifts meant much to us, for we are very poor."

"Friendship has privileges. Besides, it was my uncle's wish, and will be

something I can do for his sake."

Father Herman's worn face got very soft and he gave Kit an approving

glance. "You are his kinsman, señor; one cannot doubt that. Like him, you

are staunch and do not forget, but in some ways you are different. I will

take your gifts and pray that yours may be a less stormy life."

"Thank you," Kit said gently and went off to look after his men.

In the afternoon he left the mission, and a week later reached Havana,

where he found a cablegram waiting. He got a shock when he opened it, and

stood for a time with the message crumpled in his hand, for it told him

that Peter Askew was dying at Ashness. Then he sat down on the long,

arcaded veranda of the hotel, with a poignant sense of loss, for the last

blow was heavier than the first. It would be too late when he got home;

Andrew, his English relative, would not have sent the message had there

been any hope.

After a time, Kit began to pull himself together. He felt dull and half

stunned, but saw that he must brace up. Although one duty was denied him,

another was left. He could not bid his father good-by, but he could keep

his promise to Adam, and there was much to be done. Getting up with a

resolute movement, he went to the telegraph office.

Although Peter had not hinted that he was ill, Kit felt he ought to have

gone home before, and now blamed Alvarez for keeping him. He knew this

was not logical, but he hated the country, with its turmoils and plots.

It was not worth helping, and in very truth he did not know if by

supporting the president he were helping it or not. After all, however,

this was not important; Alvarez needed a last supply of munitions that

Adam had agreed to send. Kit doubted if they would be paid for, but the

doubt did not count for much. Adam knew the risk when he agreed and his

engagements bound his nephew. The goods must be delivered and then Kit

would let the business go. When he reached the office he wrote a

cablegram to Andrew at Ashness and another to Mayne, who had left Havana

before Kit arrived.

CHAPTER XII

THE LAST CARGO

Dusk was falling and Kit urged his tired mule up the winding road. His

skin was grimed with dust, for he had ridden hard in scorching heat, and

was anxious and impatient to get on. The _Rio Negro_ was in the lagoon

and some cargo had been landed, but Kit stopped the work when nobody came

to take the goods. It looked as if the message he had sent through a

secret channel had not reached the president, and this was ominous.

He had heard rumors of fighting when he was in Cuba and the United

States, but the newspapers gave him little information and he had driven

the _Rio Negro_ across at full speed in order to finish the contract

before the revolution spread, which was all he wanted. Adam's staunch

loyalty had cost him his life, but the president had no claim on Kit.

Besides, his stopping in the country had kept him away from Ashness when

he was needed there. He smiled as he admitted that he was hardly logical,

since he was stubbornly pushing on when almost exhausted in order that

Alvarez might get the goods he required; but after all, this was for

Adam's sake.

As he rode up the hill the sky got brighter and a flickering illumination

was reflected on the clouds that hung about the mountains. It looked as

if the town were lighted up and Kit wondered whether this was to

celebrate a victory. He struck the mule, but the tired animal came near

throwing him when it stumbled and he let it choose its pace. The jolt had

shaken him and he was very tired.

For a time he skirted a belt of trees, and when he came out on the open

hillside the illumination was ominously bright. Now he was getting

nearer, the clouds looked different from the mist that rolled down the

mountains in the evening; they were dark and trailed away from the range.

Still, he could go no faster and he waited with growing anxiety until he

reached a narrow tableland. It commanded a wider view and he raised

himself in the stirrups as he saw that the light was the reflection of a

large fire.

He sank back and pulling up the mule let the bridle fall on its drooping

neck. It looked as if a number of houses were burning in the town, which

indicated that there had been a fight. The trouble was he did not know

who had won and this was important. If the president were badly beaten,

he would not need the supplies at the lagoon, although they might be

useful to the rebels. Kit imagined it would be prudent to turn back, but

he must find out what had happened and sent the mule forward.

Half an hour afterwards he rode into the town. The small square houses

were dark and there was nobody in the narrow street, but he heard a

confused uproar farther on. Although the glare in the sky was fainter, it

leaped up now and then and a cloud of smoke floated across the roofs. A

red glow shone down the next street and he saw the pavement was torn up.

Broken furniture lay among piles of stones, the walls were chipped, and

when Kit got down he had some trouble to lead the mule across the ruined

barricade. Although he saw nobody yet, the shouts that came from the

neighborhood of the presidio were ominous.

Kit remounted and rode slowly up to the edge of the sandy square where

the palms grew along the rails. The square was occupied by an excited

crowd, but the presidio had gone. A great pile of smoking rubbish and a

wall, broken by wide cracks, marked where it had stood. Flames played

about the ruin and Kit turned his mule. He thought the crowd was waiting

to search for plunder, and did not expect to find anybody calm enough to

answer his questions. Besides, he needed food and drink and might learn

what had happened at the café.

The small tables stretched across the street and were all occupied, but

when Kit had tied the mule to the alameda railings opposite he found a

chair and ordered an omelette and wine. The waiter looked at him with

some surprise and Kit wondered whether it was prudent for him to stay.

"You have been burning the presidio," he remarked.

"We have got rid of a tyrant," the waiter replied.

"You may get another worse," said Kit, as coolly as he could. "What

happened to the president?"

Somebody shouted "_Mozo_" and when the waiter went away Kit rested his

arms on the table. He was very tired, and it was obvious that he had come

too late. Since the president was overthrown, he had lost a large sum of

money and wasted the efforts he had made to carry out Adam's engagements.

He must get back to the lagoon as soon as possible, but he needed food

and wanted to find out if Alvarez had escaped. There was, however, some

risk in asking questions, because the café seemed to be occupied by

triumphant rebels.

Presently the men at the next table got up and their place was taken by

another group, among which Kit noted Francisca Sarmiento and her

relations. He thought they looked surprised, but they saluted him

politely, and soon afterwards the girl, who was nearest, looked round.

"You have courage, señor," she remarked in a meaning tone.

"I do not know if courage is needed," Kit replied, forcing a smile. "It

looks as if I could no longer meddle with politics."

"Then, since you could not help Alvarez, why did you come?"

"I imagined I could help him, until I saw the presidio was burnt," Kit

replied. "In fact, I haven't found out what has happened yet."

The girl studied him with some curiosity, but Kit felt that he had

nothing to fear from her.

"If one did not know that you were incorruptible, one could understand

your rashness," she said, in a mocking tone. "I suppose your steamer is

in the lagoon?"

Kit looked round. The café was crowded, but the people were talking

excitedly, and nobody seemed to notice him and the girl. The noise would

prevent their talk being heard.

"There is no use in denying it, because Galdar's spies have, no doubt,

seen her. I would be glad if you can tell me what has become of the

president."

Francisca gave him a keen glance. "You do not know Alvarez is dead?"

"Ah!" said Kit. "I did not know. Was he killed?"

"He died soon after the fighting began. The doctors say it was apoplexy;

he had been hurrying about in the burning sun."

"I wonder--He was a strong man and used to the sun."

Francisca smiled. "One does not ask questions at a time like this. It is

prudent to believe what one is told. When the soldiers lost their leader

they ran away."

Kit was silent for a few minutes. He had had a faint hope that the

president might rally his supporters and begin the fight again, but the

hope was gone. He knew all he wanted, and must leave the town as soon as

he had had some food.

"Alvarez was a friend of mine, and the news you have given me is

something of a shock," he said. "I think the country will feel its loss,

but that is not my business, and since there is nothing to keep me here,

I shall be glad to get away."

"It would be prudent to go soon," Francisca remarked in a low voice.

"I do not see why. I am no longer important enough for your friends to

meddle with me."

"You are very modest, señor, if you are not rather dull. You have goods

that would be useful to the new president, who has a rival he did not

expect. Don Felix Muñez has turned traitor, and there are people who

support him in the coast province."

"Another president!" Kit exclaimed with a soft laugh, and then bowed to

the girl. "I think you mean well. You have given me a useful hint and you

have my thanks. I will be rash and tell you that Galdar shall not have

the goods I brought."

Franciscans eyes got soft and a touch of color crept into her olive skin.

"One does not often meet a man who puts honor before money. _Adios,

señor!_ I wish you well."

Then she turned to her companions, who presently left the table and soon

afterwards Kit's omelette was brought. While he ate, Olsen came in and

sitting down opposite, lighted a cigarette.

"You'll allow that the Buccaneer backed the wrong man," he said. "I

warned you and reckon your obstinacy has cost you something."

"That is so," Kit agreed. "One must run risks in a business like this,

but I don't expect you to sympathize."

Olsen smiled. "I don't pretend I'm not satisfied, but I can show you how

to get some of your money back. I've learned much about you and Askew

since we had our last talk, and am willing to buy part of the _Rio

Negro's_ cargo."

"You seem to know she has arrived?"

"Oh, yes; I knew some hours since. I've been looking out for you."

"To whom do you mean to sell the goods?" Kit asked.

"Does that matter?"

"Yes; it's rather important."

"The important thing is you'll get paid," Olsen rejoined.

Kit frowned. He imagined he could demand a high price, and now Alvarez

was dead, there was perhaps no reason for refusing to bargain; but he did

not mean to let Galdar have the goods. He thought Adam would not have

done so, and he held the new president, to some extent, accountable for

Adam's last illness.

"The cargo is not for sale," he said.

"Oh, shucks!" Olsen exclaimed. "I reckon you want to put up the price."

"No," said Kit, rather grimly, "I don't want to sell."

"Don't be a fool. The man you backed is dead. You carried out your

contract, and it doesn't matter to him now who gets the truck."

"That's true," Kit replied. "But I won't help his rival."

Olsen looked hard at him and saw he was resolute. "Oh, well! If you're

determined, there's no use in arguing! You're something of a curiosity; I

haven't met a man like you before."

He went away and Kit ordered more wine, for he was thirsty after his long

ride and had borne some strain. He had to wait for the wine, but had

expected this since the café was crowded, and in the meantime he got up

and looked across the street. Nobody had meddled with the mule, which

stood quietly by the railings with drooping head. Kit wondered where he

could get it some food and if he could hire a fresh animal.

Then a waiter brought the wine and when he had drunk some and lighted a

cigarette Kit, listening to the talk of the men at the next table, got a

hint that threw some light on Olsen's offer. Alvarez had used the vaults

under the presidio for a munition store, and when he was dead the

mayor-domo had blown up the building as the rebels forced their way in.

Now there was a new president in the field, it was obvious why Galdar

wanted fresh supplies. This, however, was not important, and Kit drained

his glass and then tried to rouse himself. He must look after the mule

and if it was not fit for the journey get another animal.

He felt strangely reluctant to move; the fatigue he had for a time shaken

off returned with puzzling suddenness and threatened to overpower him.

His head was very heavy, he could hardly hear the people talk, and every

now and then his eyes shut. He could not keep them open, but after a few

minutes he straightened his bent shoulders with a resolute jerk and

clenched his fist. It was not fatigue that was mastering him; the wine

was drugged. He had not noted a suspicious taste, but he was thirsty and

the omelette was strongly flavored with garlic and red pepper.

Holding himself stiffly upright, he tried to think. Olsen had, no

doubt, ordered the wine to be drugged, and his object was plain. He

meant to prevent Kit reaching the lagoon until he had removed the cargo

on the beach and tried to persuade Mayne to land the rest. Well, the

plot would fail, and with an effort Kit got up and crossed the street.

He suspected that he was watched, but nobody tried to stop him and he

mounted the mule.

The animal moved off at a better pace than he had hoped and he tried to

brace himself. His head ached and his brain was very dull, but somehow he

stuck to the saddle, and although he could hardly guide the mule the

animal avoided the people in its way. After a time, the street became

empty, the noise behind was fainter, and the houses were dark. Nobody

seemed to follow him and Kit began to hope he might be able to leave the

town. He did not know what he would do then, and hardly imagined he could

keep up the effort much longer. Perhaps, when he got away from the houses

he could tie up the mule in a quiet place and rest.

When he rode down a rough track into open country he rocked in the saddle

and would have fallen but for the high peak and big stirrups. The

hillside was blurred; distorted objects that he thought were rocks and

cactus lurched about in the elusive moonlight, and the sweat ran down his

face as he fought against the drug. He knew it would conquer him, but he

was going on as long as possible.

At length the mule stepped into a hole, Kit's foot came out of the

stirrup and he fell. For a moment or two, the mule dragged him along;

then he got his other foot loose and for a time knew nothing more.

The moonlight was fading when he opened his eyes and saw that he was

lying beside a clump of cactus. Indistinct objects moved along the road

not far off and he heard the click of hoofs on stones. A mule train was

passing and was, no doubt, going to the lagoon. He could not get up and

was glad he was in dark shadow. The muleteers had probably been told to

look out for him and a blow from a heavy stone would prevent his

interfering with the rebels' plans. The indistinct figures, however, went

on and Kit relapsed into unconsciousness.

It was daylight when he wakened and saw a man bending over him. Kit was

cold and wet with dew; his head ached horribly and he did not try to get

up. His pistol was underneath him and if the fellow meant to kill him he

could not resist.

"What do you want?" he asked.

The man said he had seen him lying there and imagined he was ill. Then

he held out his hand and asked if Kit could get up. Kit was surprised

when he found himself on his feet, although he swayed as he tried to

keep his balance.

"I suppose you are a liberator?" he said dully.

The other clenched his dark fist. "No, señor! Those dogs, the

_Galdareros_, are no friends of mine! But you were for the president; it

was known in the town."

Kit admitted it. The fellow's scornful denial was comforting and after

some talk, walking with a painful effort, he went with him down the hill

to a small mud house. A few minutes after he got there he went to sleep,

but in the meantime the man had promised to help him to reach the lagoon.

He kept his promise, and before it was light next morning Kit dismounted

on the sandy beach. There was no moon and mist drifted about the trees,

but the water shone faintly and the tide was nearly full. The steamer

loomed in the gloom and when Kit shouted there was a rattle of pulley

blocks and a splash of oars. Ten minutes afterwards Mayne met him at the

gangway and gave him his hand.

"It's some relief to see you back," he said. "Finlay has his fires banked

and can get steam to take us out in an hour or two."

Kit went with him to his room and sat down limply. He was covered with

dust and wet with dew; his face was haggard and his eyes were dull.

"I'll tell you about my adventures later," he said. "What about

the cargo?"

"Some dagos came along with a mule train and loaded up part of the truck

on the beach. They had an order that looked as if it had been signed by

you, and as they were a pretty tough crowd and had their knives loose, I

let them take the goods. When I studied the order I wasn't sure about the

hand and brought off all they had left. By and by another gang came

along, but I refused to send a boat until I'd seen you."

"You were prudent," Kit remarked. "The order was forged. Let me see the

mate's cargo-lists."

He studied the book Mayne gave him and then pondered. Olsen had, no

doubt, forged the order and Kit imagined he would have some trouble to

get payment for the goods. The manufacturers might be persuaded to take

back the rest of the cargo at something less than its proper price, but

Kit thought the value of the munitions supplied to Alvarez would be lost.

The new president would certainly try to disown the debt. Kit, however,

had known that Adam's staunchness might cost him much, and something

might, perhaps, be saved. He had had enough of the country, and as soon

as he could straighten out the tangle in which the revolution had

involved Adam's business he was going back to Ashness.

"Heave your anchor when you're ready," he said to Mayne. "We'll call at

Havana and then steam for New Orleans."

At high-water he stood on the bridge, watching the mangroves fade into

the mist. Ahead, the sun was rising out of a smooth sea, the air was

fresh, and Kit's heart was lighter. He had done with plots and intrigue

and was going back to Ashness and the quiet hills. At the same time, he

felt a tender melancholy as he thought about the little church at Salinas

and the marble cross in the sandy yard. Then he lifted his head and the

melancholy vanished as he looked across the sparkling water. The clang of

engines rose and fell with a measured beat and there was a noisy

splashing at the bows. Bright streaks of foam eddied about the _Rio

Negro's_ side, and a long smoke cloud trailed astern as she steamed to

the North.

PART III--KIT'S RETURN

CHAPTER I

KIT'S WELCOME

Kit was comfortably tired when he sat down by the beck at the head of the

dale. He had been at Ashness for a week, and finding much to be done had

occupied himself with characteristic energy. It was a relief to feel that

the heat of the tropics had not relaxed his muscles as much as he had

thought, and that the languidness he had sometimes fought against was

vanishing before the bracing winds that swept his native hills. The ache

in his arms had come from using the draining spade and his knees were

stiff after a long walk through the heather to examine the Herdwick

sheep. His vigor was coming back and he was conscious of a keen but

tranquil satisfaction with the quiet dale.

Filling his pipe lazily, he looked about. The sun was near the summit of

the fells and the long slopes were turning gray in the shadow. The yellow

light touched the other side of the valley, and the narrow bottom,

through which shining water ran, was a belt of cool dark-green. A faint

bleating of sheep came down the hill, and the beck splashed softly among

the stones.

Kit found the quiet soothing. He had had enough excitement and adventure,

and had half-consciously recognized that the life he had led in the

tropics was not for him. On the whole, he thought he had made good. One

did one's best at the work one found, but intrigue was not his proper

job. For all that, he did not mean to philosophize and had something to

think about.

When he sold the _Rio Negro_ and paid his debts he found a larger

surplus than he had hoped. Moreover, his agents had not yet enforced all

business claims and might be able to send him a fresh sum. The money he

brought home would not have made him a rich man in America, but it would

go a long way in the dale, and the soil and flocks at Ashness could be

improved by modern methods and carefully spent capital. Kit had begun at

once and found his task engrossing, but when the day's work was over he

felt a gentle melancholy and a sense of loneliness. Adam and Peter had

gone and he had loved them both; he knew he would not meet their like

again. Yet he had not lost them altogether. They had, so to speak, blazed

the trail for him, and he must try to follow, fronting obstacles with

their fearless calm.

Then he took his pipe from his mouth and his heart beat as a figure came

round a bend of the road. The girl was some distance off and he could

not see her face, but he knew her and braced himself. He had known the

meeting must come and much depended on her attitude. Grace was no longer

a romantic girl, and though he had not forgotten her, she might have

been persuaded that she had nothing to do with him. Now she must choose

her line, and he sat still, half prepared for her to pass him with a

bow. While he waited, his dog got up and ran along the road. Old Bob

knew Grace, and it looked as if she had spoken to, and perhaps petted,

him while his master was away.

She stopped, and Kit felt ashamed when he got up, for she gave him her

hand with a friendly look and he saw she had not changed as much as he

had thought. The proud calm he approved was perhaps more marked, but he

imagined the generous rashness he had liked as well still lurked beneath

the surface. He had met attractive girls in the tropics who knew they

were beautiful and added by art to their physical charm. Grace, however,

used hers unconsciously; he thought she was too proud to care if she had

such charm or not.

"I am glad to see you back," she said and stroked the dog that

leaped upon her. "Bob and I are friends. He knew me when I came

round the corner."

"So did I," Kit rejoined quietly.

He thought he noted a touch of color in her face, but she smiled.

"You did not get up. Perhaps you were not sure, like Bob?"

"I think I was sure. But I have been away some time and it was not my

part to force you to acknowledge me."

"If I didn't want to?" Grace suggested. "Well, I do not forget my

friends, and now, if you are satisfied, we can let that go." She

paused and resumed when he went on with her: "The dalesfolk have

missed you, particularly since your father died. It must have been a

shock--I felt it, too, because I saw him now and then. We were friends

in spite of all."

Kit was grateful for her frank sympathy, and felt he could talk to her

about his father.

"He did not tell me this, but he liked you."

"He was just," Grace replied. "People knew, and trusted him. He had none

of the rancor that often leads us wrong. When he was firm he did not get

angry. That kind of attitude is hard, but it makes things easier. But you

were in America with his brother, were you not?"

"I was in the United States, and afterwards in some of the countries on

the Caribbean."

"Ah," said Grace with curiosity, "that must have been interesting! One

understands that is a beautiful and romantic coast, with its memories of

the great Elizabethan sailors and the pirates."

"It is romantic, and dangerous in parts. You can land at some of the

towns from modern mail-boats and find smart shops and cafés; others have

fallen into ruin and lie, half-hidden by the forest, beside

malaria-haunted lagoons. You steal in through the mist at the top of a

high tide, much as the old pirates did, and when you land, find hints of

a vanished civilization and the Spaniards' broken power. But you seem to

know something about the coast."

Grace smiled. "You look surprised! There is a library at Tarnside,

although it is not often used, and we have books about the voyages of the

buccaneers. One book is rather fascinating. But what were you doing in

the lagoons?"

"Sometimes we loaded dyewoods and rubber; sometimes we lent money to

ambitious politicians in return for unlawful trading privileges, and now

and then engaged in business that was something like that of the old

adventurers."

"After that, you must find the dale very tame," Grace remarked, and

quietly studied Kit.

She had liked his honesty and resolution before he went abroad, but he

had gained something she had not noted then. Although he wore rough

working clothes and had obviously been digging, he had an elusive touch

of distinction, and there was a hint of command in his quiet look. He had

seen the world, confronted dangers, and used power, and this had put a

stamp on him.

"It is hard to imagine you a pirate," she remarked with a twinkle. "You

don't look the part, and, no doubt, like other occupations, it requires

some study."

Kit laughed. "One does the best one can! I rather think taking trouble

and a determination to make good are as useful as specialized training."

"Perhaps that's true. It's curious, in a way, but I expect a good farmer,

for example, might make a successful buccaneer. One understands, though,

that the last pirate was hanged a hundred years since."

"There are a few left, although their methods have changed with the

times. Some day I would like to tell you about my uncle. He was, so to

speak, a survival, and I think you would appreciate him. But how have

things been going in the dale?"

Grace's twinkle vanished, her look became serious, and Kit thought he

noted signs of strain. After all, she had changed since he left Ashness.

It was not that she looked older, although she was now a rather stately

woman and not an impulsive girl; he felt that she had known care.

"On the whole," she said, "things have not gone very well. We have had

wet summers and heavy snow in spring. The flocks are poor and rents have

come down. Bell has gone; he quarreled with Hayes about some new

machinery for the mill. All is much the same at Tarnside, though my

father is not so active. Gerald left Woolwich--perhaps you knew--and is

in a London bank."

Kit hid his surprise. Gerald was not the stuff of which good bank clerks

are made, although Osborn's influence with the local manager had, no

doubt, got him the post. Kit imagined the lad had been forced to leave

Woolwich, but money must be scarce at Tarnside, since he had gone into

business. This threw some light on the hint of weariness he had noted

about Grace. If fresh economy was needful, she and Mrs. Osborn must

carry the load.

"Hayes is still your agent. I met him yesterday and he gave me a sour

nod," Kit remarked.

"Yes," said Grace, and added quietly: "I sometimes wish he were not!"

"Well, I never liked the man. All the same, he's a very good agent, from

the landlord's point of view, and your father's interests ought to be

safe with him."

"I suppose so," Grace agreed, but her look was doubtful, and they

reached the Ashness lonning a few minutes later. When Kit stopped she

gave him her hand. "I hear you are going to make a number of

improvements, and wish you good luck!"

Kit went up the lonning and sitting down in the porch lighted his pipe.

Grace had not forgotten; she had given him his real welcome home and he

thrilled as he thought about her quiet friendliness. Perhaps the meeting

was awkward for her, but she had struck the right note, with the

dignified simplicity he had expected. It said something for her pluck

that she had met him as if the interview at Ashness, when Osborn had

driven him away, had never taken place. All this was comforting, but Kit

was vaguely disturbed on her account.

He had noted a hint of anxiety and she had implied that things were not

going well for the Osborns. He meant to marry Grace; his longing for her

was keener than he had felt it yet, but it was not altogether selfish.

She must be removed from surroundings in which she could not thrive.

Tarnside, with its rash extravagance, pretense, and stern private

economy, was not the place for her. But he felt he must be patient and

cautious; there were numerous obstacles in his way.

In the meantime, Grace met Thorn farther along the road and tried to hide

her annoyance as he advanced. Perhaps it was the contrast between him and

Kit, whose thin, brown face had a half-ascetic look, for Alan was fat and

getting coarse. Grace had noted this before, but not so plainly as she

did now. His manners were urbane and he belonged to her circle; to some

extent, his code was hers and she had his prejudices and tastes. All the

same, she did not like him; for one thing, he was a type her father

approved, a man of local importance and strictly local ideas, and Osborn

had forced her into rebellion. Alan managed the otter hounds well and

knew much about farming, but he was satisfied with this. Although he

belonged to a smart London club, Grace imagined he only went there

because he thought he ought. Yet he was cunning and patient, and knowing

why he bore with Osborn, she was sometimes afraid.

"Was that Askew?" he inquired when he turned and went on with her.

Grace said it was and he gave her a careless look.

"I heard he had come back. Might have been better if he had stayed away.

A fellow like that is rather disturbing."

"I don't think he could do much harm, when you and Hayes are on your

guard," Grace rejoined.

"That is so," Thorn agreed and she could not tell if he knew she had

meant to be ironical. "Anyhow, I don't suppose he wants to do much harm;

I was thinking about his example."

"Is it a dangerous example to improve one's land? I thought you advocated

scientific farming?"

"So I do. I don't mean that, although I don't know if Askew's farming is

scientific or not. One can't judge yet. His independence and habit of

taking his own line might be dangerous."

"Mr. Askew's independence is justified. Ashness is his."

"Yes," said Thorn thoughtfully, "that's the trouble. If he was a farming

tenant, things would be easier."

Grace laughed. "You are delightfully naïve! I'm afraid you'll have to

leave Mr. Askew alone, but I don't expect he'll do anything alarming. I

think you know he is a friend of mine."

"I knew he was, before he went abroad. If you have renewed the

friendship, it means you're satisfied about him and perhaps we needn't be

disturbed. Your judgment is generally sound."

"Thank you," said Grace. "I have relations who would not agree! But why

do you dislike people who take their own line?"

"It would be awkward if one's tenants did so; but perhaps my feeling

springs from envy. The rest of us can't do what we want. You can't,

for example!"

Grace gave him a keen glance, and then laughed. "On the whole, that is

true. We have a number of rules at Tarnside, but one now and then gets

some satisfaction from breaking them."

"Rebellion doesn't pay," Thorn rejoined with a touch of dry humor. "You

are young and adventurous, but you'll find it prudent, so to speak, to

accept your environment and submit. Some people call submission duty,

but that's really cant; they mean it saves them trouble. Anyhow, you

cannot make your own code; when you're born at a place like Tarnside,

it's made for you."

"Ah!" said Grace, "I wonder--Well, you know I am sometimes rash."

Then she was careful to talk about something else, for she thought Alan

had not philosophized without an object and it was not difficult to see

where his hints led. When they reached the lodge, she firmly sent him

away, although he looked as if he wanted to come to the house.

CHAPTER II

A DANGEROUS TALENT

Dinner was nearly over at Tarnside. The meal was served with some

ceremony, although the bill of fare was frugal except when game could be

shot and, as a rule, nobody but Osborn talked much. Now he had satisfied

his appetite he looked about the spacious room. The handsome, molded

ceiling was dark from neglect and the cornice was stained by damp. The

light of the setting sun streamed in through the long casement window

which commanded the shining tarn and the woods that melted into shadow at

the mouth of the dale. It was a noble view, but it did not hold Osborn's

eyes, for the quivering sunbeams searched out the faded spots on the

curtains and the worn patches on the rugs on the polished floor.

"We need a number of new things and I don't know how they're to be

got," he remarked, and when Mrs. Osborn said nothing knitted his brows.

He had put away some money for renovations, but it had gone. One could

not keep money at Tarnside; it vanished and left nothing to show how it

had been spent.

"I understand young Askew is back at Ashness," he resumed, looking

hard at Grace.

"Yes," said Grace. "I met him not long since."

Osborn frowned. He knew she had met Kit, but did not know if he liked her

candor. The girl was independent, but he thought she now understood the

responsibilities of her rank.

"The fellow is obviously prosperous, since he's spending a large sum on

draining. I saw a big stack of pipes and a number of men at work. My

opinion is it's a ridiculous waste of money."

"Perhaps there are worse extravagances," Grace rejoined. "I expect he has

some hope of getting his money back by growing better crops. Ours goes

and never returns."

Mrs. Osborn gave her a warning glance. Osborn hated contradiction and

Grace and he often jarred, but the girl smiled.

"Father and I are not going to quarrel about Mr. Askew's farming; it is

not worth while," she said and studied Osborn with half-penitent

sympathy.

The strong light touched his face, forcing up the deep lines and

wrinkles, and she thought he was getting older fast. His eyes were dull

and his shoulders were slightly bent. She knew about some of his troubles

and suspected others, but the stamp of indulgence that had got plainer in

the last year or two disturbed her.

"The Askews seem fated to give me trouble," he went on. "Now the fellow

has begun to drain, his neighbors will expect me to do so. In fact, Black

and Pattinson bothered Hayes about some plans for buying pipes when they

paid their rent. Besides, the contrast hurts; I don't see why a fellow

like Askew should be able to waste money on rash experiments when we have

not enough. However, this leads to another matter; Gerald comes back

tomorrow, and will no doubt, grumble about his poverty. If he does, you

must give him nothing. He has his pay and I make him an allowance. I

won't have his extravagance encouraged."

Grace smiled as Mrs. Osborn got up with a disturbed look. "Mother cannot

have much to give and I have nothing at all. I'm afraid Gerald's talent

for begging will be used in vain."

She went out with Mrs. Osborn and when they had gone Osborn, crossing

the floor to the sideboard, filled his glass to the top. This was his

regular habit and its futility escaped him, although he knew his wife and

daughter knew. He felt he did enough if he exercised some self-denial

when they were about.

In the meantime, Mrs. Osborn sat down on the terrace and looked across

the untidy lawn.

"We need a new pony mower; Jenkins cannot keep the grass in order with

the small machine. He was very obstinate about the bedding plants he

wanted to buy and the borders look thin, but I felt I must be firm," she

said and added drearily: "I wonder when we shall be forced to get a

sporting tenant and live in a smaller house."

"Father would not leave Tarnside. I suppose you don't know how things are

really going?"

"I know they are not going well and suspect they get worse; but he will

not tell me. One could help if one did know."

"I'm afraid I have disappointed father and given you anxieties you need

not have had," Grace replied with some bitterness. "After all, however,

the fault is hardly mine. I wanted to make my own career, but was not

allowed; to work at a useful occupation, would somehow have humiliated

our ridiculous pride, and there was, of course, only one hope left for

you." She paused, and colored as she resumed: "Well, although I am not

sorry, it looks as if that hope had gone."

"It would have been a relief if you had made a good marriage," Mrs.

Osborn admitted. "Still, since you met nobody you like--"

"The men I might perhaps have liked were poor. Father would, no doubt,

think it my natural perversity, or our bad luck; but I don't believe in

luck. It's an excuse for weak makeshifts and futilities; one can conquer

bad fortune if one is resolute."

"None of us, except you, has much resolution," Mrs. Osborn remarked and

sighed. "So far, your firmness has not helped much; I imagine you know

your father has not given up hope."

"Yes," said Grace, rather harshly. "I do know, and that is why I am often

impatient. He will not be persuaded the thing's impossible."

"After all, Alan has some advantages."

"He has many drawbacks," Grace rejoined, and then her face softened and

she gave her mother an appealing look. "I thought you were on my side!"

"I am on your side where you feel strongly. Perhaps I am reserved and you

do not often give me your confidence."

"I'm sorry. We are seldom quite honest at Tarnside; somehow one can't be

oneself, but now we must be frank. I don't like Alan Thorn; I never liked

him. It's impossible."

"Then, my dear, there is no more to be said."

Grace made a sign of disagreement. "There may be much; that is why I am

disturbed. You and I don't count, mother; we are expected to submit. It

isn't that I don't like Alan; I shrink from him. He is cunning and knows

how to wait. Sometimes his patience frightens me."

"But why should his patience frighten you?"

"Oh!" said Grace, "can't you understand? You know father's habits and

that Gerald is following him. You know our debts are mounting up and this

can't go on. Some day we may be ruined and then I think Alan will seize

his chance. Perhaps I'm imaginative--but such things happen."

Mrs. Osborn put her hand on the girl's arm and her touch was unusually

firm. "You may be alarmed for nothing, my dear. But if the time should

come when my help is really needed, it will be yours."

Grace kissed her. "I can trust you. I was weak--I'm sometimes a

coward--but now I'm comforted."

They were silent for a few minutes and then Mrs. Osborn looked up.

"Is it prudent for you to meet Christopher Askew again?"

Grace colored, but met her mother's glance and answered with a thoughtful

calm; "I see no danger. I liked Kit before he went away, but our

friendship was really not romantic. When father met us in Redmire Wood, a

horribly silly impulse made me hide. I blush when I think about it and

imagine I forgot I had grown up--Gerald and I used to hide when father

was angry. Anyhow, I made Kit Askew hide and he was first to remember and

step into the road."

"But this happened long since and he is older."

"Yes," said Grace, "he's different, although one feels that he has

kept a promise made in his half-developed stage. He has been out in

the world and done strenuous things, while I stayed at home and played

at make-believe. He talks like a man who knows his value and there's a

touch of distinction in his look; a stupid word, but it comes near

what I mean."

Mrs. Osborn glanced at her sharply, but Grace smiled.

"Don't be disturbed, mother; I am trying to tell you all I think.

We were friends, but I imagine Kit knows his drawbacks from our

point of view. Besides, after father quarreled with Peter Askew I

never sent Kit a message, and he must have thought I acquiesced. In

a way, I did acquiesce; it was the best thing to be done. You see

what this implied? If I had loved him, it meant I had no pluck and

was ashamed to acknowledge a farmer's son. But he knew I did not

love him and understood that our friendship would not bear the

strain of father's disapproval. Either way, it hinted that I was

weak and not worth pursuing. Well, he met me without embarrassment

and we talked about nothing important. I may meet him now and then,

but that, I think, is all."

"Very well," said Mrs. Osborn, who looked relieved. "Perhaps it would be

prudent not to meet him often."

Grace smiled and was silent for a time. She had tried to be frank and

thought she had stated things correctly--so far as she knew. Then she

remembered Kit's look when she stopped and spoke, and began to wonder.

Perhaps she had not told all and the little she had left out was

important. By and by she got up and went into the house.

Gerald Osborn came home next day and not long afterwards Kit found him

lying on the gravel beside a tarn on the Ashness moor. Heavy rain had

fallen, but the clouds had rolled away and the water shone with dazzling

light. The sky was clear except for a bank of mist floating about the

round top of a fell, and a swollen beck sparkled among the heather. The

wind had dropped and it was very hot.

When he heard Kit's steps Gerald looked up. He was a handsome young man,

with some charm of manner, although it was obvious now and then that he

had inherited a touch of his father's pride. His glance was keen and

intelligent, but his mouth and chin were weak. Gerald had talent, but was

very like Osborn, since he was sometimes rashly obstinate and sometimes

vacillating.

"Hallo!" he said. "I expect I ought to have asked your leave before I

came to fish. I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind. Nobody asks my leave," Kit replied. "Have you had

much luck?"

Gerald opened his creel and showed him a number of small, dark-colored

trout. "Pretty good. They rose well until the light got strong. Then I

thought I'd take a rest. Will you smoke a cigarette?"

Kit sat down and looked across the shining water at the silver bent-grass

that gleamed among vivid green moss on the side of the hill.

"You must find this a pleasant change from town. Are you staying long?"

"A fortnight; that's all I get. I wish I could stop for good. It's rot to

spend one's life working in a bank."

"I suppose one must work at something," Kit remarked.

"I don't see why, unless you're forced. The only object for working is

when you must work to live, and it isn't mine, because I can't live on my

pay. In fact, the futility of the thing is plain."

Kit laughed. Gerald's humorous candor was part of his charm, but Kit

thought it deceptive.

"Why did you go to the bank, then?"

"Because my father thought I ought. I expect you know he believes in the

firm hand. I wanted to stop at Tarnside, which would have cost him less.

Besides, I could have looked after the estate. It will be mine sometime;

that is, as much as is left."

"But Hayes transacts the business."

"Just so," said Gerald, rather dryly. "What do you think about Hayes?"

"He's your father's agent and has nothing to do with me. I imagine he's a

capable manager."

"I sometimes think he's too capable." Gerald rejoined.

Kit let this go. Before he went away he had suspected that Hayes had

plans his employer would not approve, and he knew Gerald was shrewd. It

was, however, not his business and he remarked: "You wanted to go to

Woolwich, didn't you?"

"I did not," Gerald declared. "As a matter of fact, I said so, but my

objections didn't count. I might have made a good farmer or

land-steward, but a number of us had been soldiers and that was enough.

I don't know if it was a logical argument, but I had to go, and on the

whole it was a relief when they turned me out. Too many regulations for

my independent taste! Rules are good, perhaps, so long as they're made

for somebody else."

He was silent for a few minutes and Kit mused. He thought there was some

bitterness in Gerald's humor; it looked as if Osborn had not been wise

when he planned his son's career without consulting him. This, however,

was typical. Osborn was satisfied to give orders and expected others to

accept his point of view.

"Well," said Gerald, getting up, "I must be off. Rather a bore to walk to

Tarnside, and the trout will probably rise again if there's wind enough

to make a ripple, but I forgot to ask for sandwiches."

"If you lunch with me, you could come back afterwards," Kit suggested,

and they set off down the hill.

When they reached Ashness, Gerald tried to hide his surprise. Kit had

made some changes in the old house and so far kept to the Spanish rule of

meals. Lunch was a late breakfast, well served in china and silver that

were seldom used in Peter Askew's time. The low room had been cleverly

painted and a casement commanding a view of the dale replaced the

original narrow windows. Specimens of ancient Indian pottery stood on the

sideboard, and there were curtains of embroidered silk, feather-flowers,

and silverwork that Kit had brought from Spanish America. The things gave

the lonely farmstead an exotic touch, but they implied the command of

money and cultivated taste.

"You have a beautiful room," Gerald remarked, when the meal was over.

"Don't know that I'm much of a connoisseur, but some of the things look

rather fine."

"I'll show them to you presently," Kit replied and gave Gerald a small,

dark cigar. "I wonder how you'll like the flavor."

"Our club cigars are dear and good, but the best is nothing like this,"

Gerald declared after a minute or two. "Where did they come from?"

"They were given me in Cuba; I believe the make is not offered for public

sale. In a general way, Cuban tobacco is not what it was, but there are

belts of soil that grow a leaf that can't be equaled anywhere else."

"I suppose they keep the crop for presidents and dictators. The quality

indicates it," Gerald suggested, and Kit smiled.

Gerald tasted his black coffee. "If it's not bad form, where did you get

this? There's nothing of the kind in Cumberland, and it's better than the

Turkish they give you in London."

"It came from a Costa Rican _hacienda,_ and was a gift. I'll get no more

when the bag is done. If you come back in a month, you'll find me living

in plain north-country style."

"I imagine you made up for that while you were away," said Gerald, who

rose and went to the side-board. "A curious little jar and obviously old!

Is this the kind of thing the Aztecs made?"

"I rather think it is Aztec, though I didn't buy it in Mexico. I gave

about a pound for the jar and found a gold onza inside."

"An _onza?_ Oh, yes, an ounce! The kind of coin some countries mint but

very seldom use. Something of a bargain!"

"I suppose it was," Kit replied incautiously. "For all that, the onza

wasn't mine, and in a sense my efforts to find the owner cost me a very

large sum."

Gerald gave him a keen glance. Askew was not boasting; he had enjoyed

the command of money.

"Well," he said, "I think I'd have kept the onza, whether it was mine or

not." He paused and pulled a knife from its sheath. The handle was

ornamented and the narrow blade glittered in the light, although its

point was dull. "But what is this? Has it a story?"

"Take care!" said Kit "It may be poisoned; the _Meztisos_ use a stuff

that will kill you if a very small quantity gets into your blood. The

fellow who owned that knife came near burying it in my back."

"It looks as if you had had some adventures," Gerald remarked, and

leaning against the sideboard he lighted a cigarette.

Kit crossed the floor and stood by the open window. The shadow of a cloud

rested motionless, a patch of cool neutral color, on the gleaming yellow

side of the hill. A wild-cherry tree hung over a neighboring wall, and

bees hummed drowsily among the flowers. He was strangely satisfied to be

at home, and it was hard to realize that not long since he had been

engaged in a dangerous trade among the fever-haunted swamps.

"Have you any more curiosities?" Gerald asked.

Kit opened a drawer in his big desk, where he kept specimens of

featherwork. As he took them out he moved some documents and Gerald

indicated one.

"_Cristoval Askew_? Your name in Castilian, I suppose. You write a

curious hand."

"A matter of precaution! Anyhow, I didn't sign this order, and that's why

I kept it. The thing was rather important and we were lucky to find out

the cheat in time, particularly as I imagined nobody could imitate my

hand. You'll see my proper signature on the next document."

"It's not a very good counterfeit," said Gerald, who compared the writing

with the other, "This is a subject I know something about. Penmanship is

one of my few talents and I keep the customers' signature book at the

bank. Yours is an uncommon hand, but it could be forged. Let's see! May I

use this paper?"

Kit nodded and Gerald, knitting his brows, wrote the name three or four

times and then looked up.

"I think I've got it. Hard to tell which is genuine, if you put them

side by side?"

"Yes," said Kit. "I'm not sure I could tell which is mine."

Gerald laughed. "One has to study these things; part of my job, you see,

and banks are cheated oftener than people think. However, I expect you

want to get to work and I'll go back to the tarn."

He went out and Kit tore up the paper. He thought a talent like Gerald's

might be dangerous if it were used by an unscrupulous man.

CHAPTER III

THE HORSE SHOW

It was a calm evening and Osborn sat on the terrace, studying a printed

notice. Mrs. Osborn poured out coffee at a small table, and Gerald and

Grace occupied the top of the broad steps to the lawn. The sun was low,

the air was cool, and except for the soft splash of a beck, a deep

quietness brooded over the dale.

"It will be a good show," Osborn remarked, reaching for a cup. "I

insisted on the rather early date, because if we had waited until the hay

was in, we might have got wet weather. Two or three objected, but I'm

satisfied I took the proper line. One must be firm with an argumentative

committee."

Gerald's eyes twinkled as he looked at Grace. Osborn generally was firm

with people who gave way, and Gerald had heard some grumbling about his

changing the date for the horse show.

"It's the last time I'll be president," Osborn resumed. "I had meant to

resign, but Thorn could not take the post, Sir George is away, and a

well-known local man is needed to give the thing a proper start."

"Rather an expensive honor!" Gerald observed. "The president's expected

to make up the shortage if the day is wet."

"That was one reason for my fixing the meeting early, when we often get

it fine," Osborn replied naïvely. "The expense is a drawback, but the

committee would not let me drop out."

"Mother and Grace will want new hats and clothes, and I expect the job

will cost you more than you think. You'll have to give them a lead by

bidding for the chapel sheep."

"If that meddlesome fellow Drysdale is going to send his sheep to

the show, the arrangement was made without my knowing," Osborn

replied angrily.

Mrs. Osborn looked disturbed, but Gerald laughed. He rather enjoyed

provoking his father when he thought it safe. Drysdale was treasurer for

a body of Nonconformists, who wanted to build a new chapel and, finding

the farmers reluctant to give money, had asked for contributions from

their flocks and herds.

"The idea was that the sale would be an extra attraction," Gerald went

on. "Still, I admit it's hard for you, because you hate chapels and will

have to bid. In fact, you'll, no doubt, have to buy the sheep at a

sentimental price and sell them at their value."

"I believe in liberty of conscience and do not hate chapels," Osborn

rejoined. "For all that, I own to a natural prejudice against people who

attend such places, largely because they mix up their religious and

political creeds. It would be strange if I sympathized with their plans

for robbing the landlords."

"Anyhow, Drysdale means to bring his flock, and I'm afraid you'll have to

pay. The situation has some humor."

Osborn knitted his brows. Hayes had been talking to him about the estate

accounts and he had resolved to practise stern economy. Economy was

needful, unless he gave a fresh mortgage to pay the interest on his other

debts; and here was an expense he had not bargained for.

"If I'd known about Drysdale, I'd have resigned," he said. "I took the

post again because there was nobody else."

"They might have tried Askew," Gerald suggested.

"Askew? A fellow of no importance, unknown outside the dale!"

"I imagine he'll be better known soon, and he's rather a good sort. Gave

me a very good lunch not long since and has obviously spent something on

the farm. His room is like a museum, and he has a number of valuable

things. Seems to have had some adventures abroad, and found them

profitable."

"You mean he tried to impress you by vague boasting?"

"No," said Gerald, "I don't think he did; the fellow's not that kind. In

fact, he's rather good form, and has somehow got the proper stamp."

Grace looked at her brother, as if she agreed; but Osborn remarked

ironically, "You imagine yourself a judge?"

"Oh, well," said Gerald, smiling, "I've had the advantage of being

brought up at Tarnside, and belong to a good London club. Anyhow, Askew's

much less provincial than some of our exclusive friends."

He strolled off and Osborn went to the library, where he spent some time

studying his accounts. The calculations he made were disturbing and he

resented the possibility of his being forced to help Drysdale's fund.

Nevertheless, the president of the show would be expected to lead the

bidding and the Osborns did things properly.

A week or two afterwards, Mrs. Osborn opened the show in a field by the

market-town, which stood in a hollow among the moors. The grass sloped to

a river that sparkled in the sun and then vanished in the alders' shade.

Across the stream, old oak and ash trees rolled up the side of the Moot

Hill, and round the latter gray walls and roofs showed among the leaves.

A spire and a square, ivy-covered tower rose above the faint blue haze of

smoke. A few white clouds floated in the sky and their cool shadows

crept slowly across the field.

The horses were not very numerous, but the show had other attractions

and was an excuse for a general holiday. The crowd was larger than

usual, Mrs. Osborn's nervous speech was cheered, and for a time Osborn

forgot that the office he had taken might cost him something. He was

carrying out a duty he owed the neighborhood and felt that he could do

so better than anybody else. He did not admit that he liked to take the

leading place.

His first annoyance came with the sheep-dog trials. He had not known

Askew was a competitor and frowned as he saw Grace go up to him when a

flock of Herdwicks entered the field. The girl ought to have seen that it

was not the proper thing for his daughter to proclaim her acquaintance

with the fellow. Then Gerald followed her, and began talking to Askew as

if he knew him well. Gerald, was of course, irresponsibly eccentric, but

his folly jarred.

Grace had found it needful to get a new dress and hat, and Kit thrilled

and tried to hide his delight in her beauty as she advanced. His

rough-coated dog ran to meet her and she stroked its shaggy head.

"I hope Bob is going to win," she remarked.

"It's doubtful," Kit replied. "He's clever, but they don't give us much

time and he's getting slow. One or two of his rivals are very good."

"You'll do your best, old Bob," said Grace, and the dog, looking up at

her with friendly eyes, beat his tail on the ground.

Then Gerald came up, and soon afterwards the judges tied a string to a

farmer's leg and fastened the other end to a post. This allowed him to

run a short distance, after which he must direct his dog by voice.

"First trial, Mr. Forsyth's Merry Lad," a steward announced, and the

crowd gathered round when the judge took out his watch.

Furze bushes had been stuck into the ground to simulate a broken hedge.

Beyond these was a row of hurdles with an open gate, and then a number

of obstacles, while a railed pen occupied a corner of the field. Kit

gave Grace a card showing the way the sheep must be driven round the

different barriers.

"It's a good test, particularly as we can't follow the dogs and they must

take each obstacle in its proper turn."

"They are wonderfully clever to understand," said Grace, and stopped when

the judge shouted, "Time!"

The farmer called his dog, a handsome smooth-haired collie, that set off

with a bound and drove the sheep at full speed towards the furze. As they

came up, with fleeces shaking and a patter of little feet, the man ran to

the length of the string and waved his stick.

"Away back! Gan away back! T'ither slap, ye fule!"

People laughed when the dog in desperate haste stopped the sheep as they

packed outside a hole, but it drove them to the next gap, through which

they streamed.

"Forrad! Gan forrad!" cried the farmer. "Head them, Merry Lad!"

The dog turned the sheep and brought them back through another opening,

after which they raced towards the hurdles, and the collie hesitated as

if puzzled by its master's shouts. The sheep were near the end of the

rails, but it was not the end the card indicated. Then the dog seemed to

understand what was required, and circling round the flock with swift,

graceful leaps, drove them along the hurdles and round the other end.

There was some applause from the crowd and afterwards good-humored

banter when the dog ran backwards and forwards at a loss. The animal

obviously knew the flock must be taken round the remaining obstacles, but

had only its master's shouts for guide to the order in which they must be

passed. Sometimes the farmer got angry and sometimes laughed, but except

for a mistake or two the collie drove the sheep in and out among the

barriers as the card required and put them in the pen.

Two or three more trials took place, and for the most part, the

unoccupied dogs strained at their leads and whimpered, but old Bob sat at

Kit's feet, watching, with his head on one side.

"One can see he's thinking; I believe he wants to remember the right way

round," Grace remarked, and smiled when a steward beckoned Kit. "It's

your turn," she said. "I wish you good luck!"

Kit went off with his heart beating and felt half amused by his keenness

when the steward tied the string to his leg. After his adventures on the

Caribbean and the stakes he and Adam had played for, it was strange he

should be eager to win a box of plated forks at a rustic show. Yet, he

was eager; Grace had wished him luck.

"Number four; Mr. Askew's Old Bob!" the steward announced.

Kit called, and Bob, trotting away deliberately, got the sheep together

and drove them correctly through the holes. He was doing well, in one

sense, and Kit knew he would make few mistakes, but time counted and old

Bob was slow. He had trouble at the hurdles, where the sheep seemed

resolved to go the wrong way, but he stopped them and took them back to

the proper end. Kit gave very few orders, although he looked at his watch

rather anxiously. Bob understood and could be trusted to do his work, the

trouble was he might not finish it in time. At length, Kit drew a deep

breath, and put back his watch. The sheep were in the pen and there was a

minute left.

Kit went back to Grace, and Bob trotted up, panting, with his tongue

hanging out. He looked at Kit, as if for approval; and then, after

wagging his tail when his master spoke, held up his paw to Grace.

"Hallo!" said Kit. "I haven't known him to do that before. It's not a

sheepdog's trick."

"I taught him," Grace replied, with a touch of color. "He has not

forgotten, and really deserves to be stroked."

She went away, but she gave Kit a smile across the railing, behind which

she stood with Mrs. Osborn, when the judge called out:

"First prize, Number Four; Mr. Askew's Bob!"

When lunch was served in a big tent Osborn sat at the top of the table,

but his satisfaction had vanished. For one thing, everybody had applauded

when Askew won the prize; the fellow was obviously a favorite and this

annoyed him. Then, Drysdale's sheep were to be sold by auction after

lunch and the committee had hinted that the president was the proper

person to buy the flock. Drysdale sat next to Kit at the bottom of the

table. He was a little, shabbily-dressed man, with a brown face, and a

twinkling smile.

"Where are the sheep?" Kit asked.

"We'll send t' band for them presently. Are you gan t' bid?"

"I don't know until I've seen them. What about their quality?"

"Weel, it might be better; they're gifts, you ken. There's a young ram

might suit you; he's true Carlside strain."

"I don't know how you got him then. I can't see Mayson giving away good

breeding stock."

Drysdale grinned. "Some big stanes fell on t' ram when Mayson was

Bringing flock doon Barra ghyll. He looks a bit the waur o' it, but you

can tell the Carlside blood."

"I'll see what I think about the animal," Kit said with a laugh. "Do you

expect a good sale? The rich people, as a rule, go to church."

"They'll bid aw t' same. When you canna stir their generosity, you can

try their pride. If you look at it one way, the thing's humorsome. They

dinna want to help me, but they will."

"It's possible," Kit agreed. "I don't know if the plan's above suspicion,

but you need the money."

"It will be weel spent. Hooiver, I must be off and see the band dinna get

ower much to drink."

Drysdale went away and soon afterwards a strange procession headed by the

band and guarded by children, entered the field. A row of geese, waddling

solemnly in single file, came first, and then turkeys stalked among their

broods; a boy led a handsome goat and long-legged calf, and in the rear

straggled a flock of sheep. When all were driven into pens the sale began

and the crowd laughed and bantered the men who bid. In the meantime, Kit

examined the sheep. Some had faults and the ram had obviously suffered

from its accident. It was clear, though, that it sprang from a famous

stock, and Kit knew an animal transmits to its offspring inherited

qualities and not acquired defects. He recognized the stamp of breeding

and resolved to buy the sheep. The ram was worth much more than he

imagined the shepherds thought.

He went back to the stand and by and by the auctioneer praised the flock.

When he stopped, there was silence for a few moments until Osborn nodded.

"A cautious beginning often makes a good ending, but we've a long way to

go yet," the auctioneer remarked. "Who'll say five pounds more?"

Thorn made a sign, and the auctioneer raised his hammer. "We've got a

start, but you must keep it up. The opportunity's what folks call

unique; you'll save money by buying, and help a good cause. Don't

know which will appeal to you, but you can pay your money, and take

your choice."

He looked about while the crowd laughed, and after two or three

flockmasters advanced the price, caught Kit's eye. "Mr. Askew's a judge

of sheep. We'll call it ten pounds rise!"

Kit nodded, and Osborn glanced at Thorn, who shrugged. The latter had

helped to start the bidding, which was all he meant to do, and Osborn

would have tried to draw out after making another offer, had he not seen

Kit. He did not want the sheep, although he was willing to buy them at

something above their proper price. Now, however, Askew was his

antagonist, the fellow must be beaten.

"We must finish the sale before the driving-matches," he said. "Go up

twenty pounds."

"They'd not sell near it if you sent them to the market," a farmer

remarked.

"Do you sell pedigree stock to butchers? The ram's worth the money," the

auctioneer rejoined.

On the whole, Kit agreed, although he saw that others did not. Moreover

he was willing to run some risk by helping Drysdale, whom he liked, and

he signed to the auctioneer. The farmers stopped, but Osborn went on. He

had not liked Peter Askew and liked Kit worse. Father and son had opposed

him, and now the young upstart was proud of the money he had, no doubt,

got by doubtful means. He would not let the fellow balk him, and his face

got red as he answered the auctioneer's inquiring glance. Presently he

turned with a frown as Hayes touched his arm.

"It's an extravagant price," the agent remarked. "They'll want a check

and your account is getting very low."

"You'll have to cut down expenses, then," Osborn answered haughtily.

"This is not a matter about which I need your advice."

Hayes shrugged and Osborn nodded to the auctioneer when Kit made another

bid. He felt hot and savage and wanted a drink, but could not leave the

stand. Askew meant to humiliate him and he must hold out. He was the most

important man in the neighborhood, and must not be beaten by a small

farmer. For all that, the sum he would have to pay would be a drain.

After the next bid the auctioneer looked at Kit, who smiled and

shook his head.

"Mr. Osborn takes the lot," the auctioneer remarked. "He has paid a high

price to help a good object, but I think we all hope the next lambing

season will give him his money back."

Osborn's savage satisfaction was spoiled by a chilling doubt and he went

off to look for Hayes.

"Give the fellow a check for the sheep on the estate account," he said.

"How much?" Hayes asked, and looked thoughtful when Osborn told him.

"There are a number of bills to meet and we'll have no money coming in

until term-day."

"Can't you put off the bills?"

"I think not," Hayes answered, meaningly. "It mightn't be prudent. Our

credit is not too good."

Osborn was silent for a moment or two. "Very well," he said. "I'll try to

sell the sheep to somebody who'll give me what they're really worth. Come

over to-morrow and we'll talk about the new mortgage."

Then he went back, moodily, to join the judges for the driving-match.

CHAPTER IV

THE FLOOD

On the morning after the show, Osborn walked up and down the terrace,

waiting moodily for Hayes. It was a rash extravagance to buy the sheep

and he blamed Kit for this. The fellow had gone on bidding in order to

force him to pay a high price; besides, the money would help an object

Osborn did not approve. There were enough chapels in the neighborhood and

any legislation that interfered with the landlords' privileges got its

warmest support at such places.

The sum he had spent was not remarkably large and he had cut his loss by

selling the flock to a farmer at their market price, but this was about

half what he had given and he had some urgent debts. Although he had

hoped to hold out until term-day, when the payment of rents would ease

the strain on his finances, he must have money and did not know where it

could be got by prudent means.

In the meantime, he looked about gloomily. The weather had changed, a

moist west wind drove heavy clouds across the sky and the fell-tops

were hidden by mist. It threatened a wet hay-time and hay was scarce

in the dale, where they generally cut it late after feeding sheep on

the meadows. Osborn farmed some of his land and had hoped for a good

crop, which he needed. The grass in the big meadow by the beck was

long and getting ripe, but the red sorrel that grew among it had lost

its bright color. The filling heads rolled in waves before the wind,

but there was something dull and lifeless in the noise they made, and

Osborn knew what this meant. Rain was coming and when rain began in the

dale it did not stop.

His glance rested on the green embankment along the beck. His father had

made the dyke at a heavy cost but in places the stones and soil had

gradually washed away. If the dyke broke at one spot, the beck would

return to its old channel and much damage might be done, particularly if

the floods rolled across the turnip fields. Osborn had meant to

strengthen the dyke, but had put it off because of the expense.

A little later Hayes came up the steps. Osborn did not ask him to sit

down, although there was room on the stone bench, and the agent leaned

against the terrace wall. His face was inscrutable but he remarked his

employer's rudeness.

"I have seen Fisher and he is willing to take a mortgage on Ryecote," he

said. "The interest is higher than I thought, but the money would pay off

urgent bills and cover the cost of the farmstead repairs."

"How much does Fisher want?" Osborn asked and frowned when he was told.

"It's unjust; two per cent above the proper interest."

"I can't borrow for less. However, if we use the money judiciously, we

ought to get something back by higher rents. Lang and Grey, for example,

would pay a little more for the improvements they require."

Osborn pondered. He was in a suspicious mood and thought Hayes wanted to

negotiate the mortgage.

"When I have satisfied the other tenants there won't be much left for

Lang and Grey," he rejoined. "My experience is that the money you sink in

improvements is gone for good."

"They must be made, for all that; particularly just now when a

dissatisfied spirit is spreading among the farmers. Askew is showing them

what can be done by the proper use of capital."

"Askew!" Osborn exclaimed. "Father and son, the Askews have been the

origin of the worst trouble I've had."

Hayes was willing to indulge Osborn's rancor and derived a rather

malicious satisfaction from seeing him annoyed. Besides, he did not want

to dwell upon the mortgage.

"I wonder whether you know Askew has bought Drysdale's sheep?"

"I did not know. I sold the flock to Graham."

"Then Askew must have bought them soon afterwards, unless he sent Graham

to make the deal with you."

Osborn's face got red. "A shabby trick! Unthinkably shabby, after he

forced up the price." He paused, and tried to control his anger. "But why

did he buy that second-class lot?"

"There was a Carlside ram."

"Only fit for mutton; I studied the animal."

"Oh, well! Askew, no doubt, thinks he is a judge. I imagine he bought the

others in order to get the ram."