Harty closed his wireless office and headed for the water-front. Near
the shore-end of the breakwater he came to a halt. He could but dimly
see the beginning of the outstretching wall of concrete, but plainly
enough he could hear the combers thundering over the crest of it.
A proper night for an enemy to be adrift in a powerless hulk. Sea
enough to suit any purpose out there. And wind! From where he stood in
the lee of the donkey-engine house, to the water's edge was a full
hundred feet, and yet even so, whenever he stepped out into the open, it
was only to be drenched with spray. And out there in the blackness,
twenty miles offshore, it would be blowing good; out there on the edge
of that bank, in the hollow of the short, high, ugly seas, was a
rolling, battered light-ship; as helpless as--well, there was nothing
ashore to compare to her helplessness. And when she hit in on the
beach--when she hit the sand--it would be over and over she'd roll, and
out of her he would come and be smothered. For a second he'd be smooth
and sleek as a wet rat and then--Oh, then!
Even in moderate weather, what chance would they have in that surf? And
to-night it would be to her mast-head, with combers curving like a
rattlesnake's neck, and twisting, and hissing, and they would catch him
up, and ten ways he'd go then, gurgling, smothering, drowning, and his
body, if ever it did come ashore for anybody to find,--after a December
night,--they'd find it frozen stiff.
The walls of the little engine house were icing up, the spray was
freezing on his moustache--surely a proper night for a man's enemy to be
lost. In the lee of the little shack he lit a cigar; but it would not
stay lit, and he threw it from him. The curse which he hove after it
brought an answering hail from across the dock, "Hullo there"! Harty
drew back, but the hurrying step drew nearer, and suddenly the hurrying
form was beside him, and a pair of eyes were peering at him.
"Who's this? Why, hullo, Bud! What you doin' here?"
"Who's that? Oh, hello, Baldy. Where'd you come from?"
"From the _Whist_--where else? Told the crew to beat it--all except old
Pete. Holidays don't mean anything to Pete, so he's sleeping aboard. A
wild night, Bud. Maybe we wasn't glad not to be caught outside! The old
_Whist_ she'd sure have a fine time outside to-night. She'd last about
half a night-watch out there--say out where old 67 is to-night. But
where you bound, Bud?"
"Nowhere--anywhere."
"Well, what d'y' say if we take a look in on old Perrault?"
"What do you want to go there for?"
"Oh, forget that. Come on. Every Christmas Eve since I've known him
we've drunk a Christmas health together. A good old scout, Perrault, and
you and me, Bud, we ought to be ashamed the way we kept away from him
lately. Passed him on the street the other day. 'Ah-h, dear Baldwin,
you have time for the Port Light saloon, but not for your old frien'",
and he shakes his old head. 'Please, do not fail, Cap-tan, on this
Christmas Eve!' he says to me. 'And Mr. Harty also.' Come on now. Be
good. 'Twarn't him didn't marry you, mind. Come on, Bud and forget it."
"All right--go ahead."
It was old Perrault himself who spotted Baldwin coming in the door of
the store. His joy was bursting. "Ah-h, Cap-tan! Ah-h, you come once
more to see your old frien'. And you also, Mister Harty. Now then--and
you shall also, Mister Harty. Yes, yes, I say it--drink with me to the
Christmas."
Baldwin filled his glass. Harty made no move.
"Come on, Bud, you too. What's the matter with you? Here, fill her up.
What's the matter with you, anyway, to-night?"
"I'm on the water-wagon."
"Since when?"
"Since to-day."
"Sufferin' Neptune! Who ever heard of a water-wagon doin' business on
Christmas Eve? I think if we looked it up, you'd find a law against it,
and if there ain't, there ought to be. Come on. No? Well, all right,
stay on it. Mo-sher Perrault--" and, as he had done for many a
Christmas Eve before, Baldwin touched his glass to old Perrault's, and
gave the toast.
"A fair, fair wind to you and yours,
No matter the course you sail!"
Ere they had set their glasses down, Harty was making for the door. Old
Perrault entreated. "Why, Mister Harty!" and Baldwin whispered, "What's
your hurry, Bud?"
"I've got to go," he said to Perrault; to Baldwin he whispered,
"Somebody's coming in--I heard her voice."
"Oh, varry well, if you will not stay," sighed old Perrault. "But hark!
Attend one moment, gentlemen. She comes." He lowered his voice. "She
goes to-night to the church. She has, you understand, gentlemen, fears.
And also--" he leaned over and whispered into Baldwin's ear.
"No!"
"Truly."
Baldwin took off his hat and clasped the storekeeper's hand. "God keep
her."
"Sh-h--She is here."
She stood in the doorway. It was Harty's first chance in months to look
her fairly in the face. She smiled on Baldwin, bowed, but without
smiling to Harty, kissed her father, whispered a word in his ear, and
turned to go. Baldwin jumped forward. "Mrs. Bowen, hadn't me and Mister
Harty better see you to the church--might be a drunken loafer or two on
the street--and a blowy night."
"I shall be most honored, Captain."
They went out; but from them all not a word, until they were at the
church door, and here it was she who spoke. "Captain Baldwin, is it not
a dangerous night?"
"Meaning at sea, Mrs. Bowen?"
"At sea--on the light-ship."
"Why, bless you, no. Old 67, she's been out on that spot--Lord knows how
long she's been out there. She's sort of a part of the furniture out
there now. Why, the very fishes that come to feed on South Shoal, Mrs.
Bowen--they'd think they was on the wrong bank if they couldn't look up
and see the barnacled bottom of old 67 over 'em. Rough? Lord, yes,
plenty rough out there t'night, but not dangerous. Lord, no, Mrs. Bowen,
not dangerous. All she's got to do is to hang on to her moorin's."
"You are a kind-hearted man, Mr. Baldwin, and a good friend. My husband,
he thinks the world of you. I go in now, to pray for him, to bring him
home to us. Good-night, and a happy Christmas to you." She hesitated,
"And to you, Mr. Harty, a happy Christmas also."
Harty did not close the door behind her until he had seen her kneel at
the altar-rail. Out in the street again, he turned abruptly to his chum.
"Look here, Baldy, what was it her father whispered to you--just before
she came into the backroom?"
"What? Why-y--I--Well, no harm telling it, I reckon, though I don't know
why he didn't tell you, too, Bud--she's goin'--" Baldwin lowered his
voice--"she's goin' to have a baby, and--what's it?"
"Nothing."
"Oh-h! And her old father, you'll be hearin' no more from him about
goin' back to Paris to die. Gee, but this wind is fierce, ain't it? Say,
Bud, but d'y' b'lieve that some people, especially women, that they know
without bein' told when people they think a lot of is in danger?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
"M-m--sometimes I think there's something in it. Did you notice the look
in her eyes to-night? But--" the red lamp of the Port Light saloon
loomed brightly ahead--"it's a pretty cold night--a toothful o'
something, what d'y' say?"
"Nope."
"Then where you bound?"
"I don't know--take a walk, I guess."
"Well, you sure picked a fine night for a walk. Better lash your ears to
your head, if you're heading for the beach-side. Be back this way
soon?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? What's got into you to-night, Bud?" Baldwin stared at
his chum. He stepped nearer and laid a hand on Harty's arm. "You ain't
sick, Bud?"
"God, no! I'm all right. I'll take a walk and come back."
"All right, but hurry back, won't you?"