CHAPTER I.

Produced by Carrie Fellman

WEST WIND DRIFT

By George Barr McCutcheon

On a bright, still morning in October, the Doraine sailed from a South

American port and turned her glistening nose to the northeast. All told,

there were some seven hundred and fifty souls on board; and there

were stores that filled her holds from end to end,--grain, foodstuffs,

metals, chemicals, rubber and certain sinister things of war. Her

passenger list contained the names of men who had achieved distinction

in world affairs,--in finance, in business, in diplomacy, in war,

besides that less subtle pursuit, adventure: men from both hemispheres,

from all continents. It was a cosmopolitan company that sailed out to

sea that placid day, bound for a port six thousand miles away.

Her departure, heavy-laden, from this South American port was properly

recorded in the then secret annals of a great nation; the world at

large, however, was none the wiser. For those were the days when sly

undersea monsters of German descent were prowling about the oceans,

taking toll of humanity and breeding the curse that was to abide with

their progenitors forever.

Down through the estuary and into the spreading bay slid the big

steamer; abreast the curving coast-line she drove her way for leagues

and leagues, and then swept boldly into the vast Atlantic desert.

Four hundred years ago and more, Amerigo Vespucci had sailed this

unknown southern sea in his doughty caravel; he had wallowed and rocked

for months over a course that the Doraine was asked to cover in the wink

of an eye by comparison. Up from the south he had come in an age when

the seas he sailed were no less strange than the land he touched from

time to time; the blue waste of sky and sea as boundless then as now;

the west wind drift as sure and unfailing; the waves as savage or

as mild; the star by which he laid his course as far away and

immutable,--but he came in 1501 and his ship was alone in the trackless

ocean.

The mighty Doraine was not alone; she sailed a sea whose every foot was

charted, whose every depth was sounded. She sailed in an age of Titans,

while the caravel was a frolicksome pygmy, dancing to the music of a

thousand winds, buffeted today, becalmed tomorrow, but always a snail on

the face of the waters. Four hundred years ago Vespucci and his men were

lost in the wilderness of waves. Out of touch with the world were they

for months,--aye, even years,--and no man knew whither they sailed nor

whence they came, for those were the days when the seven seas kept their

secrets better than they keep them now.

Into the path traversed by the lowly caravel steamed the towering

Doraine, pointing her gleaming nose to the north and east.

She was never seen again.

Out from the lairs of the great American navy sped the swiftest

hounds of the ocean. They swept the face of the waters with a thousand

sleepless eyes; they called with the strange, mysterious voice that

carries a thousand miles; they raked the sea as with a fine-tooth comb;

they searched the coast of a continent; they penetrated its rivers,

circled its islands, scanned its rocks and reefs,--and asked a single

question that had but one reply from every ship that sailed the southern

sea.

For months ships of all nations searched for the missing steamer. Not so

much as the smallest piece of wreckage rewarded the ceaseless quest. The

great vessel, with all its precious cargo, had slipped into its niche

among the profoundest mysteries of the sea. Came the day, therefore,

when the Secretary of the Navy wrote down against her name the ugly

sentence: “Lost with all on board.”

Maritime courts issued their decrees; legatees parcelled estates, great

and small; insurance companies paid in hard cash for the lives that

were lost, and went blandly about their business; more than one widow

reconsidered her thoughts of self-denial; and ships again sailed the

course of Amerigo Vespucci without a thought of the Doraine.

For months the newspapers in many lands speculated on the fate of the

missing liner. That a great ship could disappear from the face of the

waters in these supreme days of navigation without leaving so much as

a trace behind was inconceivable. At first there were tales of the

dastardly U-boats; then came the sinister reports of treachery on board

resulting in the ship being taken over by German plotters, with the

prediction that she would emerge from oblivion as a well-armed “raider”

cruising in the North Atlantic; then the generally accepted theory that

she had been swiftly, suddenly rent asunder by a mighty explosion in

her hold. All opinions, all theories, all conjectures, however, revolved

about a single fear;--that she was the victim of a German plot. But

in the course of events there came a day when the German Navy, ever

boastful of its ignoble deeds, issued the positive and no doubt sincere

declaration that it had no record of the sinking of the Doraine. The

fate of the ship was as much of a mystery to the German admiralty as it

was to the rest of the puzzled world.

And so it was that the Doraine, laden with nearly a thousand souls,

sailed out into the broad Atlantic and was never heard from again.

BOOK ONE.

CHAPTER I.

The Captain of the liner was an old man. He had sailed the seas for

two-score years, at least half of them as master. At the outbreak of the

Great War he was given command of the Doraine, relieving a younger man

for more drastic duty in the North Sea. He was an Englishman, and his

name, Weatherby Trigger, may be quite readily located on the list of

retired naval officers in the British Admiralty offices if one cares to

go to the trouble to look it up.

After two years the Doraine, with certain other vessels involved in a

well-known and somewhat thoroughly debated transaction, became to all

intents and purposes the property of the United States of America; she

flew the American flag, carried an American guncrew and American papers,

and, with some difficulty, an English master. The Captain was making his

last voyage as master of the ship. An American captain was to succeed

him as soon as the Doraine reached its destination in the United States.

Captain Trigger, a little past seventy, had sailed for nearly two

years under the American flag at a time when all Englishmen were looking

askance at it and wondering if it was ever to take its proper place

among the righteous banners of the world. It had taken its place among

them, and the “old man” was happy.

His crew of one hundred and fifty was what might be aptly described as

international. The few Englishmen he had on board were noticeably

unfit for active duty in the war zone. There was a small contingent of

Americans, a great many Portuguese, some Spaniards, Norwegians, and a

more or less polyglot remainder without national classification.

His First Officer was a Scotch-American, the Second an Irish-American,

the Chief Engineer a plain unhyphenated American from Baltimore,

Maryland. The purser, Mr. Codge, was still an Englishman, although he

had lived in the United States since he was two years old,--a matter of

forty-seven years and three months, if we are to believe Mr. Codge,

who seemed rather proud of the fact that his father had neglected to

forswear allegiance to Queen Victoria, leaving it to his son to follow

his example in the case of King Edward the Seventh and of King George

the Fifth.

There were eighty-one first-cabin passengers, one hundred and nineteen

in the second cabin,--for the two had not been consolidated on the

Doraine as was the case with the harried trans-Atlantic liners,--and

approximately three hundred and fifty in the steerage. The first

and second cabin lists represented many races, South Americans

predominating.

The great republics in the lower half of the hemisphere were cut

off almost entirely from the Old World so far as general travel was

concerned. The people of Argentine, Brazil and Chili turned their eyes

from the east and looked to the north, where lay the hitherto ignored

and sometime hated continent whose middle usurped the word American. A

sea voyage in these parlous days meant but one thing to the people of

South America: a visit to an unsentimental land whose traditions, if any

were cherished at all, went back no farther than yesterday and were to

be succeeded by fresh ones tomorrow. At least, such was the belief of

the Latin who still dozed superciliously in the glory of his long-dead

ancestors. Not having Paris, or London, or Madrid, or Rome as the Mecca

of his dreams, his pilgrimage now carried him to the infidel realities

of the North,--to Washington, New York, New Orleans, Newport and

Atlantic City! He had the money for travel, so why stay at home? He had

the money to waste, so why not dissipate? He had the thirst for sin, so

why famish?

There were lovely women on board, and children with and without the

golden spoon; there were men whose names were known on both sides of

the Atlantic and whose reputations for integrity, sagacity, intellect,

and,--it must be confessed,--corruptness, (with the author's apology for

the inclusion); doughty but dogmatic university men who had penetrated

the wildernesses as naturalists, entomologists, mineralogists,

archaeologists, explorers; sportsmen who had forsaken the lion,

rhinoceros, hartebeest and elephant of Africa for the jaguar, cougar,

armadillo and anteater of South America; soldiers of fortune whose

gods had lured them into the comparative safety of South American

revolutions; miners, stock buyers and raisers, profiteersmen, diplomats,

priests, preachers, gamblers, smugglers and thieves; others who had

gone out for the Allies to buy horses, beeves, grain, metal, chemicals,

manganese and men; financiers, merchants, lawyers, writers, musicians,

doctors, dentists, architects; gentiles and Jews, Protestants and

Catholics, skeptics and infidels,--in short, good men, bad men, beggar

men, thieves.

The world will readily recall such names and personalities as these:

Abel T. Landover, the great New York banker; Peter Snipe, the novelist;

Solomon Nicklestick, the junior member in the firm of Winkelwein &

Nicklestick, importers of hides, etc., Ninth Avenue, New York; Moses

Block, importer of rubber; James January Jones, of San Francisco,

promoter and financier; Randolph Fitts, of Boston, the well-known

architect; Percy Knapendyke, the celebrated naturalist; Michael

O'Malley Malone, of the law firm of Eads, Blixton, Solomon, Carlson,

Vecchiavalli, Revitsky, Perkins & Malone, New York; William Spinney,

of the Chicago Police force, (and his prisoner, “Soapy” Shay, diamond

thief); Denby Flattner, the taxidermist; Morris Shine, the motion

picture magnate; Madame Careni-Amori, soprano from the Royal Opera,

Rome; Signer Joseppi, the new tenor, described as the logical successor

to the great Caruso; Madame Obosky and three lesser figures in

the Russian Ballet, who were coming to the United States to head

a long-heralded tour, “by special arrangement with the Czar”; Buck

Chizler, the famous jockey,--and so on.

These were the names most conspicuously displayed by the newspapers

during the anxious, watchful days and weeks that succeeded the sailing

of the Doraine from the port in the Tropic of Capricorn.

Dozens of cities in the United States were represented by one or more

persons on board the Doraine, travellers of both sexes who, being denied

the privilege of a customary dash to Europe for the annual holiday,

resolved not to be deprived of their right to wander, nor the right

to return when they felt inclined. Whilom, defiant rovers in search of

change, they scoffed at conditions and went their way regardless of

the peril that stalked the seas. In the main they were money-spending,

time-dragging charges against the resources of a harassed, bewildered

government, claiming protection in return for arrogance.

Far to the south, off the Falkland Islands, at the bottom of the sea,

lay the battered hulls of what ware supposed to be the last of the

German fighting-ships in South Atlantic waters. Report had it, however,

that several well-armed cruisers had either escaped the hurricane of

shells from the British warships, or had been detached from the squadron

before the encounter took place. In any event, no vessel left a South

American port without maintaining a sharp lookout for prowling survivors

of the vanquished fleet, and no passenger went aboard who did not

experience the thrill of a hazardous undertaking. The ever-present and

ever-ready individual with official information from sources that could

not be questioned, travelled with remarkable regularity on each and

every craft that ventured out upon the Hun-infested waters. In the

smoke-room the invariable word went round that raiders were sinking

everything in sight. Every ship that sailed had on board at least one

individual who claimed to have been chased on a former voyage by a

blockade-breaker,--(according to the most reliable reports, the Germans

were slipping warships through the vaunted British net with the most

astounding ease and frequency,)--and there was no one with the hardihood

or desire to question his veracity; indeed, it was something of a joy

to believe him, for was he not a living and potential document to prove

that the merchant marine could outwit, outrace and outshoot the German

pirates?

The Doraine was barely twenty-four hours out from port and ploughing

along steadily through a choppy sea when Mr. Mott, the First Officer,

reported to Captain Trigger that a stowaway had been found on board.

“German?” inquired Captain Trigger tersely.

“No, sir. At least, he doesn't look it and, what's more, he doesn't act

it. Claims to be American born and bred.”

“That's what a great many Germans are claiming these days, Mr. Mott. We

can't take any chances, you know. Where was he found?”

Mr. Mott cleared his throat. “Ahem! He wasn't what you might call found,

sir. As a matter of fact, he applied in person to the Chief Engineer

about half an hour ago and asked for a job. He said he was perfectly

willing to work out his passage home. Mr. Gray had him conducted to me,

sir,--rather sharply guarded, of course,--and he--”

“Fetch him here at once, Mr. Mott,” commanded Captain Trigger. “I'll

hear what he has to say first hand.”

“Very well, sir.” Mr. Mott started away, hesitated, rubbed his chin

dubiously, and then came back. “He's having a bit of breakfast, sir, and

has asked for the loan of Mr. Codge's razors--”

“What?” roared the captain.

“I informed him he would have to appear before you at once, sir, and he

said he was quite willing to do so, but would it be possible for him

to tidy up a bit beforehand. I am obliged to confess, sir, that I have

never encountered a more interesting stowaway in all my career, which

leads me to confess still further that I gave orders to feed him,--he

hasn't had a mouthful to eat since we left port, owing to the fact, he

says, that his luggage shifted the first day out and try as he would

he couldn't locate it without a match, or something to that effect,--he

rather stumped me, sir, with the graceful way he lies,--and then Mr.

Codge agreed to let him take one of his razors, and when I left him

below, sir, it seemed quite certain that Mr. Gray was on the point of

lending him a shirt and a change of underwear. I--”

“Good God, sir!” gasped Captain Trigger, with something more than

emotion in his voice. “What is this you are telling me?”

“He seems a most likeable chap,” explained Mr. Mott lamely. “Quite

a courteous fellow, too, sir. I forgot to mention that he sent his

compliments to you and asks for an interview at your earliest conven--”

“Asked for an interview? Drag him here at once--by the heels, if

necessary. Tell him I shan't keep him waiting an instant,” said the

captain ironically.

Mr. Mott still hesitated. “In the event, sir, that he is in the midst of

shaving--”

“I don't care a hang what he's in the midst of,” exclaimed Captain

Trigger. “Even in the midst of changing shirts. Present my compliments

to him, Mr. Mott, and say that he needn't dress up on my account. I

am an old-fashioned sailor-man. It is nothing new to me to see men who

haven't shaved in a fortnight, and others who never change shirts.”

“Very well, sir,” said Mr. Mott, and departed.

Presently he reappeared with the stowaway in charge.

Captain Trigger beheld a well set-up young man of medium height, with

freshly shaven chin and jaws, carefully brushed hair, spotless white

shirt and collar, and,--revealed in a quick glance,--recently scrubbed

hands. His brown Norfolk jacket was open, and he carried a brand new,

though somewhat shapeless pan-ama hat in his hand. Evidently he had

ceased fanning himself with it at the moment of entering the captain's

presence. The keen, good-looking face was warm and moist as the result

of a most violent soaping. He wore corduroy riding-breeches, cavalry

boots that betrayed their age in spite of a late polishing at the hands

of an energetic and carefully directed bootblack, and a broad leather

belt from which only half an eye was required to see that a holster had

been detached with a becoming regard for neatness. His hair was thick

and sun-bleached; his eyes, dark and unafraid, met the stern gaze of

the captain with directness and respect; his lips and chin were firm in

repose, but they might easily be the opposite if relaxed; his skin was

so tanned and wind-bitten that the whites of his eyes were startlingly

defined and vivid. He was not a tall man,--indeed, one would have been

justified in suspecting him of being taller than he really was because

of the more or less deceiving erectness with which he carried himself.

As a matter of fact, he was not more than five feet ten or ten and a

half.

Captain Trigger eyed him narrowly for a moment.

“What is your name?”

“A. A. Percival, sir.”

“Your full name, young man. No initials.”

The stowaway seemed to add an inch to his height before replying.

“Algernon Adonis Percival, sir,” he said, a very clear note of defiance

in his voice.

The Captain looked at the First Officer, and the First Officer, after a

brief stare at the speaker, looked at the Captain.

“It's his right name, you can bet, sir,” said Mr. Mott, with conviction.

“Nobody would voluntarily give himself a name like that.”

“You never can tell about these Americans, Mr. Mott,” said the Captain

warily. “They've got what they call a keen sense of humour, you know.”

Mr. Percival smiled. His teeth were very white and even.

“I am a first and only child,” he explained. “That ought to account for

it, sir,” he went on, a trifle defensively.

Captain Trigger did not smile. Mr. Mott, however, looked distinctly

sympathetic.

“You say you are an American,--a citizen of the United States?” demanded

the former.

“Yes, sir. My home is in Baltimore.”

“Baltimore?” repeated Mr. Mott quickly. “That's where Mr. Gray hails

from, sir,” he added, as a sort of apology to the Captain for the

exclamation.

The Captain's gaze settled on the stowaway's spotless white shirt and

collar. Then he nodded his head slowly.

“Mr. Gray is the Chief Engineer,” he explained, with mock courtesy.

“Yes, sir,--I know,” responded Percival. “He comes of one of the oldest

and most highly connected families in Baltimore. He informs me that his

father--”

“Never mind!” snapped the Captain. “We need not discuss Mr. Gray's

antecedents. How old are you?”

“Thirty last Friday, sir.”

“Married?”

“No, sir.”

“Parents living?”

“No, sir.”

“And now, what the devil do you mean by sneaking aboard this ship and

hiding yourself in the--by the way, Mr. Mott, where was he hiding?”

Mr. Mott: “It doesn't seem to be quite clear as yet, sir.”

Captain Trigger: “What's that?”

Mr. Mott: “I say, it isn't quite clear. We have only his word for it.

You see, he wasn't discovered until he accosted Mr. Shannon on the

bridge and asked--”

Captain Trigger: “On the bridge, Mr. Mott?”

Mr. Mott: “That is to say, sir, Mr. Shannon was on the bridge and he was

below on the promenade deck. He asked Mr. Shannon if he was the Captain

of the boat.”

Captain Trigger: “He did, eh? Well?”

Mr. Mott: “He was informed that you were at breakfast, sir,--no one

suspecting him of being a stowaway, of course,--and then, it appears,

he started out to look for you. That's how he fell in with the Chief

Engineer. Mr. Gray informs me that he applied for work, admitting that

he was aboard without leave, or passage, or funds, or anything else,

it would seem. But, as for where he lay in hiding, there hasn't been

anything definite arrived at as yet, sir. He seems to have been hiding

in a rather wide-spread sort of way.”

Mr. Percival, amiably: “Permit me to explain, Captain Trigger. You see,

I have been obliged to change staterooms three times. Naturally, that

might be expected to create some little confusion in my mind. I began

in the second cabin. Much to my surprise and chagrin I found, too late,

that the stateroom I had chosen,--at random, I may say,--was merely in

the state of being prepared for a lady and gentleman who had asked to be

transferred from a less desirable one. I had some difficulty in getting

out of it without attracting attention. I don't know what I should have

done if the steward hadn't informed them that he could not move their

steamer-trunk until morning. There wouldn't have been room for both of

us under the berth, sir. If the gentleman had been alone I shouldn't

have minded in the least remaining, under his berth, but he--”

Captain Trigger: “How did you happen to get into that room, young man?

The doors are never unlocked when the rooms are unoccupied.”

Mr. Percival: “You are mistaken, sir. I found at least three stateroom

doors unlocked that night, and my search was by no means extensive.”

Captain Trigger: “This is most extraordinary, Mr. Mott,--if true.”

Mr. Mott: “It shall be looked into, sir.”

Captain Trigger: “Go on, young man.”

Mr. Percival: “I tried another room in the second cabin, but had

to abandon it also. It had no regular occupant,--it was Number 221

remember,--but along about midnight two men opened the door with a key

and came in. They were stewards. I gathered that they were getting

the room ready for someone else, so when they departed,--very quietly,

sir,--I sneaked out and decided to try for accommodations in the first

cabin. I--”

Mr. Mott: “Did you say stewards?”

Mr. Percival: “That's what I took them to be.”

Captain Trigger: “You are either lying, young man, or plumb crazy.”

Mr. Percival, with dignity: “The latter is quite possible, Captain,--but

not the former. I managed quite easily to get from the second cabin to

the first. You'd be surprised to know how simple it was. Running without

lights as you do, sir, simplified things tremendously. I found a very

sick and dejected Jewish gentleman trying to die in the least exposed

corner of the promenade deck. At least, he said he didn't want to live.

I offered to put him to bed and to sit up with him all night if it would

make him feel a little less like passing away. He lurched at the chance.

I accompanied him to his stateroom, and so got a few much-needed

hours of repose, despite his groans. I also ate his breakfast for him.

Skirmishing around this morning, I found there were no unoccupied rooms

in the first cabin, so I decided that we were far enough from land for

me to reveal myself to the officer of the day,--if that's what you call

'em on board ship,--with a very honest and laudable desire to work my

passage home. I can only add, Captain, that I am ready and willing to do

anything from swabbing floors on the upper deck to passing coal at the

bottom of the ship.”

Captain Trigger stared hard at the young man, a puzzled expression in

his eyes.

“You appear to be a gentleman,” he said at last. “Why are you on board

this ship as a stowaway? Don't you know that I can put you in irons,

confine you to the brig, and put you ashore at the first port of call?”

“Certainly, sir. That's just what I am trying to avoid. As a gentleman,

I am prepared to do everything in my power to relieve you of what must

seem a most painful official duty.”

Mr. Mott smiled. The Captain stiffened perceptibly.

“How did you come aboard this ship?” he demanded.

“As a coal passer, sir. Day before yesterday, when you were getting

in the last lot of coal. I had a single five dollar gold piece in my

pocket. It did the trick. With that seemingly insignificant remnant of

a comfortable little fortune, I induced one of the native coal

carriers,--a Portuguese nobleman, I shall always call him,--to part

with his trousers, shirt and hat. I slipped 'em on over my own clothes,

stuffed my boots and socks inside my shirt, picked up his basket of

coal, and walked aboard. It isn't necessary, I suppose, to state that my

career as a dock-hand ceased with that solitary basket of coal, or that

having once put foot aboard the Doraine, I was in a position to book

myself as a passenger.”

“Well, I'm damned!” said Captain Trigger. “Some one shall pay for this

carelessness, Mr. Mott. I've never heard of anything so cool. What did

you say your name is, young man?”

“A. A. Percival, sir.”

“Ah--ahem! I see. Will it offend you, A. A., if I make so bold as to

inquire why the devil you neglected to book your passage in the regular

way, as any gentleman from Baltimore might have been expected to do, and

where is your passport, your certificate of health, your purse and your

discharge from prison?”

Mr. Percival spread out his hands in a gesture of complete surrender.

“Would you be interested in my story, Captain Trigger? It is brief, but

edifying. When I arrived in town, the evening before you were to sail,

I had a wallet well-filled with gold, currency, and so forth. I had

travelled nearly two thousand miles,--from the foothills of the Andes,

to be more definite,--and I had my papers, my cancelled contract, and a

clear right-of-way, so to speak. My personal belongings were supposed to

have arrived in town on the train with me. A couple of cow-hide trunks,

in fact. Well, they didn't arrive. I don't know what became of them. I

had no time to investigate. This was the last boat I could get for

two or three weeks that would land me in the U. S. A. I put up at the

Alcazar Grand for the night. It was then too late to secure passage, but

I fully intended to do so the first thing in the morning. There was a

concert and dance at the hotel that night, and I went in to look on for

awhile. I ran across a friend, an engineer who was on the job with me

up in the hills a few months ago. He is also an American, a chap from

Providence, Rhode Island. Connected with the consular service now. He

was with a small party of Americans,--am I boring you?”

“No, no,--get on with it,” urged Captain Trigger.

“Several of them were sailing on this ship, and they were having a

little farewell party. That, however, has nothing to do with the case.

I left them at midnight and went up to my room. Now comes the part you

will not believe. During the night,--I sleep very soundly,--some one

entered my room, rifled my pockets, and got away with everything I

possessed, except my clothes and the five-dollar gold piece I have

carried ever since I left home,--as a lucky coin, you know. He--”

“How did he happen to overlook your lucky coin?” inquired the Captain

sarcastically.

“Because it couldn't be a lucky coin if I carried it in my purse. No

coin is ever lucky that gets into my purse, Captain. I always kept it

tightly sewed up in the band of my trousers, safe from the influence of

evil companions. I did not discover the loss until morning. It was then

too late to do anything, as you were sailing at eight. My Providence

friend was not available. I knew no one else. But I was determined to

sail on the Doraine. That's the story, sir, in brief. I leave it to

you if I wasn't justified in doing the best I could under the

circumstances.”

Captain Trigger was not as fierce as he looked. He could not keep the

twinkle out of his eye.

“We will see about that,” he managed to say with commendable gruffness.

“Assuming that your story is true, why are you in such a tremendous

hurry to reach the United States? Skipping out for some reason, eh?”

“Well,” said the young man slowly, “you see, news is a long time getting

out into the wilderness where I've been located for a couple of years.

We knew, of course, that there was a war on, but we didn't know how it

was progressing. Down here in this part of the world we have a war every

two or three months, and we've got so used to having 'em over within a

week or two that we just naturally don't pay much attention to them.

We don't even care who wins. But a couple of months ago we got word

up there that the United States had finally got into it with everybody

under the sun, and that the Germans were bound to win if we didn't get

a couple of million men across in pretty short order. I am thirty years

old, Captain, strong and healthy, and I'm a good American. That's why

I want to get home. I've told you the truth about being robbed. I don't

mind losing the money,--only a couple of thousand pesos, you know,--but

if you chuck me off at the next port of call, Captain Trigger, I'll

curse you to my dying day. I'm willing to work, I'm willing to be put in

irons, I'm willing to get along on bread and water, but you've just got

to land me in the United States. You are an Englishman. I suppose you've

got relatives over in France fighting the Germans. Maybe you've had some

one killed who is dear to you.”

“My youngest son was killed in Flanders,” said the Captain simply.

“I am sorry, sir. Well, for every Englishman and every Frenchman who has

died over there, my country ought to supply some one to take his place.

I expect to be one of those men, Captain. I have no other excuse for

coming aboard your ship as a stowaway.”

The Captain still eyed him narrowly.

“I believe you are honest, young man. If I am deceived in you I shall

never trust the eyes of another man as long as I live. Sit down, Mr.

Percival. I shall put you to work, never fear, but in the meantime I am

very much interested in what you were doing up in the hills. You will

oblige me by going as fully as possible into all the details. I shall

not pass judgment on you until I've heard all of your story.”

CHAPTER II.

Algernon Adonis Percival, civil and mining engineer, Cornell, had gone

through certain rather harsh stages of development in the mines of

Montana and later in the perilous districts of Northern Mexico. A year

or two prior to the breaking out of the great World War, he was sent

to South America to replace the general superintendent of a new

copper-mining enterprise in a remote section of the Andes, on

the Bolivian side of the mountains. Here he was in charge of the

heterogeneous horde of miners, labourers, structural workers and

assayists who were engaged in the development and extension of the vast

concession controlled by his company.

His description of the camp or town in which this motley assemblage

dwelt from one year's end to the other, far from civilization, was

illuminating to the two sea-faring men. It must be confessed, however,

that a sound reluctance to swallow the tale without the proverbial grain

of salt caused them to watch closely for the slightest sign that might

reveal to them the always-to-be expected and seldom successful

duplicity so common in those harrowing days when all men were objects of

suspicion. From time to time they glanced inquiringly at each other,

but the stranger's story was so straightforward, so lacking in personal

exploitation, so free from unnecessary detail, that they were finally

convinced that he was all that he represented himself to be and that

they had nothing to fear from him.

His long, hazardous journey by horse through the passes down into the

forests and jungles, out upon the endless, sparsely settled pampas,

and eventually into the remote village that witnessed the passing every

second day of a primitive and far from dependable railway train, was

presented with agreeable simplicity and conciseness. He passed briefly

over what might have been expanded into grave experiences, and at last

came, so to speak, to the gates of the city, unharmed, resolute and full

of the fire that knows no quenching.

“By the way,” observed the Captain, still wary, “has it occurred to you

we may be justified in suspecting that you deserted your post up

there in the hills, and that you have betrayed the confidence of your

employers?” Percival had completed what he evidently believed to be a

full and satisfactory account of himself.

“I was in full charge up there, Captain Trigger. My contract had but a

month more to run. I appointed my own successor, and the company will

not be any the worse off for the change. My letter to headquarters,

announcing my decision not to renew the contract, went forward two weeks

before I left the camp. I merely anticipated the actual termination of

my contract by a month or so, and as I handed my resignation at once to

my own newly appointed superintendent, I submit that I acted in absolute

good faith. I may say that he accepted it without a word of protest,

sir. As a matter of fact, I told him in advance that I wouldn't appoint

him unless he agreed to accept my resignation.”

The Captain smiled at this ingenuous explanation.

“I daresay I ought to put you under guard, Mr. Percival,” he said. “My

duty is very plain. A stowaway is a stowaway, no matter how you look

at him. The regulations do not leave me any choice. Maritime justice

is rarely tempered by mercy. However, under the circumstances, I am

inclined to accept your word of honour that you will not violate your

parole if I refrain from putting you in irons. Have I your word of

honour that you will not leave this ship until I hand you over to the

proper authorities in the United States?”

“You have, sir.”

“You are a very head-strong, ambitious young man. You will not jump

overboard and try to beat us into port under your own steam?”

“You may trust me, sir, never to give up the ship.”

“And you will kill as many Germans as possible?”

“Yes, sir,” said A. A. Percival submissively.

Captain Trigger arose and extended his hand.

“I've never done anything like this before in all my years as ship's

master. You ought to be flogged and stowed away in the brig until you

show a properly subdued spirit, young man. I suppose you've heard of the

cat-o'-nine-tails?”

“My reading up to the age of fifteen was confined almost exclusively to

the genteel histories of pirates, buccaneers and privateersmen, Captain

Trigger,” announced A. A. Percival, taking the master's hand in a

firm grip. “I wonder if you know what a black-snake whip is, or a

cattle-adder? Well, they're both painful and convincing. As director of

morals in the camp I have just left behind me, it was my official duty

on frequent occasions to see to it that current offenders had from

fifteen to fifty applications of the black-snake in a public sort of

way. The black-snake, I may explain, could be wielded by a strong but

unskilled arm. It was different, however, with the cattle-adder. That

had to be handled by an expert, one who could stand off twenty paces,

more or less, and crack the long lash with such astonishing precision

that the tip end of it barely touched the back of the culprit, the

result being a nobby assortment of splotches that looked for all the

world like hives after the blood got back into them again. You see,

I was chief magistrate, executioner ex-officio, chief of police, jury

commissioner--in fact, an all-around potentate. Sort of Pooh-bah, you

know. For serious offences, such as wife beating, wife stealing,

or having more than one wife at a time, we were not so lenient. The

offender, on conviction, was strung up by the thumbs and used as a

target by amateurs who desired to become proficient in the use of the

cattle-adder. Murderers were attended to a trifle more expeditiously.

They were strung up by the neck.”

“Good God, man,--do you mean to say you hung men in that off-hand

fashion?” cried Captain Trigger, aghast.

“Not without a fair trial, sir. No innocent man was ever hung. There was

no such thing as circumstantial evidence in that camp. The guilty man

was always taken red-handed. We had good laws and they were rigidly

enforced. There was no other way, sir. Short, sharp and decisive. It's

the best way. Men understand that sort of thing and honest men approve

of the method. You see, gentlemen, we had a hard lot of characters to

deal with. I wish to add, however, that before I had been up there six

months we had a singularly law-abiding and self-respecting camp. Crime

was not tolerated, not even by the men who had once been criminals.

If two men quarrelled, they were allowed to fight it out fairly and

squarely in any way they could agree upon. Knives, hatchets and all

other messy weapons were barred. It was either fists, pistols or rifles

at a fairly long range, and under the strictest rules. Duels were fought

according to Hoyle, and were witnessed by practically every one in camp.

You will perceive that Copperhead Camp was no place for a coward or a

bluffer or a bully. It takes a brave man to fight a duel with a chap who

may be only half as big as he is, but who can shoot like the devil. So

you see, Captain Trigger, the cat-o'-nine-tails has no terror for me.”

Mr. Mott regarded the young man with wide-open, somewhat incredulous

eyes.

“You don't look like a fire-eating, swashbuckling party to me,” he said.

“I am the most peaceable chap you've ever seen, Mr. Mott. You needn't

be alarmed. I'm not going to bite a hole in the ship and scuttle her.

Moreover, I am a very meek and lowly individual on board this ship.

There's a lot of difference between being in supreme command with all

kinds of authority to bolster you up and being a rat in a trap as I am

now. Up in Copperhead Camp I was a nabob, here I'm a nobody. Up there I

was the absolute boss of five or six hundred men,--I won't say I could

boss the women,--and I made 'em all walk chalk without once losing

step. There were murderers and crooks, blacklegs and gunmen in my genial

aggregation, men whose true names we never knew, men who were wanted in

every part of the civilized world. The only place on earth, I suppose,

where they could feel reasonably at home was in that gosh-awful nowhere

that we called Copperhead Camp. You can't handle such men with mittens.

And there were good men there as well,--good, strong, righteous men.

They were the leaven that made the whole thing palatable. Without them I

could have had no authority. But I dare say I am boring you. The present

situation is the one we're interested in, not the lordly past of your

humble and, I trust, obedient servant.”

His smile was most engaging, but back of it the two seamen read

strength, decision, integrity. The gay, bantering, whilom attitude of

this unusual young man was not assumed. It was not a pose. He was not

a dare-devil, nor was he a care-free, unstable youth who had matured

abruptly in the exercise of power. On the contrary, he was,--and Captain

Trigger knew it,--the personification of confidence, an optimist to whom

victory and defeat are equally unavoidable and therefore to be reckoned

as one in the vast scheme of human endeavour; a fighter who merely rests

on his arms but never lays them down; a spirit that absorbs the bitters

and the sweets of life with equal relish.

Captain Trigger was not slow in making up his mind. This clean-minded,

clean-bodied American with the confident though respectful smile, was a

chap after his own heart.

“I hardly know what to do with you, Percival,” he said, a scowl of

genuine perplexity in his eyes. “You are not an ordinary transgressor.

You are a gentleman. You have exercised an authority perhaps somewhat

similar to my own,--possibly in some respects your position up there was

even more autocratic, if I may use the term. I am not unconscious of all

this, and yet I have no choice other than that designated by law. The

regulations are unalterable. It is a matter of morale, pure and simple.

We are compelled to treat all stowaways alike. Of course, I shall not

subject you to the ordinary--shall we say methods of--”

“Pardon me, Captain,” broke in the young man, his smile no longer in

evidence; “I am asking no favours. I expect to be treated as an ordinary

stowaway. Set me to work at anything you like and I will make as good a

job of it as possible.”

“I was about to suggest that you serve as a sort of assistant to Mr.

Codge, the purser. I've no doubt he could find something for you to do

and--”

“If that is your way of punishing me, Captain Trigger, of course there

is nothing for me to do but to submit.”

“Eh? I am sure you will not find Mr. Codge a hard taskmaster. He is

quite a good-natured man.”

“Extremely kind and considerate,” hastily added Mr. Mott, reassuringly.

“But I don't want to loaf my passage home,” protested Percival. “I want

to be sentenced to the hardest sort of labour, if you don't mind. I

don't want to owe this steamship company a penny when I step ashore. It

is your duty, sir, as master of this ship, to put me on the meanest job

you've got.”

“My word!” exclaimed Captain Trigger.

“I'm blessed!” said Mr. Mott.

“Up where I've been running things and cock-walking like a foreman in a

shirt-waist factory, I made the rules and I enforced them. I want to say

to you that no favours were shown. If the Prince of Wales had drifted in

there, dead broke, and asked for something to eat, he would have got it,

but you bet your life he'd have had to work for it. A tramp's a tramp,

no matter how much purple he's been used to, and you can say the same

for a stowaway. What's the matter with me taking the place of one of

those deck-hands, or whatever you call 'em, you lost last night?”

“What's that?”

“Swabbers, maybe you call 'em. Men that mop up the decks after everybody

else has turned in.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded the Captain, sitting up very

straight. Percival stared at him in astonishment.

“I thought you knew about it, of course. Good Lord, sir, don't you know

that a couple of your men jumped overboard last night,--or early this

morning, rather? Just as the ship was rounding that big headland--”

“Good God, man, are you in earnest?” cried Mr. Mott, starting toward the

door.

“I certainly am. I took them for deserters, of course,--not suicides,

because they didn't forget to put on life preservers before they jumped.

I haven't a doubt they were picked up, so there's no use worrying. A

minute or two after they went over,--from the bottom deck or whatever

you call it,--I heard a motor boat popping away like a gatling-gun not

far,--”

But he was alone. Captain Trigger had dashed out of the cabin in the

wake of the First Officer.

Algernon Adonis Percival stared blankly at the open door.

“Good Lord, why all this excitement over a couple of bums?” he said,

addressing space. “If they were working for me, I'd thank the Lord to be

rid of 'em so cheaply. They--Hello!”

The Second Officer popped into the room.

“Come along with me,” he snapped. “Lively, now. Just where and when did

you see a couple of men go overboard? Quietly, now. We don't want to

alarm the passengers.”

Within five minutes after Percival's disturbing report, the officers

of the Doraine, with set faces, were employed in a swift but silent

investigation. Before many more minutes had passed, at least a portion

of the stowaway's story had been verified. Two men were found to be

missing, although, strange to say, they had not been missed up to the

time that noses were counted. They were down on the ship's roster as

Norwegians, New York registry, and had come down with the Doraine on her

trip from the north.

Percival repeated his story, but had little to add in the way of detail.

He had stolen on deck some time after midnight for a breath of air,

risking detection, and from the shelter of a secluded corner well aft

had heard the two men swabbing the deck below. Suddenly they ceased

work, and he prepared to creep back to a place of safety, concluding

that they were on their way to the upper deck.

He went to the rail to listen. The two men were almost directly below

him, and he could see the upper portions of their figures as they leaned

far out over the rail, apparently looking into the swirling waters

below. Quite distinctly he heard one of them say, in English: “We got

to do it now or never.” The other mumbled something he could not

distinguish. He was only mildly interested, not anticipating what was to

follow. For a few seconds he heard them scrambling and puffing and then

he saw them quite plainly on the rail, their figures bulky with what he

identified as life buoys, a faint light from somewhere falling directly

upon the grayish-white objects in which they were swathed.

One of them uttered the word “Now!” and to his amazement they shot out,

as one man, into the black-ness below. There was a single splash. For a

moment or two he stood spell-bound. Then he heard some one running

along the deck below. Convinced that the incident had been witnessed by

others, he darted into the companion-way and made his way back to the

stateroom of the sick passenger. Through the lightless porthole he

listened for the terrifying shout, “Man overboard!” It did not come,

but his ear caught the staccato beat of a motor near by, striking

up abruptly out of the swish of rushing waters. In his ignorance, he

decided that it was a boat from the ship going to the rescue of the

daring deserters, and calmly waited for the engines of the mighty

Doraine to cease their rhythmic pulsing. He fell asleep.

When he awoke, he concluded that he had dreamed the whole thing. This

conclusion was justified when he asked his wretched “bunkie” if he

had observed him leaving the room during the night. The answer was a

mournful negative, followed by the sufferer's more or less positive

declaration that he was staring wide awake the whole damned night long.

Percival, unconvinced, boldly made his way to the lower deck and

discovered that two life buoys were missing from their supports, a

circumstance that put an end to the hope that he had dreamed it all. His

own affairs however now loomed large, taking precedence over the plight

of the men who had deliberately abandoned the ship. In any case, the

ship's officers had done everything that could be done in the matter.

He was genuinely astonished to learn that the act of the two men was

unknown to the Captain.

A hurried conference of the ship's officers and the commander of the

gun-crew resulted in a single but definite conclusion. The desperate,

even suicidal manner in which the men left the ship signified but one

thing: the absolute necessity of flight before an even more sinister

peril confronted them. Not a man on board doubted for an instant that

they had taken their chance in the waters as a part of a preconceived

plan, and they had taken it with all the devilish hardihood of fanatics.

The presence of the motor craft, so far out from port, lurking

with silent engine in the path of the steamship, could have but one

significance. It represented one of the carefully thought-out details in

a stupendous, far-reaching plot.

If there were signals between the motor boat and the two men aboard the

steamship, they were not observed by the lookouts. In all probability no

signals were given. The little craft was to be at a certain place at a

certain hour,--and she was there! The men who jumped knew that she would

be there. A black, tiny speck on the broad expanse of water, sheltered

by a night of almost stygian darkness, she lay outside the narrow radius

to which visual observation was confined, patiently waiting for the

Doraine to pass a designated point. There was to be no miscalculation on

the part of either the boat or the men who went over the side of the big

steamship into the seething waters.

The closest inquiry among the members of the crew failed to reveal

any one who had witnessed the leap of the men. Percival was positive,

however, that some one ran along the lower deck, but whether toward or

away from the spot where the men went over he had no means of knowing.

He offered the suggestion that there were three persons actually

involved, and that one of them, more than likely the victim of a

coin-flipping decision, had remained on board to complete the work the

trio had been chosen to perform, even though death was to be his lot.

The Second Officer had been regarding Percival with ever-growing

suspicion.

“Is there anything to prove, young man, that you are not the one who

stayed behind to complete the job?” he demanded at last.

“Nothing,” said Percival promptly, and somewhat scathingly, “nothing at

all, except the trifling fact that I am here talking it over with you

gentlemen instead of attending to my business, as any honest conspirator

should be doing. You may be quite sure of one thing: if there is a man

on board this ship whose business it is to finish the job, he isn't

idle. He's getting on with the job at this minute, gentlemen. If you'll

take my advice you will institute two investigations. First, search

the ship from stem to stern, from keel to bridge, for bombs or infernal

machines. Second, ask your rich passengers if they have lost anything in

the shape of pearls, diamonds, coin of the realm, or anything else worth

jumping into the ocean for.”

Captain Trigger looked at him over the top of his eye-glasses.

“You are not in Copperhead Camp at present, Mr. Percival,” he said

stiffly.

The young man flushed. “I beg your pardon, Captain Trigger,” he said

simply.

“All you have to do,” said the Second Officer, fixing him with an

inimical eye, “is to answer questions and not to tell us how to run this

ship.”

Percival did his best to hold back the retort, but, failing, released it

with considerable sharpness:

“Well, if I was running this ship I'd head her for shore pretty damned

quick.”

The American in command of the gun-crew was the only one who smiled, and

he did it openly. Captain Trigger's face darkened redly.

“Take this man in charge, Mr. Shannon. He wants work. Give it him. Under

guard.”

“Am I suspected, Captain Trigger, of being in league--”

“Every man, every woman on board this ship is suspected,” said the

Captain with decision. “Every one, sir, from myself down. The rest of us

grasp that fact, even if you do not.”

And so it was that while Algernon Adonis Percival, under the watchful

eye of a burly seaman, fell to work scraping the scuppers on the boat

deck, the stern business of searching the ship went forward with

a thoroughness that left no room for doubt as to the fears and

apprehensions of the men who had her in charge. Despite the fact that

intensive, anxious hours of delving revealed no hidden, sinister agent

of destruction, there was no relaxation on the part of the officers and

crew. One by one the passengers were examined; their rooms and their

luggage were systematically overhauled. No one resented these drastic

operations, for by midday the whole ship's company knew what had

transpired during the night. Eagerly they answered the questions,

cheerfully they submitted to the examination of their effects, and then

fell silent and subdued, oppressed by the suspense that hung over the

ship like a cloud. Crew and passengers alike underwent the most rigid

questioning, the high and the low, the rich and the poor, the young and

the old.

Early that morning, in fact some time prior to the time that Percival

told his story, the wireless operator reported that his transmitter was

out of order. While he was satisfied that the apparatus had not been

tampered with, he was plainly affected by the rather grim coincidence.

He was an old and trusted man in the service, competent, efficient and

loyal.

His assistant, the night operator, however, had made less than half a

dozen voyages on the Doraine. He was an Englishman, a cripple; twice

he had been rescued after vessels on which he sailed were sent to the

bottom by German submarines. His credentials were flawless. He was on

duty during the night just past, and had picked up several indistinct,

incomplete radio messages. There was nothing wrong with the receiving or

transmitting apparatus when he went off duty at six in the morning, and

as his superior came on at the same hour,--they exchanged greetings at

the door of the wireless house,--it was absolutely impossible for any

one to have entered the well-guarded room without attracting attention.

Cruise, the chief radio-man, had his assistant routed out of bed and

together they worked like beavers over the disabled mechanism.

Hour after hour, the nervous, uneasy passengers paced the decks. Few

remained indoors, and few possessed the calmness to loll in deck-chairs.

Percival toiled cheerfully, but with eye and ear alert for the first

inkling of definite peril. With commendable thoughtfulness, he had shed

the clean white shirt and collar so generously supplied by his fellow

townsman, and had donned a commodious sea-jacket.

He could not help observing the dark, suspicious glances cast upon him

by the deck-walkers, nor were his ears proof against audible comments.

Mothers nudged their children and said, in slightly lowered but

distinctly impressive tones:

“That's the man. He's a stowaway.”

“See, Wilfred,--see the man? No, no! The one with the mop, dear. Don't

go near him.”

“What a dreadful looking creature he is.”

“The Captain captured him this morning away down in the bottom of the

ship. He was stealing a ride.”

“Poor fellow! He doesn't look like a bad man, does he?”

And so on and so forth, as the day went along.

Masculine strollers had very decided opinions about him. Mr. Landover,

the banker, stopped to discuss the toiling menial with Mr. Nicklestick,

Mr. Block and Mr. Fitts.

“He ought to be in irons,” said Mr. Landover, glowering at Percival.

“That's what I told the Captain a little while ago. He's a bad egg, that

fellow is. I'm a pretty good judge of men, gentlemen, and I don't often

make mistakes. That fellow is a fugitive from justice, if he isn't

something worse. Observe the cut of his mouth--ah! see that? What did I

tell you? Did you ever see a more evil grin?”

“Take it from me,” said Mr. Nicklestick, “that guy knows a good deal

more about what is going on aboard this ship than he lets on. He ain't

as simple as he looks. I told Captain Trigger just now that he ought to

give him a dose of the third degree. That's the way to get to the bottom

of this business. String him up by the thumbs till he squeals. What say,

Mr. Fitts?”

Mr. Fitts, the architect, was a mild man.

“He strikes me as a rather honest looking sort of chap,” he said, and

was promptly glared at by his companions. “Of course,” he hastened to

add, “I am not saying that he is all right. He may be as crooked as the

deuce. I'm only saying he's got a rather pleasing sort of face.”

“The most innocent, open-faced young fellow we ever had in the bank,”

said Mr. Landover, “turned out to be the damnedest rascal I've ever

encountered.”

“How did you happen to have him in the bank if you are such a good judge

of men?” inquired Mr. Fitts, utterly without malice.

Mr. Landover reddened. “My dear sir, I do not come in contact with

every employe of the bank. You forget that it is quite an immense

institution.”

“It sure is,” said Mr. Nicklestick. “I'm thinking of transferring our

account to your bank, Mr. Landover. We've been banking with--”

“I vas telling my vife at lunch,” broke in Mr. Block, twitching his

Hebraic nose emphatically,--“not that we could eat any lunch, by

gracious, no!--I vas telling her I bet my boots dere ain't enough

life-boats to get as much as half of us off safe in case something

happens. I counted up all the life-boats I could see, and ven I estimate

the number of peoples on board, w'y, by gracious, the loss of life

vould be frightful, gentlemen. The only chance we would haf would be

for approxi-madely fifty percent of the peoples on board to be killed

outright by the explosion.”

“I hear there is a detective from Chicago on board, with a prisoner,”

ventured Mr. Fitts. “Why doesn't the Captain ask him to have a look at

this stowaway fellow?”

“What would be the good of that?” demanded Mr. Landover. “I never saw a

detective in my life that knew what to do in an emergency. Soon as

you get one of them where he can't telephone in to headquarters

for instructions he's as helpless as a baby. Don't talk to me about

detectives. Why, this fellow would simply laugh in his face.”

“Just, as he is laughing in yours at this moment, Mr. Landover,” pursued

Mr. Fitts pleasantly.

“The damned rascal,” said Mr. Landover, and stalked away.

“There goes one of the biggest figures in the United States,” said Mr.

Nicklestick, looking after the banker. His remark was addressed to Mr.

Fitts. “I wish I had his brains.”

“Dey vouldn't do you any good, Nicklestick,” said Mr. Block, “unless you

had his money too also.”

“If I had his brains,” said Mr. Nicklestick, “he wouldn't have his

money, so what's the difference?”

CHAPTER III.

Mr. Block looked uneasily out over the tumbling ocean, focusing his gaze

on a section of the horizon that for want of something more definite

than mere hope lay in a direct line with the City of New York.

“And ven you stop to think,” said he wistfully, “that we are still

something like six thousand miles from home,--oh, veil! Vat's the use? I

bet you I never go so far avay from my business again. Vat a fool I vas

to make this trip ven the whole ocean is full of submarines and German

agents and plotters and--Yes, vat a fool ven I had so many high-priced

men vorking for me who vas crazy to come. But my vife she vould do it.

Paris and London every year it used to be, so she must haf a little

holiday or she vill die, she say. Veil, here we are. And ven I think

vat a long holiday it is going to be maybe,--by gracious, I could kick

myself for not giving in to my brother-in-law ven he begged so hard to

be allowed to make the trip because he needed the change from not being

avay from the office for five years, and his vife and children too. His

vife she needed a change as much as he, vat with not being able to get

into any good hotels in the summer time and not being able to keep

out of them in the vinter time, she vas nearly distracted. No, I vas

selfish. My vife she vas selfish too,--and him her own brother. Vy

shouldn't he haf a vacation vonce in awhile?”

He turned abruptly to the sailor who lounged near the perspiring

Percival.

“How far is it to land, my frient?” he inquired.

The sailor touched his cap. “Which way, sir?” he asked solemnly. “Fore

or aft?”

(Percival said to himself: “By golly, I'll bet that man is an

American.”)

“Vat? Land,--you know vat I mean,--the end of the ocean. How far avay is

it?”

The sailor calculated. “Well, the nearest land, sir, I should say, is

about three hundred miles away, to port.”

“How deep is it here?” asked Mr. Nicklestick, moving away from the rail

suddenly.

The sailor glanced down at the water, squinted an eye, and then spoke

reassuringly.

“It ain't half as deep here as it is a little furder on,” he said. “It's

only a shade over three miles where we are now, sir. We're comin' to

the deepest part of the ocean,--ought to be there inside of a couple of

hours. Here, you! On the job, on the job!”

“You ought to search that man carefully,” advised Mr. Nicklestick.

“I have,” growled the sailor. “He says he never uses it in that form. I

guess he's tellin' the truth.”

“Never uses what?”

“Tobacco, sir.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Nicklestick, and, catching a glimpse of Madame Obosky

emerging upon the deck, unceremoniously deserted his companions and

hurried off to join her, his speed being suddenly accelerated by the

spectacle of Mr. Shine, the motion picture magnate, who approached the

lady from an equidistant station and with similar haste. Mr. Block,

being a trifle near-sighted and in some doubt as to the whereabouts of

his wife, peered here and there intently, and then bore down upon the

celebrated Russian dancer, who, it would seem, was in dire need of

consolation.

Mr. Fitts followed them with a glance over his glasses and then turned

to the sailor man.

“I suppose it's against orders for me to speak to this man,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

The architect sighed, and walked away.

The parade became more interesting as the lack of news from the

investigators restored a sort of hopeful optimism to the breasts of the

anxious company. Those who had maintained a stubborn air of bravado,

now became almost offensively jaunty. Others, frankly terrified at the

outset, sauntered timidly away from the life-boats to which they were

assigned. Every one was glad that the Captain had ordered a life-boat

drill on the first afternoon out, and every one was glad that he had

ignored the demand of Mr. Landover that the boats be lowered the instant

he discovered that his passengers were in peril. No news was good news,

argued the majority, and jesting was in order.

Peter Snipe, the novelist, got out a pad of paper and began jotting down

impressions. Madam Careni-Amori and Signor Joseppi exchanged the first

friendly words they had spoken to each other in weeks, and in full view

of an entranced audience linked arms and strode bravely to and fro, the

former clasping a huge jewel case to her ample bosom, the latter

chafing perceptibly under the weight of an invisible belt stuffed to its

capacity with banknotes and gold. Chilean ladies and Chilean gentlemen,

dazzling Brazilian ladies and pompous Brazilian gentlemen, smug

Argentinians, lordly Castilians, garrulous Portuguese, lofty English

gentlemen and supercilious English ladies, friendly and irrepressible

Americans,--all of them swinging their sea-legs with new-found

abandon--clattered solidly around the wind-swept circuit. New faces

appeared in the procession, new voices were raised with energy, new

figures sprang into existence with marvellous rapidity. It seemed to

Percival that the population doubled and tripled and quadrupled with

every throb of the powerful engines. He saw his “bunkie” of the night

before,--the man who was trying so hard to die and couldn't,--he saw him

plunging along with the throng, pale but valiant, ferociously glaring at

every one who smoked.

A small group of American nurses, some young and pretty, others young

and homely, but all of them sprightly and clear-eyed,--nine of them, in

fact--tramped by in “columns of three.”

Percival's guardian jerked his head in their direction after they had

passed, and volunteered this bit of information:

“Hornswoggled, them girls was. Come all the way down from New York

six months ago. Promised double pay and plenty of work in the American

colony. Sore as crabs, all of 'em. They got double pay all right, all

right, but there was some misunderstandin' as to what single pay was to

be to start off with. Single pay turned out to be just whatever suited

the people that employed 'em, seein's they were nearly seven thousand

miles away from God and up against it, so they're beatin' it back home

to volunteer for service in France. I heard one of 'em say she could

save more money workin' for nothin' in France than she could earn in

a year down here at double pay. What'd you say your name was, young

feller?”

“Percival.”

“I mean your last name.”

“That's it.”

“Come off! Nobody ever had a last name like that.”

“You ought to hear what my first name is,--and my middle one, too. You

said a little while ago you'd never seen any one of my size with bigger

and harder muscles. Well, if you knew what my full name is, old man,

you'd understand why I began developing them,--I've got a lot more too

that you can't see,--when I first began going to school.”

“What is your other names?” inquired the sailor curiously.

“Algernon Adonis,” said Percival.

The sailor was silent for a moment, thinking of the proper thing to say.

Then he said:

“You're dead right. It takes a heap of muscle to pertect a name like

that.”

Three women stopped in front of the two men. Percival kept his eyes

lowered.

“Why,--why, Auntie,--I know him,” fell from the lips of one of the trio.

There was not only surprise in her voice but a trace of awe as well.

The swabber looked up quickly. He found himself gazing straight into the

eyes of the speaker. Her lips were parted, her head was bent slightly

forward, her eyes expressed utter incredulity and bewilderment. Her

companion, an elderly lady, and a bespectacled young woman who carried

an arm-load of steamer-rugs, stared not at him but at the girl who had

delivered this startling announcement.

“I mean I,--that is, I may be mistaken,” stammered the latter, suddenly

averting her eyes. A wave of crimson swept over her face.

“Undoubtedly,” exclaimed the elderly lady with great positiveness.

Turning to inspect the object under discussion, she sustained a shock

that caused her to stiffen and draw in her breath quickly.

Percival was smiling in a most friendly and encouraging manner. He went

farther, and lifted his disreputable white canvas hat.

“Oh, goodness!” exclaimed the young lady in a sort of panic. “Are

you--is it really you, Mr. Percival?”

Mr. Percival glanced inquiringly at his guard.

“That's his name, Miss,” said that worthy. “And that's one of the

three reasons why he's got them muscular arms you're lookin' at. Sorry,

though, but my orders are not to allow any one to speak to him.”

“Are you crazy, Ruth?” cried the older lady, aghast. “It's the stowaway

every one is talking about. The one who tried to blow up the ship.”

The young lady returned Percival's smile,--rather a diffident, uncertain

effort, to be sure, but still a smile,--and murmured something about

night before last at the Alcazar Grand.

“What are you saying, Ruth? Do you mean to say you met this man at the

Alcazar Grand?”

“Yes, Aunt Julia,” said the other wrinkling her pretty forehead in

perplexity. “He--he danced with me.”

“He--you danced with him?” gasped the horrified Aunt Julia.

“Don't you remember? Phil Morton introduced him to us. I--I can't

believe my eyes.”

“I can't believe mine,” snapped the elder woman. “I never saw this

fellow before in my life. The idea! Phil Morton having a friend

like--You are mistaken. And people are staring at us.”

“Just the same,” said her niece, stubbornly, “I did dance with him, and,

what's more, I danced more than once with him. Didn't I, Mr. Percival?”

Mr. Percival, still beaming, again looked at the sailor appealingly.

“You can tell it to me,” said the latter, furtively glancing to the

right and left before making the concession.

Looking straight into the sailor's eyes, Percival said:

“Yes, Miss Clinton. I had four dances with you,--and a lemon squash.”

“Wait a moment, Aunt Julia,” protested the young lady, holding back.

“Would you mind telling me, Mr. Percival, how you happen to be here and

in this plight? You didn't mention sailing on the Doraine.”

Mr. Percival, to the sailor: “Neither did you, Miss Clinton. You

certainly are no more surprised than I am.”

“Why are you on board as a stowaway? Phil Morton told me you belong to

an old Baltimore family and had all kinds of--that is, you were quite

well-off.”

Mr. Percival, to the sailor: “Please don't blush, Miss Clinton. I'm not

the least bit sensitive. Money isn't everything. I seem to be able

to get along without it. Later on, I hope to have the opportunity to

explain just why--”

“That'll do,” interrupted the sailor. “Here comes the Captain.”

Captain Trigger hove in sight around the corner of the deck building,

with Chief Engineer Gray and the Second Officer.

“I don't know what to make of you,” said Miss Clinton, sorely puzzled.

Her aunt was clutching her arm. “You seemed so awfully jolly the other

night. And--and just look at you now.”

She moved away, followed by the bespectacled young woman and the

steamer-rugs, graceful despite the sudden yank with which her aunt set

her in motion. Percival managed to keep an eye on her till she turned

the corner. Then he sighed.

The Captain halted in front of him.

“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Spofford and her niece, Percival?” he

inquired.

“Miss Clinton has done me the honour to remember meeting me night before

last at the Alcazar Grand, sir. Mrs. Spofford is not so generous.”

“I see,” said Captain Trigger reflectively. “You will report at once to

Mr. Gray. He will give you a less public job, as you call it.” A twinkle

came into his eyes. “He doesn't like the hat you're wearing. Nor the

shirt. Nor the boots.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And, by the way, Percival, as soon as you are slightly refurbished I

want you to stroll through the second cabin and if possible identify the

two stewards who came to No. 22. Let me see, was it during the day or at

night?”

“Some time during the night, sir. Eleven or half-past, I should say.”

“Very well.”

An hour later he reported to Captain Trigger. “I have seen all of the

stewards, sir, according to Mr. Codge, and I do not recognize any of

them as the men who came to No. 22. I had a fairly good view of them,

too, from beneath the lower berth. They spoke in a language I did not

understand--”

“Do you understand German?”

“No, sir. I know it when I hear it, however. They were not speaking

German. I may have been wrong, but I came to the conclusion that they

were transferring some one to No. 22. They brought in two suitcases, and

left them when they went out. I--”

Captain Trigger brought his clenched fist down on the table with a

resounding, emphatic bang.

“Now, we have it! That Chicago detective is right, by gad!”

He turned to the small group of officers clustered behind him. Fresh

alarm,--real consternation,--had leaped into the eyes of every man of

them.

“Then--then, that means our search isn't over?” cried Mr. Mott, starting

up.

“It does! Every inch of this ship,--every damned inch of it, from stem

to stern. Overlook nothing, Mr. Mott. Don't delay a second.”

Percival was alone with the agitated Captain an instant later. Trigger's

eyes were rather wild and bloodshot. The younger man's face blanched. He

knew now that the danger was real. He waited for the Captain to speak.

“Percival, the two men you saw in 22 were not stewards. They were the

men who jumped overboard. You tell me they left two bags there when they

went out of the room. Well, they were not there this morning when the

regular steward went into the room. They have disappeared. But the

contents of those bags are still somewhere on board this ship. And if

they are not found in time, by gad, sir, we will all be in Kingdom Come

before we know it.”

CHAPTER IV.

The first explosion occurred at eleven minutes past six. The chart-house

and part of the bridge were blown to pieces. Three dull, splintering

crashes ensued in rapid succession, proving beyond question that the

bombs were set to automatically explode at a given time. One of them

wrecked the engine-room; another blew a great hole in the stern of the

ship, above the water line; the third destroyed the wireless house and

carried away a portion of the deck with it.

There were eight in all of these devilish machines in the heart of the

Doraine. Some time prior to the first explosion, the feverish searchers

had uncovered four of them, cunningly planted in the most vital parts

of the ship. Two were taken from the lower hold, one at each end of the

vessel, and two more were found close to the carefully protected section

of the vessel in which a rather insignificant but deadly shipment of

high explosives was stored.

The discovery of the four bombs and their immediate consignment to the

sea saved the ship from being blown to bits. With another hour to spare,

it is more than probable the remaining four would have been found,

notwithstanding the amazing cleverness with which they were hidden, so

thorough and so dogged was the search. Confusion, terror, stupefaction

and finally panic followed the successive blasts. The decks were strewn

with people prostrated by the violent upheavals, and many there were who

never got up again. Stunned, dazed, bewildered, those who were able to

do so scrambled to their feet only to be hurled down again and again.

Shrieks, groans, prayers,--and curses,--filled the brief, ghastly

silences between the muffled detonations. The great vessel surged and

rolled and plunged like a tortured animal.

The splintering of wood, the rending of plates, the shattering of glass,

and above all this horrid turmoil the mighty roaring and hissing of

steam!... And the wild, gurgling cries of the frantic unfortunates who

had leaped into the sea!

Out of the chaos with incredible swiftness came the paralysis of

despair, and out of that slowly but surely groped the never-failing

courage of the men who go down to the sea in ships. Hoarse commands

lifted above the groans and prayers, and strong but shaken figures

sprang with mechanical precision to the posts allotted them. Life-boat

after life-boat went down into the sea that glistened with the slanting

rays of an untroubled sun, low-lying at the end of day.

Fire broke out in several places. Down into the bowels of the ship

plunged the resolute, undaunted heroes who remained behind, the chosen

complement reserved for just such an emergency by the far-seeing master.

Above the hissing of steam and the first feeble cracklings of flame,

rose the stentorian voice of the Captain from his post at the base of

the demolished bridge.

“Fight, men! Fight! Fight! There are dying men below! Stand by! Fight

for them!”

He was bloody and almost unrecognizable as he stood there clutching a

stanchion for support. His legs were rigid, his body swayed, but his

spirit was as staunch as the star that had guided him for fifty years

through the trackless waste.

And while these doughty, desperate spirits fought the fire and smoke

with every means at their command, down in the suffocating depths of the

ship, braving not only the peril visible and at hand, but the prospect

of annihilation in the event that a belated bomb projected its hideous

force into the nest of high explosives,--while these men fought, the

smiling, placid sea was alive with small white craft that bobbed in the

gleaming sunlight, life-boats crowded to the gunwales with shuddering,

bleak-eyed men, women and children waiting to pick up those who stayed

behind, and who inevitably would be driven overboard by the resistless,

conquering flames.

Cruising about at a safe distance from the menacing hull, these boats

managed to rescue a few of the beings who had leaped overboard in the

first mad panic of fear, but many there were who went down never to be

seen again. No boat was without its wounded--and its dead; no boat was

without its stricken, anxious-eyed survivors who watched and prayed

for the salvation of loved ones left behind. With straining eyes they

searched the surface of the sea, peered at the occupants of near and

distant boats, stared at the scurrying figures on the decks of the

smoking steamer, hoping,--always hoping,--and always sobbing out the

endless prayer.

At last, as the sun sank below the blue-black horizon, exhausted,

red-eyed, gasping men struggled up from the drenched, smothering

interior of the ship, and hurled themselves, not into the sea, but

prone upon the decks! They had conquered! The scattered, vagrant fires,

attacked in their infancy, while still in the creeping stage, had been

subdued.

Darkness fell. A chill night air stole out of the east, stealthily

trailing the sun. Will-o'-the-wisp lights bespecked the sea, surrounding

the black hulk that lay motionless in the center of the circle. Lanterns

in a score or more of small boats bobbed fitfully in the gentle swell.

Presently lights appeared on board the Doraine, one here, one there,

then others in twos and threes,--some of them stationary, others moving

slowly from place to place. The life-boats crept closer, still closer.

Then, out from the silent hulk, came the voice of man. It was the

voice of the First Officer, hoarse and unrecognizable, but sharp with

authority. Other voices repeated the commands from various parts of the

ship,--commands to the encircling will-o'-the-wisps.

The word came down to the scores who filled the boats that they were to

lie by until sunrise, keeping in close contact with each other and at no

great distance from the ship. The most thorough, careful examination of

the steamer was in progress. If it was found that she was in no danger

of foundering,--and the word was most reassuring,--all of them would

be taken aboard in the morning. Nothing could be done at present. A few

hours more would tell the tale.

And then, for the first time since the disaster, the note of the croaker

was heard. Each and every boat contained at least one individual who

knew exactly what ought to be done in a crisis like this.

Mr. Landover addressed the benumbed, unresisting occupants of the boat

into which he had climbed with commendable reluctance as one of the last

persons to leave the ship.

“Why don't they begin sending out S. O. S. calls? What's the wireless

for, if not to be used at a time like this? Say, you! Yell up there to

some of those damned muddled-headed idiots and tell them what to do.

Tell them that I say for them to send out calls for help. What's that?

What did you say?”

The steward in charge of the boat repeated his remark and Mr. Landover

at once said he would report him to Captain Trigger.

“But it won't do any good,” complained the banker despairingly. “Captain

Trigger hasn't got the backbone of a fishworm. He'd let you tell him to

go to hell and never think of jacking you up for it. No wonder we're

in the fix we're in now. If he'd had the sense of a jelly-fish he'd

have--Here! Sit still! You'll upset the boat, you fool! What--What are

you going to do with that oar?”

“I'm going to crack you over the bean with it if you don't take back

what you said about Captain Trigger,” said the steward, very earnestly.

“Take it back, do you hear me?”

“My God, would you murder me for a little thing like that?”

Mr. Nicklestick aroused himself from the torpor of despair.

“Take it back, Mr. Landover,--please do. If he misses you, he'll get me

sure, it's so dark, and so help me God, I got nothing but the deepest

respect for Captain Trigger. He's a vonderful man, steward. Don't make

any mistake. You hear me say he is a vonderful man? Veil,--”

“Oh, shut up, Nicklestick,” grated Landover, crouching down behind the

gentleman addressed.

The steward sat down. “I'd do it in a minute if it wasn't for the women

an' children in this boat.”

“I intend to have every officer on that steamer arrested for criminal

negligence the instant I set foot in New York,” boomed the banker. “I

call upon every one of you, my fellow-passengers, to testify to the

utter lack of precaution taken by the men in charge of that ship. And

what effort are they making to bring help to us now? By gad, if I was

in command of that vessel I'd be shooting wireless calls to every--Great

Scott! What's that?”

“That's a rocket, you blamed old fool!” roared the steward.

“Good God!” gasped the exasperated banker. “Are we having a celebration

with fireworks?”

The dull, hapless occupants of the lifeboats watched with fascinated

eyes the first of the giant rockets that whizzed and roared its way up

from the deck of the ship, an endless arrow of fire piercing the night.

A loud report, the scattering of a hundred stars, and then--denser

blackness than before.

Morning came. Up out of the east stole a sickly grey. It turned slowly

into pink, and then suddenly the sea once more was blue and smiling.

In the heart of the dancing cordon lay the weirdly camouflaged Doraine,

inert, sinister, as still and cold as death. No smoke issued from her

stacks to cheer the wretched watchers; no foam, no spray leaped from her

mighty bow. She was a great, lifeless thing. Waves lapped gently against

her sides and fell away only to come back again in playful scorn for the

vast object that had rent and baffled them so long. On high fluttered

the Stars and Stripes, gay in the presence of death, a sprightly

harbinger of hope flaunting defiance in the face of despair.

Men, stripped to the waist, grimy and shining with the sweat of hours,

moving about in knots of three and four--always in knots of three or

four as if afraid to disintegrate--leaned upon the rail and watched the

approach of the crowded boats, looked down into pallid, anguished faces

with their eager, hungry eyes, eyes that devoured the groups along the

rail. Now and then a glad shout of joy went up from one of the boats,

and a figure in the huddled mass was transformed into a responsive thing

of life.

In each of the square, black openings in the hull of the ship stood

men with ropes and ladders. The great steel doors lay flat against the

sides, swung wide to admit this time a human cargo. From the interior of

the vessel came the brisk, incessant clatter of hammers against wood and

steel; from the decks broke the loud, commanding voices of men calling

out directions; from the gliding, slapping boats went up the hearty

shouts of understanding and obedience, the rattling of boat-hooks, the

grinding of oars in the locks, the murmur of voices revived.

“Vomen and children first!” was the shrill, oft-repeated exhortation

from one of the boats.

And up in the centre of another sprang a fine, imposing figure, from

whose lips rolled these thrilling words:

“By God, they're great! They're great, after all! God bless Captain

Trigger and every man-jack of them!”

“Get down!” roared his still unpacified critic, the steward. “You'll

fall overboard, you dam' fool!”

The gaunt, coatless Mr. Mott commanded the port side of the vessel;

Mr. Codge, the purser, the starboard. Fighting men in the breeches and

leggings of the American Navy; blackened and bandaged stokers, sailors

and landsmen comprised the motley company that stood ready to drag the

occupants of the boats up into the dank, smoke-scented maw of the ship.

One by one, in regular, systematic order, the lifeboats came alongside.

There was no confusion, no bungling. They bumped gently against the

towering rows of plates, and, made fast by ropes with ample play,

gave up in time their precious cargoes. No one lifted up his voice in

rejoicing, for there were dead and injured back in the shadows; there

were grief-stricken, anxious men and women crouching out there in the

sunshine; there were limp, unconscious women and half-dead children; and

over all still hung the ominous cloud of catastrophe fat with prophecies

of perils yet to come.

They had gone out from a ship filled with a monstrous clangour and

confusion, they were returning to a tomblike hulk, a lonely mass in

which echoes would abound, a thing of sighs and silences, the corpse of

a mammoth that had throbbed yesterday,--but never more.

Up in the curving triangle of the forward deck were two long,

canvas-covered rows. The dead! Forty-six twisted, silent forms lying

side by side, some calm in death, others charred and mutilated beyond

all possibility of identification. Every man in the engine-room at

the time of the explosion was now a mangled, unrecognizable thing.

Engineers, electricians, stokers,--all of them wiped out in the flash of

an eye,--burnt, boiled, shattered. Half a dozen women, as many children,

lay with the silent men.

The injured had been placed in staterooms on the promenade deck,

regardless of previous occupancy or subsequent claim. There lay the

score and a half of seriously injured, and there toiled the ship's

surgeon and his volunteer helpers. Sailor and merchant, worker and

idler, scholar and dolt, steerage and first cabin, wealth and poverty,

shared alike in the disposition of quarters and shared alike in

attention. There was no discrimination. One life was as good as another

to the doctor and his men, the poor man's moan as full of suffering as

that of the rich man, the wail of the steerage woman as piteous as that

of her sister above.

Captain Trigger was one of the injured. He swore a great deal when the

doctor ordered him to bed. Ribs and a broken arm? Why the devil should

he be put to bed for something a schoolboy would laugh at? Mr. Shannon

and two of the younger officers were killed by the explosion that

wrecked the bridge and chart house. Chief Engineer Gray died in the

engine-room. Cruise was blown to pieces in the wireless house. His

assistant, the cripple with the charmed life, was dead.

A few seconds before the first explosion took place he blew out his

brains with a big navy revolver. The last seen of Cruise was when he

appeared in the door of his station, an expression of mingled rage and

alarm on his face. Pointing frantically at the figure of his assistant

as it shot down the steps and across the deck, he shouted:

“Get that man! Get him! For God's sake, get him!”

It all happened in a few seconds of time. The shrill laugh of

the fleeing assistant, the report of the revolver, an instant of

stupefaction,--and then the dull, grinding crash.

It will never be known what Cruise had heard or seen in the last moments

of his life. No one on board the Doraine, however, doubted for an

instant that he had discovered, too late, the truth about his misshapen

assistant. They now knew with almost absolute certainty the identity of

the odd man in that devilish trio, the man whose footsteps Percival had

heard, the man who stayed behind to guarantee the consummation of the

hideous plot. Coward in the end, he shirked the death he was pledged to

accept. He knew what was coming. Unlike his braver comrades, he took the

simplest way.

The count began. Late in the afternoon it was completed. There were

forty-six known dead on board the Doraine, the majority being members

of the crew. Seventeen persons were missing, chiefly from the steerage.

Twenty-nine seriously injured were under the doctor's care. Some of

them would not recover. A hundred or more persons suffered from shock,

bruises, cuts and exposure, but only a few of them required or demanded

attention. In spite of their injuries, they fell to with the spirit that

makes for true heroism and devoted themselves to the care of the less

fortunate, or to the assistance of the sorely-tried officers and men who

strove to bring order out of chaos.

Among the survivors were two American surgeons and a physician from Rio

Janeiro. They, with the nurses, all of whom had been saved, immediately

went to the relief of the ship's doctor, and in short order an

improvised hospital was established. There was a remarkable unanimity

of self-sacrifice among the passengers. High and low, they fell to in

a frenzy of comradeship, and worked side by side in whatsoever capacity

they were needed, whether fitted for it or not. No man, no woman,

who was able to lift a helping hand, failed in this hour of need. The

bereaved, as well as those who were untouched by a personal grief, gave

all that was in them, tearfully, grimly, ardently.

Menial labour fell to the lot of the lordly but uncomplaining Landover,

to Block and Nicklestick, Jones and Snipe, and even to the precious

Signor Joseppi, who, forgetting his Caruso-like throat, toiled and

sweated in the smoky saloon.

Morris Shine, the motion picture magnate, the while he laboured amidst

the wreckage of the after deck, lamented not the cheerless task but the

evil fate that prevented the making of the most spectacular film the

world had ever known.

Madame Careni-Amori, Madame Obosky and her dancers; bejewelled Jewesses

and half-clad emigrants; gentle women unused to toil and women who were

born to it; the old and the young--all of them, without exception,--rose

from the depths of despair and faced the rigours of the day with

unflinching courage, gave out of a limitless store of tenderness all

that their strength could spare.

And through a neglected, abandoned field of pearls and gold and precious

stones, limped unchallenged the tireless figure of “Soapy” Shay,

diamond thief, a bloody bandage about his head, an exalted light in

his pain-stricken eyes. His one-time captor lay stark and cold in the

gruesome line in the bow of the boat. It was “Soapy” Shay who staggered

out of the rack and smoke with the burly, stricken detective in his

arms, and it was “Soapy” Shay who wept when the last breath of life

cased out through his tortured lips. For of all the company on board the

Doraine, there was but one whom “Soapy” knew, but one who called him by

name and shared tobacco with him,--and that one was William Spinney, the

man who was taking him back to a place where mercy would not be shown.

After the sun had set and the decks were dark and deserted except for

the men employed in the gruesome business, the dead were lowered into

the sea, swathed in canvas and weighted with things that were made to

kill,--shells from the gunners' hoard. Swiftly, methodically, one after

the other, they slid down to the black, greedy waters, sank to the

grave that is never still yet always silent, to the vast, unexplored

wilderness that stretches around the world. The thin little missionary

from the barren plateaus of Patagonia and the plump priest from the

heart of Buenos Aires monotonously commended each and every one of them

to the mercy of God!

The sun came up again in the morning over a smiling, happy sea that

licked the sides of the Doraine with the tenderness of a dog.

CHAPTER V.

The plight of the hapless steamer could not be disguised. Even the most

ignorant passenger knew that the wrecked engines could not be repaired

or compounded. They knew that the Doraine was completely paralysed. The

power to move at will was for ever lost, the force that had driven her

resistlessly along the chosen path was still. The powerful propellers

were idle, the huge stern-post wrenched so badly that the rudder was

useless. She was adrift, helplessly adrift. Of what avail the wheel

and a patched-up rudder to the mass that lay inert, motionless on the

smiling sea?

Every one on board realized, with sinking heart, that the Doraine was to

go on drifting, drifting no man knew whither, until she crossed the

path of a friendly stranger out there in the mighty waste. No cry

of distress, no call for help could go crackling into the boundless

reaches. That was the plight of the Doraine and her people on the

mocking day that followed the disaster, and unless fate intervened that

would be her plight for days without end.

Mr. Mott, temporarily in command, addressed the passengers in the main

saloon, where they had congregated at his request. He did not mince

matters. He stated the situation plainly. It was best that they should

realize, that they should understand, that they should know the truth,

in order that they might adapt themselves to the conditions he was now

compelled of necessity to impose upon them. They were, so to speak,

occupying a derelict. Help might come before nightfall, it might not

come for days. He hoped for the best but he intended to prepare for the

worst.

Without apology he laid down a rigid set of rules, and from these rules,

he made it perfectly clear, there could be no deviation. The available

supply of food was limited. It was his purpose to conserve it with the

greatest possible care. Down in the holds, of course, was a vast store

of consigned foodstuffs, but he had no authority to draw upon it and

would not do so unless the ship's own stock was exhausted. Passengers

and crew, therefore, would be obliged to go on short rations. “Better

to eat sparingly now,” he said, “than not to eat at all later on.” He

concluded his remarks in this fashion:

“Remember that we are all in the same boat. We don't know how long we'll

be drifting like this and we don't know where we're drifting to. It's an

everlastingly big ocean we're on. We ought to thank God we're not at the

bottom of it now. If we're lucky we'll be picked up soon, if not,--well,

it's up to us, every one of us, to make the best of it. We're alive,

and that's certainly something. We'll all find it easier if we keep

ourselves busy. That's why I'm asking you, one and all, to do a good

day's work regularly, one way or another, from now until relief comes.

We can't have any loafers or quitters on board this ship. That means

everybody, rich and poor. You may think I'm putting a hardship on you,

seeing as how you have paid for your passage and all that, but what I'm

ordering you to do ain't a marker to what you'd be doing if you were out

there in lifeboats, eight hundred miles from shore, and--well, we won't

go into that. We've got to make the best of it, my friends. We're up

against it good and plenty, that's the plain facts of the case. There's

no use in me saying it's all going to turn out right in a day or so,

because I don't know a da--- blamed thing about it. We're in God's

hands. Maybe it will help to pray, but I doubt it. All I've got to say

is this: go down on your knees as much as you like, but don't lick!”

Signor Joseppi lifted his voice, but not in song. In very bad English he

wanted to know how long the Captain thought it would be before they were

rescued, and when he was informed that it might not be for weeks or even

months, he cried out in worse English that he was ruined. He would have

to violate his contract! No impressario would think of engaging him

again! His wonderful American tour! If he was not rescued within a

week--Oh, my God, the consequences! He did not regret the paltry two

thousand a week--for thirty weeks--but to violate a contract!

Mr. Mott looked rather helpless. He appreciated the fact that Signor

Joseppi was a very great personage, but what was he saying? Was

it--could it be mutiny?

“I'm sorry, Mr. Joseppi,” he broke in, “but if Madame Amori is willing

to take her regular turn at making up berths, I guess it won't hurt you

to help every now and then in the dining-room.”

Signor Joseppi did not understand a word of it. He turned to the man at

his elbow for enlightenment.

“What did he say?” he whispered.

“He says you have a perfectly marvellous voice and that he'd give two

thousand any time to hear you sing,” replied his neighbour in excellent

Italian.

Whereupon the Signor favoured the severe-looking Mr. Mott with a beaming

smile and as deep a bow as he could make in such close quarters.

“A most courteous officer,” he said to his neighbour. “It will be a joy

to serve him, my friend. We should, one and all, do what he asks of us,

no matter how mean the task. I, Joseppi,--you have heard of Joseppi, my

friend?--I shall be the example for all of you. Should he say, 'Wash

the dishes, Joseppi,' then will I wash the dishes. I, Joseppi, who never

washed a dish in his life. Should he say, 'Cook the meals, Joseppi,'

then will Joseppi, who never cooked a thing in his life, then will

Joseppi cook the meals. Should he say, 'Joseppi, scrub the floor,' then

will I scrub the floor. Should he say, 'Signor, steer the ship,' then

will I do my best to steer the ship. I who have never steered a ship. So

let me be your example, my friend.”

“That's fine,” said his neighbour, as they moved off together. “But

supposing he asks you to sing occasionally to amuse the rest of

us,--what then?”

“Amuse?” cried the Signor. “Amuse?”

“Well, then, entertain.”

The great Joseppi pursed his lips. His brows grew dark with trouble.

“Ah, but that would be violating my contract,” he said. “My contract

specifically states that under no circumstances may I--” Then suddenly,

as if renouncing a sacred principle, his brow cleared, and he cried out:

“Damn the contract! Joseppi's voice is his own. Joseppi will do as he

pleases with it. Let him but make the request, my friend,--and Joseppi

will sing till he drops from exhaustion.” Lowering his voice to a

confidential undertone, he went on: “And that, my friend, is more than

you will find Careni-Amori willing to do. There is one cold-blooded,

grasping woman for you. Money! She thinks of nothing but money. And

flattery! Ah, how she thrives on flattery. That woman, my friend,

beautiful as she is, has no more heart than a--”

“Excuse me, please,” broke in his listener, in English. “I've got to

beat it.”

He had caught sight of a slim young figure at the head of the stairs,--a

girl in a rumpled blue serge tailor-suit and a tan-coloured sport hat

pulled well down over her dark hair. He made his way through the crowd

and caught her up as she passed out on the deck.

“I've been terribly worried about you,” he began without other greeting,

planting himself in front of her. “I thought maybe you might have--but,

thank the good Lord, you weren't.”

She looked momentarily bewildered. Then she recognized him and held out

her hand. Her face was serious, unsmiling, her voice low and tired.

“Isn't it dreadful, Mr. Percival? What a terrible experience it has

been. Oh--and I am glad you came through safely, too. But--” as her eyes

narrowed anxiously,-“you were hurt. Your hands?”

“I can't very well shake hands with you, Miss Clinton,” said he.

“Scorched a little, that's all. You'd think it was serious, the way

they're bandaged. One of the sailors fixed them up for me last night. I

can't tell you how glad I am that you are all right. And your aunt? Is

she--” He paused.

“Auntie is all right, Mr. Percival. She's in bed. Shock and exposure. We

were out there all night. In one of the boats. Katherine,--” her voice

shook a little,--“Katherine is gone. She leaped overboard. I--I saw her

go. I shall never forget it,--never. Aunt Julia's maid. For, oh, so

many years, Mr. Percival.” She spoke in sharp, broken sentences, as if

breathless. “You must have been terribly burned. Your hair,--your eyes,

how bloodshot they are.”

“Smoke,” he said succinctly. “Singed on this side only. Really nothing

serious. I got off very lightly.”

“Some of the men were frightfully burned,” she said with a shudder. “I

am trying to be a nurse. There are two men in my--in my--”

“I know,” he broke in hastily. “Don't talk about it, Miss Clinton. It's

corking of you to take hold like this. Corking!”

“Tell me about yourself. Where were you when it happened?”'

“I hate to admit it, but I was having a bite to eat down in the galley.

You see, they'd somehow forgotten to give me anything to eat,--in the

excitement, of course,--and I had been so busy myself it didn't occur

to me to be hungry till rather late in the day. I managed to get on

deck but not until after the bombs had all gone off. My friend, Mr.

Gray,--the Chief Engineer, you know,--was down in the engine-room.

That's how I got my hands burned. Not badly, I assure you, but--well,

they may be a little scarred. You may not know it, but Mr. Gray and I

came from the same place. Baltimore. He belonged to a fine old family

there--and he'd been very kind to me. Poor fellow! Penned in. They never

had a chance down there. He was--well, he died a few minutes after he

was dragged out here on the deck. His clothes were on fire. But let's

not talk about it. Tell me, is there anything I can do to make you more

comfort-able? Or your aunt? I'm what you might call officer of the deck

at present. Mr. Mott--”

“You ought to be in bed, Mr. Percival,” she interrupted sharply. “Your

face is burned, too,--you must be suffering terribly. Wait! Now don't

tell me you are not. I know better. I've seen those other men who were

burned. I--”

“It's nothing, I tell you,” he interrupted, almost roughly. “There are

dozens of men worse off than I am, and are they in bed? Not much. This

is no time to lie down, Miss Clinton, if you've got a leg to stand on.

See that little chap over there with his head and hands covered with

bandages,--and barely able to drag his feet after him? He's an American

jockey. I don't know his name. He was blown twenty or thirty feet

across the after-deck. Brought up at the bottom of a companion-way. He's

nothing but cuts and bruises from head to foot. But he's around on his

wobbly little pins today, just the same, trying to edge in on some sort

of a job. Couldn't keep him in bed.”

Miss Clinton's eyes were full of wonder and incredulity. “I cannot

understand it,” she said. “My cousin was with the American Ambulance in

France. He says that the slightest flesh wound sends a soldier to the

hospital.”

“They haven't any choice in the matter. Besides, it isn't the same. Poor

devils, they may have been at it in the trenches for weeks and months. A

wound of any sort means a pleasant vacation. Still,” he went on after

a moment, a faint derisive smile on his lips, “we had a big husky up in

Camp who insisted on going to bed every time he had the nosebleed.”

She was looking into his blood-shot eyes, infinite pity and concern in

her own.

“Will you let me dress your hands, Mr. Percival, whenever it is

necessary? I am getting used to it now.”

“It's good of you, Miss Clinton,” he replied gratefully. “But I think

you'd better stick to the fellows who really need attention. Don't add

an extra ounce to your burden. You'll need all of your strength and

courage to face the demands of the next few days. Those chaps have

just begun to suffer. They're going to have a tight squeeze getting

through,--if they get through at all. You have not answered my question.

Is there anything I can do for you or your aunt?”

“No,--not a thing,” she said. “We are quite all right. As Mr. Mott said,

we are all in the same boat, Mr. Percival. We've got to make up our

minds to that. We can't have the comforts and the luxuries we had day

before yesterday. Whatever is left of them, we must share with others.”

“Even with stowaways,” he ventured, but not fatuously.

“No one is likely to forget how our only stowaway came by his wounds,”

she said simply. “Despite your modesty, I am quite certain who it was

that carried the Chief Engineer on deck, Mr. Percival. While his clothes

were burning, too.”

Percival turned his face away and many seconds passed before he spoke.

“By the way,” he said at last, a trifle unsteadily, “at regular

intervals the gun up there in the bow is to be fired. You must not be

alarmed when it goes off. There is a chance that some ship may hear the

report. The British have a few warships down here, you know. They would

investigate if they got word of big guns being fired anywhere in these

parts. Mr. Mott will give warning when the gun is to be fired, so that

every one will understand. I--I just thought I'd tell you.”

“Thank you. Good-bye for the present. I must get back to my wounded.”

“Keep your spirits up,” he said. “That's the principal job now, Miss

Clinton. Good-bye,--and thank you.”

He watched her as she moved off down the deck. He could not help

noticing that her figure drooped perceptibly. In his mind's eye he saw

her as she was but two days before, straight, graceful, full of the joy

of living, with a stride that was free and swinging. He recalled her

lovely, inquiring grey eyes as she stared at him on that ignominious

afternoon, the parted red lips and the smile that came to them,

the smartly dressed hair, the jaunty hat, the trim sport suit of

tan-coloured jersey--he recalled the alluring picture she made that day,

and sadly shook his head.

“Poor girl,” he said to himself, and walked slowly in the opposite

direction, favouring his left leg.

He went down to see the Captain. The old seadog was stretched out in his

berth, a look of pain and utter despair in his eyes. One of the Russian

dancers, a rather pretty girl of a distinctly Slavic type, was cleaning

up the room. The ship's doctor had just left.

“Feeling a bit more comfortable, sir?” inquired the young man.

“I wish you'd get this girl out of here,” growled Captain Trigger with

difficulty. “I want to swear.”

“I think it would be all right to go ahead with it, sir,” said Percival.

“She doesn't understand a word of English.”

The Captain shook his head. “I'll let it wait.” Then, looking at his

visitor's bandaged hands: “How are your hands, my lad?”

“Fairly easy. The doctor says the burns are not deep. Mr. Mott asked me

to step in and see you, sir, and give you my opinion as to the bombs.

You see, I've had a great deal of experience with high explosives. There

isn't the slightest doubt in my mind that you found and got rid of the

worst of them. The officer in charge of the gun-crew agrees with me.

They planted the big ones, the ones that were to destroy the ship, down

in the hold, where there was less chance of discovery. The others, I am

convinced, were much smaller. It would have been impossible to hide a

bomb of any noticeable size in any of the places where the explosions

occurred. They went about it very cunningly, very systematically. Of

course, no one saw the bombs that exploded, but judging by the actual

results, they could not have been very powerful.”

“And I also,” said the Captain, “thank God we dug out the big ones.”

He scowled forlornly. “Dr. Cullen says I am in for a week of this,

Percival. You don't think so, do you?”

Percival smiled. “I am more or less of an expert on explosives, sir,” he

replied.

“Umph,” grunted Captain Trigger. “I see. Just the same, I think I'll be

up and about by tomorrow. If I were your age, young man, you can bet I

wouldn't be lying here in this bed.”

“On the other hand, if I were your age, Captain Trigger,” said Percival,

“I'd probably have sense enough to do exactly what the doctor ordered.”

Captain Trigger's mouth fell open.

“Well, of all the damned--” he began, and then swallowed hard.

CHAPTER VI.

For three days and nights the Doraine drifted lazily in a calm and

rippling sea, always to the southward. The days were bright and warm,

the nights black and chill. It was the spring of the year in that zone.

Without adequate navigation instruments, Mr. Mott was forced to rely to

a great extent on speculation. He was able to make certain calculations

with reasonable accuracy, but they were of little real significance.

It was, of course, possible to determine the general direction in which

they were drifting, and the speed. They were slowly but surely edging

into the strong west wind drift. The Falkland Islands would soon be off

to the right, with South Georgia and the Sandwich group farther to the

south and east, the southernmost tip of Africa to the left.

Not a sail had been sighted, not a sign of smoke appeared on the

spotless horizon. At regular intervals the gun on the forward deck

boomed thrice in quick succession, startling the lifeless hulk into a

sort of spasmodic vitality. Then she would sink back once more into

the old, irksome lethargy, incapable of resisting the gentlest wave,

submissive to the whim of the slightest breeze. The ship's carpenter

and his men were making slow headway in the well-nigh impossible task of

repairing the rudder. Attempts were being made to rig up makeshift sails

to replace those licked from the supplemental spars by flames that had

earned considerable progress along the roof of the upper deck building

before they were subdued. Blackened, charred masts and yards, stripped

of rigging, reared themselves like pines at the edge of a fire-swept

forest. Sail-makers and riggers laboured stubbornly, but the work was

slow and the means of restoration limited.

The occupants of the derelict had settled down to a dull, almost dogged

state of resignation. There were several deaths and burials, incidents

that made but little impression on the waiting, watchful survivors. Each

succeeding day brought forth additional watchers to swell the anxious

throng,--resolute and sometimes ungovernable men who, defying their

wounds and the nurses, refused to stay where they could not have a hand

in all that was going on.

Back of all this pitiful courage, however, lurked the unholy fear that

they might be left to their fate in case the ship had to be hurriedly

abandoned.

Mr. Mott watched the weather. Every seaman on board the Doraine scanned

the cloudless sky with searching, anxious eyes. They sniffed the steady

wind that blew them farther south. Always they scanned the sky and

sniffed the wind.

“It's got to come sometime,” repeated Captain Trigger, after each report

from Mr. Mott.

“I've known weather like this to last for weeks,” said the First

Officer.

“In the South Pacific, yes,” said the Captain grimly. “But we're in the

South Atlantic, Mott.”

On the sixth day the barometer began to fall. The breeze stiffened.

The sea became choppy, and white-caps danced fitfully over the greenish

stretches, growing wilder and wilder under the whip of a flouting wind.

The two patchwork sails on the lumbering Doraine flapped noisily for

awhile, as if shaking off their tor-por, then suddenly grew taut and

fat with prosperity. The twisted, half-jammed rudder,--far from worthy

despite the efforts of its repairers,--whiningly obeyed the man at

the wheel, and once more the ship felt the caress of the deep on her

cleaving bows.

The horizon to the north and west seemed to draw nearer, the contrast

between the deepening blue of the water and the clear azure of the

contracting dome more sharply defined. The sky that had been cloudless

for days still remained barren, but the sailor knew what lay beyond the

clear-cut rim of the world. The man of the sea could look far beyond the

horizon. He could see the ugly clouds that were even now speeding down

from the north, invisible as yet but soon to creep into view; he could

see the mighty billows on the other side of that distant line; he could

hear the roar and shriek of the tempest that was still hundreds of

miles away. It was the matter of but a few hours before the wind and the

billows would rush up to smite the Doraine with all their might under

the cover of a black and storm-rent sky. And what was to become of the

vessel, floundering in the path of the hurricane?

Late afternoon brought the forerunner of the gale, a whistling, howling

squall that frantically strove, it would seem, to outrace the baleful

clouds. Then the Doraine was in the thick of the furious revel of sea

and sky, plunging, leaping, rolling like a monstrous cork....

How she managed to weather the storm, God knows, and He alone. At the

mercy of wave and wind, she was tossed and hammered and racked for

two frightful days and nights, and yet she remained afloat, battered,

smashed, raked from stem to stern, stripped of everything the tempest

could wrench from her in its fury. And yet on the third day, when the

storm abated, the sturdy ship was still riding the waves, flayed but

un-conquered, and the baffled sea was licking the sides of her once more

with servile though deceitful tenderness.

But there was water in the hold. The ship was leaking badly.

Up from the stifling interior straggled the unhappy inmates. They looked

again upon the unbelievable: a smiling, dancing sea of blue under a

canopy clean and spotless. It was unbelievable. Even the stouthearted

Captain and the faithful mate, blear-eyed and haggard from loss of

sleep, were filled with wonder.

“I can't understand it,” muttered Mr. Mott a dozen times that day,

shaking his head in a bewildered sort of way. “I can't understand how

she did it. By right, she ought to be at the bottom of the ocean, and

here she is on top of it, same as ever.”

“Do you believe in God, Mr. Mott?” asked the Captain solemnly.

“I do,” said Mr. Mott emphatically. After a moment he added: “I've been

a long time coming to it, Captain Trigger, but I do. Nothing short of an

Almighty Being could have steered this ship for the past two days.”

The Captain nodded his head slowly, his gaze fixed on something above

and far beyond the horizon.

“I suppose it's too much to ask of Him, though,” said he, audibly

completing a thought.

Mr. Mott evidently had been thinking of the same thing, for he said:

“I'm sorry to say it's gained about two feet on the pumps since last

night.”

Captain Trigger's face was very grave. “That means a couple of days more

at the outside.” His eyes rested speculatively on the three lifeboats

still hanging above the starboard rail. There was another being repaired

on the port side. “More than six hundred of us on board, Andrew.” His

head dropped suddenly, his chin twitched. Mr. Mott looked away.

“I don't believe it will come to that,” said he, an odd note of

confidence in his voice. “'Tain't likely, old friend, that God would see

us safely through all we've had to tackle and then desert us in the end.

Something's bound to turn up. I've a feeling,--a queer feeling,--that

we're going to pull out of this all right. I know it looks mighty

hopeless, but--”

“Just the same, Mr. Mott,” broke in the Captain, lifting his head and

setting his jaw, “you'd better set all available hands to work on the

rafts immediately. It's true God has helped us through a lot, but it

strikes me we'd better be on the safe side and help God a little at

this stage of the game. He is wonderful, Andrew, but He isn't wonderful

enough to keep man afloat very long unless man himself builds the raft.

So don't lose a minute.”

Anxious, inquiring eyes followed the Captain and his First Officer

wherever they went. On all sides were silent, beaten people who asked

no questions, for they were afraid of the answers. Sick, dazed, haggard,

they stared hopelessly, drearily out over the water; for all that their

faces revealed the end was near at hand and they cared but little. They

had been through one hell; death could bring nothing worse.

Here and there a stout-hearted optimist appeared among them, but his

very cheerfulness seemed to offend. They did not want to hear his silly,

stupid predictions that something was “sure to turn up.” They knew

that water was coming into the hold; they knew that there were but four

lifeboats and seven hundred men and women; they knew that the Doraine

was going down in a very few hours; they knew that the Captain had given

up all hope of rescue. Nothing could “turn up” now but death.

Madame Obosky had taken a great fancy to Algernon Adonis Percival, and

for a most peculiar reason. He had, it appears, abused her roundly

on the first night of the storm for venturing on deck against orders,

compelling him to risk what he considered a very precious life in a

successful effort to drag her back to safety. As a matter of fact,

he did not drag her back to safety. That feat was accomplished by two

sailors who managed to reach both of them before another devastating

wave came up to tear his grip loose from the broken rail to which he

clung with one bandaged hand while he kept her from sliding into the sea

with the other.

He was very angry. In the first place, his hands hurt him dreadfully,

and in the second place she had forced him to disobey orders by going

out to save her. He did not mutter his complaints. He told her in plain

and violent English what he thought of her, and if she went out there

again he'd be damned happy to let her drown.

Now, it had been some time since any man had had the hardihood or

temerity to upbraid Madame Obosky. No male had cursed her since she

left Petrograd,--and that was four years ago. She had been cursed often

enough by her own sex,--professionally, of course,--but the men she

had encountered since leaving Russia were either too chivalrous or too

cowardly to abuse her, and she missed it terribly.

She had gone through a very hard school in order to become one of the

principal dancers in her land. Teachers had cursed her, teachers had

beaten her,--and they always were men.

When she was eighteen she married a lion-tamer. Who would have thought

that a man who trained lions could be gentle and mild, and as tame as

the beasts he had beaten for years? She was barely nineteen when he

died, quite suddenly. There was a dark rumour that she had poisoned him.

True or false, the rumour persisted, and she soon became one of the most

popular dancers in the Empire. For three years she had a manager who

treated her so vilely, so contemptuously that she tried to kill his

wife, whereupon the unnatural husband refused to have anything more to

do with her.

She was dancing in Germany when the War broke out, but succeeded in

getting over into Holland within a week or two, thereby escaping what

she was pleased to describe as “something zat no woman could endure, no

matter how long she have live' in Russia.” Paris and London had treated

her kindly, courteously, but that was to be expected, she repined,

because all of the real men were off at the front fighting. Instead of

being scowled at and ordered about by managers and orchestra leaders, or

brow-beaten by hotel-clerks and head-waiters, she met with nothing

but the most servile politeness,--due, she was prone to argue, to the

unquestioned decadence of the French and English races. They were a

bloodless lot, those Frenchmen and Englishmen.

It was the same in Rio Janeiro, Buenos Aires and Santiago,--and it would

be even worse in New York, Chicago and San Francisco. The Americans, she

had heard, were the worst of them all. They didn't know the first thing

about the majesty of sex. The Indian, she understood, was an exception.

From all accounts, he knew how to treat his woman.

She was homesick. Her heart leaped with joy when she discovered in

Percival what she believed to be a domineering, masterful man. He had

been neither servile, nor polite, nor afraid. He had treated her,--at

least for an illuminating, transcendent ten minutes,--as if she were

the dirt under his feet,--and he was an American at that. True, he had

apologized a little later on, and had blushed quite becomingly in doing

so, but nothing,--nothing in the world,--would ever make her believe

that he was not the sort of man who could be depended upon to put a

woman in her place and keep her there. He might apologize until he was

black in the face and still be unable to take back the words he had

uttered. Notwithstanding that he, in his apology, professed to have

mistaken her in the darkness for one of the Portuguese immigrant women

who didn't understand a word of English, she forgave him quite humbly,

and that was going pretty far for Olga Obosky, whose identity ought not

to have been a matter of doubt, even on the darkest of nights.

She was a lithe, perfectly formed young woman, beautiful in an unusual

way. Her body was as sinuous as that of a woodland nymph. Indeed, in

one of her most spectacular dances, she appeared as a nymph, barefooted,

bare-legged, and,--as Mrs. Spofford caustically remarked,--bare-faced.

She possessed the marvellously clear, colourless complexion found only

among the purely Slavic women. Her lips were red and sensuous, her eyes

darkly mysterious and brooding, her hair as black as the raven's wing.

When she smiled her face became strikingly alive, radiant, transforming

her into a jolly, good-natured, wholesome girl in whom not the faintest

trace of the carnal was left. Every move, every thought, every impulse

was feminine; her imagination was feminine; she cast the spell of her

femininity over all with whom she came in contact. Primitively sensuous,

she was also primitively wary,--and so she was ineffably feminine.

Prior to the time of her dramatic encounter with the American, she had

favoured him with no more than a glance or two of curiosity. He was a

stowaway; for a brief while he was suspected of being involved in the

plot to blow up the ship. That was enough for her. Twice she had seen

Miss Clinton talking with him, and once, just before the storm set in,

she had paused to watch the young American girl renew the bandages on

his hands after dressing the burns. Half an hour after he had apologized

for speaking so roughly to her, she decided that it was her duty to hunt

him up and minister to him. The ship was rolling terribly, the din of

the elements was deafening, but Olga Obosky was not a faint-hearted

person. She went forth boldly, confidently. Terrified, clinging

observers marvelled at her sure-footedness, at the graceful way in which

her sinuous body bent itself to the perilous heavings of the vessel.

She found him in the reading-room, seated in a corner. Miss Clinton was

readjusting the bandage on one of his hands. Half a dozen people were

in the room, manfully defying the turmoil that had sent nearly every one

else to bed in terror and distress. Without hesitation the dancer joined

the couple in the corner. Her smile was engaging; a faint line between

her eyebrows signified the concern she felt for him.

WEST WIND DRIFT

Miss Clinton looked up from her work. Her smile was politely

accusative,--and brief.

“It is all my fault,” began Madame Obosky, standing before them, her

feet wide apart, her knees bent slightly to meet the varying slants and

lurches of the vessel. She spoke the English language confidently and

well. Her accent, which was scarcely noticeable, betrayed the fact that

she had mastered French long before attempting English. There was

a piquant boldness in the occasional misplacing of words and in the

haphazard construction of sentences. She was unafraid.

“I have subject him to much pain and discomfort,” she went on,

addressing the girl. “Those poor hand! It is I who should kiss them,

Mademoiselle, not you.”

“Kiss them?” gasped Miss Clinton.

“Of no doubt,” said Madame Obosky readily. “Do they not pain because of

me? Should I not kiss the hand who snatch me from the horrible death?

From the Kingdom Come, as the doctor he say to me such a little time

ago. And you, Mademoiselle, who have not been save by him from

the Kingdom Come, you attend his hands and make him to be greatly

comfortable.”

“I am merely dressing the burns, Madame Obosky,” said the other, coldly.

“I have done as much for the other poor fellows who--”

“I know, I know,” broke in the Russian, smiling. “You must not be offend

with me if I speak your language so badly.”

“It strikes me you speak it most acceptably,” interposed Percival.

“What is your name?” she asked abruptly. “I have heard you called the

stowaway. No one has speak your name to me.”

“My name is Percival,” said he.

“It is a pretty name,” said she, dubiously. “But surely you do not

approve of me to call you Percival so quick. What is the other name, the

name I am to--”

“That's the trouble with a name like mine. It sounds so beastly informal

when you leave off the Mister, and it sounds as if you'd been a servant

in the family for at least one generation if you stick it on. If you

could only call me Monsieur Percival, or Senor Percival, or even Herr

Percival, it wouldn't seem so bad, but Mister Percival,--well, it's

pretty soft, isn't it, Miss Clinton?”

“Please hold your hand still, Mr. Percival,” ordered the girl. She

smiled up at the puzzled dancer. “His name is Mr. Percival, Madame

Obosky. That's the poor creature's last name.”

“Oh, I see. Then even you, Mademoiselle, may not call him Percival?”

“No, I do not call him Percival.”

“You see, she's known me such a very short time,” explained the subject

of these remarks.

For a few moments Madame Obosky watched the bandaging process in

silence. When she spoke again it was to say:

“You are so skilful, so gentle, Mademoiselle. I am taking a lesson in

gentleness from you.”

“It is quite simple, Madame. I am very awkward. I have had no

experience. But if we ever live to see home again, I shall prepare

myself at once for work in France. We are needed over there. We will be

needed more than ever, now that America has gone in. Our own soldiers

are over there, God bless them.”

Madame Obosky gave her a pitying look.

“You may thank your God that you do not live in a land of soldiers,

Mademoiselle. If you did, you would not be so eager to nurse them back

to life. Do I shock you? Voila! When you train a boy to be a soldier, as

the boys are trained in my country and in Germany, you make an animal of

him,--and not a very nice animal at that. You nurse him back to life and

strength and in return for your kindness he outrages you, and goes his

way rejoicing. No, I do not like the soldiers.”

Miss Clinton did not look up. Percival stared at the Russian for a

moment and then observed:

“I don't think you can say that of the French or the English, Madame.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Quite true. But the French and the English,

Mr. Percival, are decadent races,” she said coolly, as if there were

nothing more to be said on the subject. “Please, Mademoiselle,” she went

on, briskly, “will you not let me see how you have prepared his hands? I

mean, how have you,--is it right to say fixed them?”

“Dressed them, you mean, Madame Obosky.”

“I see. First you undress them, then you dress them, is it not so?”

Ruth Clinton laughed. The woman was quaint.

“I am about to begin on the left hand. You may watch me, if you care to

do so.”

“Will it not make you embarrass?”

“Why should I be embarrassed?” inquired Ruth, flushing.

“I have said the wrong word,” lamented the other. “Nervous,--zat,--that

is the word.”

“They're not very lovely things to look at,” said Percival. “All red and

blistery and greasy. Miss Clinton is a regular heroine to tackle 'em.”

“I have witnessed some very terrible sights, Mr. Percival,” said

the Russian, her eyes narrowing. “Have you ever seen a little Jewish

girl,--but no, Mademoiselle, no! I have catch the look in your eyes. I

shall not tell you what I have seen. Go on! I shall be silent and take

my first lesson.”

Closely, intently she watched the process. When it was all over and the

bottle containing ointment had been restored to the patient's pocket,

she spread out her hands and exclaimed:

“It is not difficult. May I inquire where the gauze bandages are to be

obtained, Miss Clinton? And do you always use the same safety pins?”

She arose early the next morning. Rousing her maid, she ordered her to

apply to the ship's surgeon for bandages and to fetch them to her at

once.

“I know,--yes, I know. You are dying, but do as I tell you. This

instant! Why should you, a great hulking beast of a woman, be dying

every minute of the day while I, not half your size, am tingling all

over with life? Go!”

“But, Madame,” groaned the wretched woman, rolling her eyes, “I shall

be dashed to pieces against the walls. I cannot stand. My legs will not

hold me up. They--”

“Enough! That is no excuse. My legs manage to hold me up.”

“But, Madame, it is my legs I am speaking of. My legs are not like

yours.”

“Any fool can see that,” retorted her mistress, and the ungainly maid

staggered out on her mission.

Later on, supplied with a roll of gauze, Madame Obosky set out in quest

of her preserver. Even the veterans among the seamen gazed upon her

in wondering admiration as she made her way about the ship. She was a

revelation to them. The increasing fury of the storm had driven all save

the hardiest sailors and a few of the non-praying male passengers to

their rooms. Now and then one or two of the courageous, devoted nurses

appeared in the corridors, reeling from patient to patient, but except

for them the ship seemed entirely bereft of women. Small wonder then

that the lithe, undaunted Russian created a sensation among the sailors

who themselves were cold with dread.

She discovered him at last, coming up the steps from the devastated

engine room. He was with Mr. Mott and several other half-dressed men.

Their faces were grave,--more serious than ever. They had been down to

investigate the leak. Percival was stripped to the waist. The glare of

the lanterns fell upon his broad shoulders and powerful arms, bronzed

and burnished by the sun of the high hills.

“Come,” she said, laying her hand on one of his brawny arms, “I have

with me the bandages.” She sent a swift glance over him, and smiled.

“But I see you have not the bottle. Is it in your cabin, Mr. Percivail?”

He flushed darkly under his coat of tan. His companions stared for a

moment, and then went on.

“I am busy,” he said. “I haven't the time now, Madame Obosky. Thank you,

just the same.” Then a sense of loyalty to the girl who had been kind to

him impelled him to add: “Besides, Miss Clinton has been taking care of

my hands. She has got used to dressing them, so I--”

“But it is my duty now,” she protested. “She owes so little to you and I

so much. Come, let us procure the lotion. Where is your cabin?”

He held back. “You can't go to my cabin.”

“And why not?” she exclaimed, in surprise. “Does not Miss Clinton go to

your cabin?”

“No, she does not!”

“But she goes to the cabins of other men who are wounded. I have see her

with my own eyes.”

“That's different. They can't come to her.”

She looked searchingly into his eyes.

“I see,” she said after a moment. “You are in love with her.”

“Ridiculous,” he exclaimed, scowling.

“And so you prefer to have her fix your hands. I see, my friend. Voila!

If so is the case, I am outcast.”

“But, confound it, it isn't the case,” he cried. “It's simply this: I

wouldn't for the world have her feel that I am not grateful, and that's

exactly what it would look like if I allowed you or any one else to butt

in, Madame Obosky.”

“Butt in?” she said, a puzzled look in her dark eyes. “What is that?”

“It's English for interfere,” said he, shortly.

She removed her hand from his arm. He was conscious of the abrupt

termination of an exquisite thrill.

“Very well,” she said, lifting her chin. “I shall not interfere.”

“Forgive me, please,” he said. “It's mighty good of you. Please don't

think me ungracious. You understand, however,--don't you?”

“No, I do not,” she replied, shaking her head slowly. Suddenly her eyes

widened. “Is it because I dance in my bare feet, in my bare legs, that

you think so vilely of me?”

He stared. “Good Lord! I don't think vilely of you, Madame Obosky. I

wasn't even aware that you danced in your bare feet and legs.”

“You have never seen Obosky dance?” she cried in astonishment.

“Never.”

She frowned. “Then, my friend, I was wrong in what I say just now. Most

men who have seen me dance think I am a bad woman, and so they either

covet me or despise me. If you have not had ze pleasure of seeing me,

Mr. Percivail, you do not either covet me or despise me. That is fine.

It is good to know that you do not despise me.” Observing the expression

in his eyes, she went on calmly. “Oh, yes, I shall be very much please

to have you covet me. Zat--that is all right. But if you despise

me,--no, no, zat would be terrible.”

For a moment he was dashed. He did not know how to take her remark. She

was a new, a strange type to him. After a sharp, quick look into

her eyes, however, he came to the conclusion that she was absolutely

sincere. So far as she was concerned, it was as if she had said nothing

more outrageous than: “I shall be please to consider you one of my

admirers.”

“My dear Madame,” he said, smiling, “permit me to express the hope that

both of us may go on to the end of our days without having our peace of

mind disturbed.”

She looked puzzled for a moment, and then favoured him with her broad,

good-natured smile.

WEST WIND DRIFT 85

“Spoken like a Frenchman,” she cried, and added, “and with equal

sincerity, I fear. Go your way, Monsieur Percivail. I shall keep my

gauze. Some day when we are very old people and very old friends I may

then be permitted to bandage your hands. At present, however, the risk

is too great, eh? I am so inexperience. I might by accident tie your

hands in my clumsiness, and zat--that would make so much trouble for

Miss Clinton to untie zem,--yes?”

Now there was mockery in her eyes. His face hardened.

“I must be on my way,” he said curtly. “We have been looking things over

down below. The Captain is waiting for our report.”

He bowed and started off. She swung along at his side.

“What have you discover, Mr. Percivail?” she inquired anxiously.

“That, Madame Obosky, is something that will have to come from Captain

Trigger.”

“I see. That means it is bad. I see.”

The lurching of the ship threw her body against his. She righted herself

promptly, but did not reveal the slightest confusion nor utter a word of

apology.

“By Jove, you're a cool one!” he exclaimed. “I don't believe you know

the meaning of fear. Don't you realize, Madame Obosky, that we are in

the gravest peril? Don't you know this ship has but one chance in a

thousand to pull through?”

“Ah, my friend, but it has the one chance, has it not? Surely I know the

meaning of fear. I am afraid of rats and snakes and thieves--and drunken

soldiers. I am afraid of death,--terribly afraid of death. Oh, yes, I

know what fear is, Mr. Percivail.”

“Then, why don't you show it now?” he cried. “Good Lord, I don't mind

confessing that I'm scared half to death. I don't want to die like

this,--like a rat in a trap.”

“But you are not going to die,” she proclaimed. “I too would be groaning

and praying in my bed if I thought we were going down to the bottom of

zis dreadful ocean. But we are not. I have no fear. We shall come out

all right on top, and some day we will laugh and tell funny stories

about how everybody else was frightened but us,--us apiece, I mean.”

“Well, you're a wonder! And how the deuce do you manage to keep your

feet with the ship rolling like this?”

“Two things I have been taught, since I am ten years old. First, to keep

my head, and second to keep my feet. In my profession, one must do both.

You will always find me doing that. Good-bye,--we part here. You will

not forget zat--that I have retain the bandage for you? And you will not

ever despise me?”

As she turned away a roll that must have caused the wallowing vessel to

list thirty-five degrees at the very least, sent her headlong across the

passage. She slipped down in a heap. The same lurch had sent him reeling

against the wall some distance away. She sat up but did not at once

attempt to arise. Instead she clutched frantically at her skirt to draw

it down over her shapely ankles and calves. In the lantern light he

saw the dismayed, shamed look in her eyes and the vivid blush of

embarrassment that suffused her pale cheeks. As the ship rolled back,

he moved forward to assist her, but she sprang lightly to her feet and

hurried on ahead of him, disappearing around a corner.

“Well, by gosh!” he muttered aloud in his surprise. “And she dances half

naked before thousands of people every night! Can you beat it! The last

person in the world you'd think would care a whoop, and she turns out

to be as finicky about her legs as your grandmother. Women certainly are

queer.”

With this profound comment on the inconsistency of the sex, he took

himself off in the direction of the Captain's quarters,--a forward cabin

which served in lieu of the dismantled bridge.

CHAPTER VII.

He saw but little of her during the next forty-eight hours. She

seemed to avoid him. At any other time and in other circumstances he

undoubtedly would have resented her indifference,--a very common and

natural masculine failing,--but in these strenuous hours he was too

fully occupied with the affairs of life and death. Once she stopped him

to inquire if Miss Clinton was still able to dress his wounds.

“Once a day,” he replied. “She's even pluckier than you are, Madame

Obosky.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Indeed?”

“Yes, because she believes we are going to die--every one of us. It

takes pluck to keep going when you've got that sort of thing to face,

doesn't it?”

Her gesture took in the dozen or more men within range of her vision.

“It should take no more pluck to keep a woman going than a man, my

friend. You do not call yourself plucky, do you? I do not call myself

plucky. On the contrary, I call myself a coward. I am afraid to stay in

my stateroom. I like to be out in the open like zis. One has to be very,

very brave, Mr. Percivail, to lie in one's bed all alone and think that

death is waiting just outside the thin little walls. Miss Clinton is

splendid, but she is not plucky. She is as I am: afraid of the darkness,

afraid to be alone, afraid to be where she cannot know and see all zat

is happening. She has a woman's courage, just as I have it,--if you

please. It is the courage that depends so much on the courage of others.

You think I am brave. I am brave because I am with trained, efficient

men. But if the Captain were to come to me now as I stand here, and say

zat the ship is to sink in ten minutes and that we all must go down with

her, would I face it bravely? No! I would throw myself down on the floor

and scream and pray and tear my hair. Why? Because the men had given up.

I am kept up by the courage of others. That is the courage of woman. She

must be supported in her pain, in her suffering, in her courage.”

“Well, if you put it that way, there are very few men who would take

such an announcement from the Captain calmly.”

“Perhaps not, my friend. But if there were room for but few in the

boats, who would stay behind and go down with the ship? Nine out of

every ten of the men. Why? Not because they are all courageous, I grant

you, but because of the horrible conceit that makes them our masters.

Pride and conceit constitute what stands for courage in most men. The

wild animal has no conceit, he has no pride. Does the male lion rush out

to be shot in place of his mate? He do not. He sneaks off in the high

reeds and leaves her to take care of herself. The Captain of this

steamer is so full of pride zat he will stay on it till it goes under

the wave. It is not courage, Mr. Percivail. It is his pride in the

power zat--that God has give to his sex. These men here,--you, my

friend,--face the danger now so unflinching for why? Because for ages

and ages you have believe in and depend upon the man beside you, the men

around you. Zat is the difference between man and woman. Woman believes

in and depends on man. She has no faith in her own sex. So, you see, my

friend, when I say I am brave and you say Miss Clinton is plucky, it is

all because we have men about us who are so proud and conceited zat they

will die before they will admit that they are not as helpless and as

weak as we are in times like zis.”

“You may be right,” he mused, struck by her argument. “It's usually

pride that makes a man stand up and fight another, even when he knows

he's sure to be beaten. It's neither confidence nor courage. It's just

plain fear of being a coward.”

“You will admit then that I understand the wonderful male animal which

struts on two legs and rules all the other animals of the world, eh?

It is the only animal in the whole big world zat--that is completely

satisfied with itself. So now, Mr. Percivail, you have the secret of the

so-called courage of the male of our species.”

“I hope all women haven't gone into the subject so deeply,” he said,

with a rueful smile. “You make rather small potatoes of us.”

“Ah, do not say that,” she cried, “for, alas, I am denied potatoes.”

“Well, then,” he said, laughing, “if all women understood us as well as

you do, we wouldn't rule the world very much longer. They'd yank us off

the pedestal and revile us forevermore.”

“But you do not understand women, my friend. Did we not bring you into

the world? Are you not our sons, and therefore begotten to be kings? We

may despise our husbands, we may loathe our brothers and our fathers,

we women, but our sons are the gods we worship. My dear Mr. Percivail,

women will go on being ruled to the end of time unless they cease

populating the world with sons. The mother of the man is the humblest

subject of the son and yet the proudest. The mothers of kings, of

emperors, of presidents,--do they think of them as kings, emperors,

presidents? No. They think of them as sons. That is why man is supreme.

That is why he rules. To be sure, we women are not always disposed to

have our husbands rule, we even go so far as to say they are not fit

to rule, but alas, the men we are permitted to know the best of all

are always the sons of some one else, and so there you have the endless

chain. Sons! Sons! Sons! Sons to create new sons,--sons without end,

amen! God bless our sons!”

“And I say God bless our mothers!”

“In that one little sentence, Mr. Percivail, spoke from the heart,

you have reveal the secret history of the world. You have account for

everything.”

“You are a million years old, Madame Obosky,” he said, looking into her

deep, unfathomable eyes.

She smiled. “So? And which of my sons, Mr. Percivail, do you think I

love the most? Cain or Abel?”

“It would take a woman to answer that question. There's one thing

certain, however. You loved both of them more than you loved Adam.”

“True. But I followed Adam out of the Garden of Eden and I have never

left his heels from zat day to this. What more could any man ask?”

On the second morning after the storm, the lookout fixed his straining

eyes on a far-distant, shadowy line that had not been a part of the

boundless horizon the day before. Dawn was breaking, night was lifting

her sheet from the new-born day. He waited. He could not be sure.

Minutes that seemed like hours passed. Then suddenly his hoarse shout

rose out of the silence:

“Land ho!”

Down into the heart of the ship boomed the cry, taken from the lookout's

lips by one after another of the weary men below. The sweating,

exhausted toilers who manned the pumps paused for a moment, then fell

to work again revitalized. Out from the cabins, up from every nook and

corner of the ship scrambled the excited horde, fully dressed, their

faces haggard with doubt, their eyes aglow with joy. Land! In every

round little window gleamed a face,--for a moment only along the

portside. Nothing but the same endless ocean on the port side of the

ship. Water! Sick and wounded drew themselves up to the portholes and

peered out from their cells for the first time.

“Where?... Where?” ran the wild, eager cry of the scurrying throng, and

there was disappointment--bitter disappointment in their voices. They

had been tricked. There was no land in sight! The glasses of the ship's

officers, clustered far forward, were directed toward some point off the

starboard bow, but if there was land over there it was not visible to

the naked eye. A junior engineer saluted Captain Trigger and left the

group.

“There is land ahead,--a long way off,” he announced as he passed

through the throng in the saloon deck.

Up above the clamour of questions shouted from all sides as the crazed

people flocked behind the messenger of hope, rose the voice of Morris

Shine.

“Land ahoy! Ahoy-yoy-yoy!” he yelled over and over again, his chin

raised like that of a dog baying at the moon.

Every person on deck was either carrying a life-belt or was already

encased in one. Grim orders of the night just past. Here and there were

to be seen men who clutched tightly the handles of suitcases and kit

bags! Evidently they were expecting to step ashore at once. In any case,

they belonged to the class of people who never fail to crowd their

way down the gang-plank ahead of every one else. The fashionable ocean

liners always have quite a number of these on board, invariably in the

first cabin.

Percival ranged the decks in quest of Ruth Clinton. She was well aft on

the boat deck, where the rail was not so crowded as it was forward.

Her arm was about the drooping, pathetic figure of her aunt. They were

staring intently out over the water,--the girl's figure erect, vibrant,

alive with the spirit of youth, her companion's sagging under the doubt

and scepticism of age. He hesitated a moment before accosting them.

Nicklestick, the Jew, was excitedly retailing the news to them. He went

so far as to declare that he could see land quite clearly,--and so could

they if they would only look exactly where he was pointing. He claimed

to have been one of the very first men on board to see the land.

Ruth was hatless. Her braided brown hair had been coiled so hastily, so

thoughtlessly that stray strands fell loose about her neck and ears to

be blown gaily by the breeze across her cheek. Her blouse was open at

the neck, her blue serge jacket flared in the wind. Every vestige of the

warm, soft colour had left her face. She was deathly pale with emotion.

Percival was suddenly conscious of a mist bedimming his eyes.

Several people were grouped near them at the rail, listening to

Nicklestick. The stowaway joined them. As if sensing his presence, Ruth

turned suddenly and saw him.

“Oh!” she cried, tremulously. “Have--have you seen it, Mr. Percival?”

“No,” he replied. “It won't be visible for an hour or so longer. It's

off there all right, though. The lookout, Captain Trigger and several

others got a glimpse of it before the sun began to pull the mist up

to obscure it for a little while. That's mist over there,” he went on,

turning to Nicklestick. “You couldn't see the Andes Mountains if they

were where that strip of land is hidden. It won't be long, Miss Clinton,

before we all can see it.”

“How far away is it?” she asked, controlling her voice with an effort.

“Do they know? Can they estimate?”

“I'll tell you what let's do,” he said abruptly. “Let's go up on the sun

deck. I've got Mr. Gray's glasses. We can see better up there. Let me

assist you, Mrs. Spofford. The sun deck is pretty badly smashed up and

littered with all sorts of wreckage, but we can manage it all right.”

Mrs. Spofford looked at him intently for a moment.

“I remember you now,” she said. “Are you sure,--are you positive there

is land over there?”

“I have Captain Trigger's word for it.”

“And mine, too,” added Mr. Nicklestick. “You may rest assured, Mrs.

Spofford, that we will all be on dry land before many hours.”

Percival leaned close to the speaker and said in a very low but emphatic

tone:

“You don't know a damn thing about it, so keep your trap closed. If

you're a man, you won't go on raising false hopes in the breasts of

these women.”

Nicklestick's jaw fell. He whispered:

“My God,--ain't we--you don't mean to say there is a chance we won't be

able to--”

But Percival had turned away with the two women. Mrs. Spofford took his

arm, leaning heavily against him. Her figure had straightened, however.

He had given her the needed confidence.

They made their way up the steps leading to the topmost deck. Others had

already preceded them. A dozen men and women were looking out over

the sea through their binoculars. They recognized Landover, Madame

Careni-Amori (clutching her jewel case), Joseppi, Fitts and one or two

more. Olga Obosky was well forward, seated on the edge of a partially

wrecked skylight and ventilator. Her three dancing girls were with her,

closely grouped.

Percival purposely remained near the steps. He knew full well that the

ship's hours were numbered. It was only a question of time when she

would founder. In the lee of one of the big stacks they huddled close

together and waited for the lifting of the veil. The wind was soft but

strong up there at the top of the vessel. He took hope in the fact that

it was blowing toward the shores of that unseen land, and that slowly

but surely the Doraine was drifting thither.

Suddenly, as if a curtain were being raised, a far-off line appeared on

the surface of the waters. Higher rose the curtain, and like magic the

line developed into an irregular ridge, the ends of which sank below the

horizon far to the right and left.

Percival felt the girl's hand on his arm. He shot a swift glance at her

face. It was turned away. She staring at the mystic panorama that was

being unveiled off there on the rim of the world. Her eyes were bright,

her lips were parted in the ecstasy of hope revived, she was breathing

deeply. The pulse in her smooth white neck was beating rapidly,

rythmically. He could see it. He laid his bandaged hand firmly upon hers

and pressed it tightly to his arm. She did not look around. Her every

thought was centred upon the unfolding vision.

“There are trees,” she murmured, enthralled. “Trees,--and hills! See,

Auntie,--but oh, how far away they are!”

For many minutes they stood there without speaking. Then from all sides

came the clamour of voices,--shouts of joy, cheers,--laughter! She

looked down at the clumsy object that imprisoned her hand, then swiftly

up into his eyes. A warm flush spread over her face.

“I--I couldn't help it,” he muttered. “It--it looked so helpless.”

“It isn't half as helpless as yours, Mr. Percival,” she said, and

smiled. She waited a moment before withdrawing her hand. “May I have the

glasses, please? Had you forgotten them?”

“Completely,” he replied.

Later, while Mrs. Spofford was peering through the glasses, she drew him

aside.

“Tell me about the water in the hold,” she said in a low tone. “Is it

serious?”

He looked grave. “Very. If you will take a peep over the side of the

ship, you'll see how low down she is in the water.”

“My aunt doesn't know the ship is leaking,” she went on, hurriedly. “I

want to keep it from her as long as possible.” He nodded his head.

“Mr. Mott figures we'll stay afloat for ten or twelve hours,--maybe

longer. I will see to it that you and Mrs. Spofford get into one of the

boats in case we--well, just in case, you know. We will be given ample

warning, Miss Clinton. Things don't look as hopeless as they did last

night.” He pointed toward the land. “It looks like heaven, doesn't it?”

Her face clouded. “But only a very few of us may--” she stopped,

shuddering.

“You poor little girl!” he cried brokenly. He steadied himself and went

on: “It wouldn't surprise me in the least if every blessed one of us got

safely ashore.”

“You do not believe that, Mr. Percival. I can tell by the look in your

eyes. I want you to promise me one thing. If we have to take to the

boats, you will come with us--”

He drew himself up. “My dear Miss Clinton, there is quite a difference

between being a stowaway on an ocean liner and being one in a lifeboat.

I have no standing on this ship. I have no right in one of her boats. I

am the very last person on board to be considered.”

She looked searchingly into his eyes, her own wide with comprehension.

“You mean you will make no effort to leave the ship until every one else

is--”

He checked her with a gesture of his hand. “I may be one of the first to

leave. But I'll not rob any one else of his place in a boat or his space

on one of those rafts. I'll swim for it.”

Slowly the land crept down upon the Doraine. The illusion was startling.

The ship seemed to be lying absolutely motionless; it was the land that

approached instead of the other way round. A thin white beach suddenly

emerged from the green background to the left, to the right an ugly mass

of rocks took shape, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Farther

inland rose high, tree covered hills, green as emeralds in the blazing

sunlight. On a sea of turquoise lolled the listless Doraine.

Soundings were taken from time to time. Even the bottom of the ocean was

coming up to meet the Doraine. Its depth appreciably lessened with each

successive measurement. From fifty fathoms it had decreased to ten since

the first line was dropped.

At four o'clock, Captain Trigger ordered a boat lowered and manned by a

picked crew in charge of the Second Engineer. The Doraine was about

five miles off shore at the time, and was drifting with a noticeably

increased speed directly toward the rock-bound coast. He had hoped she

would go aground in the shallow waters off the sandy beach, but there

was now no chance that such a piece of good fortune was in store for

her. She was going straight for the huge black rocks.

The boat's crew rowed in for observations. Even before they returned to

report, the anxious officers on board the vessel had made out a narrow

fissure in the rocky coast line. They assumed that it was the mouth of

a small river. The Second Engineer brought back the astonishing

information that this opening in the coast was the gateway to a channel

that in his judgment split the island into two distinct sections. That

it was not the mouth of a river was made clear by the presence of a

current so strong that his men had to exert themselves to the utmost to

prevent the boat being literally sucked into the channel by the powerful

tide, which apparently was at its full. This opening,--the water rushed

into it so swiftly that he was satisfied it developed into a gorge

farther back from the coast,--was approximately two hundred yards wide,

flanked on either side by low lying, formidable bastions of rock. The

water was not more than fifty feet deep off the entrance to the channel.

Gradually the prow of the Doraine swung around and pointed straight for

the cleft in the shore. The ship, two miles out, had responded to

the insidious pressure of the current and was being drawn toward the

rocks,--at first so slowly that there was scarcely a ripple off her

bows; then, as she lumbered onward, she began to turn over the water as

a ploughshare turns over the land.

At precisely six o'clock she slid between the rocky portals and entered

a canal so straight and true that it might have been drilled and blasted

out of the earth under the direction of the most skilful engineers in

the world.

Soundings were hastily taken. Discovering that the water was not deep

enough even at high tide to submerge the vessel when the inevitable came

to pass and she sank to the bottom, Captain Trigger renewed his efforts

to release the anchor chains, which had been caught and jammed in the

wreckage. He realized the vital necessity for checking the Doraine in

her flight before she accomplished the miracle of passing unhindered

through the channel and out into the open sea beyond. The swiftness of

the current indicated plainly enough that this natural canal was of no

great length.

The ship slid on between the tree lined banks. The trees were of the

temperate zone, with spreading limbs, thick foliage and hardy trunks.

There were no palms visible, but in the rarely occurring open spaces

a large shrub abounded. This was instantly recognized by Percival, who

proclaimed it to be the algaroba, a plant commonly found on the Gran

Chaco in Argentina. While the woodland was thick there was nothing about

it to suggest the tropical jungle with its impenetrable fastnesses.

The keel of the half-sunken Doraine was scraping ominously on the bed

of the channel. She shivered and swerved from frequent contact with

submerged rocks, but held her course with uncanny steadiness, while

every soul on board gazed with stark, despairing eyes at the land which

mocked them as they passed. Far on ahead loomed the lofty hills, and

beyond them lay--What? The ocean?

Gradually the passage widened. Its depth also increased. The ship no

longer scraped the bottom, she no longer caromed off the sunken rocks.

On the other hand, water poured into her interior with increasing force

and volume, indicating a disastrous rent forward. She was sloshing along

toward the centre of a basin which appeared to be half a mile wide and

not more than a mile long. Directly ahead of her the hills came down

to meet the water. A dark narrow cut, with towering sides, indicated an

outlet for the tiny, inland sea. This gorge, toward which the Doraine

was being resistlessly drawn, appeared to be but little wider than the

ship itself.

Almost in the shadow of the hills, and within a dozen ship-lengths of

the sinister opening, the worn, exhausted, beaten Doraine came to rest

at the end of her final voyage. She shivered and groaned under the

jarring impact, forged onward half her length, heeled over slightly--and

died! She was anchored for ever in the tiny landlocked sea, proud

leviathan whose days had been spent in the boundless reaches of the open

deep.

And here for the centuries to come would lie the proud Doraine, guided

to her journey's end by the pilot Chance, moored for all time in the

strangest haven ever put into by man.

Behind the stranded vessel stretched centuries incalculable, and in all

these centuries no man had entered here. Screened from the rest of

the world, untended by chortling tugs, unheralded by raucous sirens,

welcomed only by primeval solitude, the Doraine had come to rest.

She settled down on her bed of rocks to sleep for evermore, a mottled

monster whose only covering was the night; indifferent to storm and

calm, to time and tide, to darkness and light, she sat serene in her

little sea. Her lofty walls towered high above the waves that broke

tremblingly against them, as if afraid of this strange object from

another world that could rest upon the bottom of the ocean and yet be so

far above them.

Reported “Lost with all on board!”

CHAPTER VIII.

Captain Trigger and a dozen men stood on the boat deck with guns and

revolvers, facing several hundred sullen, determined men and women

from the steerage. Night had not yet fallen; the shadow of the hills,

however, was reaching half way across the oval pool; gloom impenetrable

had settled on the wooded shores.

With the striking of the Doraine, nearly every one on board was hurled

to the decks. As she heeled over five or six degrees in settling

herself among the rocks, a panic ensued among the ignorant people of the

steerage. They scrambled to their feet and made a rush for the boats,

shouting and screaming in their terror. Other passengers were trampled

under foot and sailors standing by the davits were hurled aside.

Captain Trigger, anticipating just such a stampede, rushed up with

members of the gun crew. The gaunt, broken old master of the Doraine

drove the horde back from the boats, but as he stood there haranguing

them in good maritime English he could see plainly enough that they were

not to be so easily subdued. The first panic was over, but they were

crazed by the fear that had gripped them for days; they believed that

the ship was soon to sink beneath their feet; safety lay not more than

a hundred yards away,--and it was being denied them by this heartless,

unfeeling despot.

They were mainly low-caste Portuguese bound for Rio and Bahia, and they

had obeyed him through all those tortuous days out on the deep where

he was the shepherd and they the flock. But now,--now they could well

afford to turn upon and rend him, for he had brought them safe to land

and they no longer owed him anything!

“My God, I don't want to shoot any of them,” groaned the Captain,

steadying himself against the rail. “But they've got guns, and they're

crazy. I--”

Some one touched his arm, and a firm, decisive voice spoke in his ear.

“I'm used to handling gangs like this, Captain Trigger. They don't

understand you, but they'll damn soon understand me, if you'll turn the

job over to me. I'm not trying to be officious, sir, and I'm not even

hinting that you can't bring 'em to their senses. I know how to handle

'em and you don't, that's all. They're not sailors, you see. And it

isn't mutiny. They need a boss, sir,--that's what they need. And they

need him damned quick, so if you don't mind saying the word,--they're

ready to make a rush, and if--”

“Go ahead, Percival,--if you can hold them--”

“Say no more!” shouted Percival, and stepped resolutely forward. His

hands were bare,--swollen, red and ugly; his eyes were as cold as steel,

his voice as sharp as a keen-edged sword. He spoke in Spanish to the

wavering, threatening horde.

“You damned, sneaking, low-lived cowards! What sort of swine are you?

Have you no thought for the women you've trampled upon and beaten out of

your path,--your own women, as well as the others,--think of them and

ask yourselves if you are men. I'm in command of this ship now, and,

by God, I'm going to let you get into those boats and start for shore.

Don't cheer! You don't know what's coming to you. I'm going to turn that

cannon on you up there and blow every one of you to hell and gone before

you get fifty feet from the side of this ship. You don't believe that,

eh? Well, that's exactly what I'm going to do. Lieutenant Platt!” He

called over his shoulder in English to the young commander of the gun's

crew. “Get some of your men up there and train that gun so as to blow

these boats to smithereens. Quick!” In a half-whisper to the Captain:

“It's all right. I know what I'm talking about.” Then to the crowd:

“We don't want you on board this ship a minute longer than we can help.

We've got no room for dogs here among decent white men and women. Do

you understand that? We don't want to have anything more to do with you,

either here or on shore. I'm going to wipe you out, every damned one of

you,--men women and children. You're not fit to live. You're going to

climb into those boats now and get off this ship. You'll never realize

how safe you are here till you get down there in the water and hear that

gun go off. Come on! Get a move! We're through with you, now and for

ever. Nobody's going to stop you. I'm even going to have the boats

lowered for you, so as not to delay matters.” He shouted after

Lieutenant Platt: “Be lively, please. You've got your orders. We'll make

short work of this pack of wolves.” To Captain Trigger, authoritatively:

“Withdraw your men, sir. I am going to let them leave the ship. At once,

sir! Do you mean to disobey me, sir?” He gave the captain a sly wink.

Then as the bewildered master withdrew with his armed men, he turned

once more to the mob. “Come on! Step lively, now! No rushing! Take your

turn. Every blasted one of you, I mean. What the hell are you hanging

back for,--you? You were so darned eager to go a little while ago,

what's the matter with you now? No one's trying to stop you. Here are

the boats. Put up your guns and knives, and pile in. You're absolutely

free to go, you swine. We'll be damned good and rid of you, and that's

all we're asking. It's a pity to waste powder and cannon-balls on you,

when we may have use for all we've got later on, killing the lions and

tigers and anacondas up there in the woods, but I'm going to do it.”

He stepped back. Not a man or woman moved. They stood transfixed, packed

in a huddled mass along the deck. Then a woman cried out for mercy. The

cry was taken up by other women. Percival halted and faced them once

more.

“Get into those boats!” he roared savagely. “It won't do you a bit of

good to whine and pray and squeal. I'm through with you. You've got

to--Well?”

Several of the men edged forward, some of them trying to smile.

“Would you kill us when we are only trying to save our lives?” called

out one of them, finding his courage and voice.

“I don't want to talk to you. Get in!”

“We have as much right to remain on this ship as anybody else,” shouted

another. “We paid for our passage. We are honest, hard-working--”

“No use! I'll give you ten minutes to climb into those boats.”

There was a moment's silence. “And what will you do if we refuse to

leave the ship?” cried one of the men.

“Be quiet!” he bawled at the whimpering women. “We cannot hear what the

gentleman has to say.”

“You'll soon find out what I'll do, if you don't obey me inside of ten

minutes,” replied Percival.

“But the ship is not going to sink any more,” protested another, looking

over the rail timidly. “She is safe. We do not wish to leave now.”

Captain Trigger and Mr. Mott joined Percival. In an undertone he told

them what he had said to the mob.

“And now, gentlemen,” he whispered in conclusion, “it's up to you to

intercede in their behalf. They're as tame as rabbits now. They know

the ship's all right, and they believe I intend to blow 'em to pieces

if they once put off in the boats. Start in now, Captain, and argue with

me. Plead for them. They know who I am. They know I come from the hills

and they think I'm a bloodthirsty devil. They're like a lot of cattle.

Most of them are simple, honest, God-fearing people,--and if we handle

them properly now we'll not have much trouble with them in the future.

And only the Good Lord knows what the future is going to bring.”

So the three of them argued, two against one. Finally Percival threw up

his hands in a gesture of complete surrender.

“All right, Captain. I give in. Perhaps you are right. I suppose it

would be butchery.”

There were a few in the crowd who understood English. These edged

forward eagerly, hopefully. They called out protestations against the

“slaughter.”

“Tell them you have reconsidered, Mr. Percival,” said the Captain. “They

are to remain on board.”

Excited shouts went up from the few who understood, and then the word

went among the others that they were to be spared. There were cries of

relief, joy, gratitude, and not a few fell upon their knees!

Percival stood forth once more. Silence fell upon the throng.

“The Captain has put in a plea for you, and I have decided to grant it.

You may remain on board. Now, listen to me! No one is to leave this

ship until tomorrow morning. We are safe here. We are stuck fast on the

bottom, and nothing can happen to us at present. Tomorrow we will see

what is best to be done. Every man and woman here is to return to the

task he was given by Mr. Mott at the beginning of our troubles. We've

got to eat, and sleep, and--Wait a minute! Well, all right,--beat it, if

you feel that way about it.”

He stood watching them as they excitedly withdrew toward the bow of the

ship, breaking up into clattering groups, all of them talking at once.

Captain Trigger laid his hand on the young man's shoulder.

“If it had not been for you, Percival, this deck would now be red

with blood,--and some of us would be dead. You saved a very ticklish

situation. I take off my hat to you, and I say, with a full heart, that

I shall never again doubt your ability to handle men. No one but an

American could have tricked that mob as you did, my lad.”

From various points of vantage the foregoing scene had been witnessed by

uneasy, alarmed persons from upper cabins. Overwhelmed and dismayed by

the rush of the yelling mob, the elect had fled for safety, urged by a

greater fear than any that had gone before,--the fear of rioting men.

A few of them, more daring and inquisitive than the rest, had ventured

recklessly into the zone of danger. Among them were Ruth Clinton and

Madame Olga Obosky, who, disregarding the command of Mr. Mott, were the

only women to venture beyond the protecting corner of the deck building.

They stood side by side, bracing themselves against the downward slope

of the deck. Half-way forward were Trigger and the armed gunners,

and beyond them the dense, irresolute mass of humanity. Percival, in

rounding the corner to go to the assistance of Captain Trigger, observed

with dismay the exposed position in which the two women had placed

themselves. He paused to cry out to them sharply:

“What are you doing here? Get back to the other side. Can't you see

there is likely to be shooting? Don't stand there like a couple of

idiots! You're right in line if that gang begins to fire.”

“He is tearing off his bandages,” cried Ruth, as Percival hurried on.

Madame Obosky was silent, her gaze fixed intently on the brisk,

aggressive figure of the man who had called them idiots. She understood

every word he uttered to the Portuguese. Her eyes glistened with pride

when he stepped forward to tackle the mob single-handed, and as he went

on with his astonishing speech she actually broke into a soft giggle.

Her companion looked at her in amazement.

“Why do you laugh?” she demanded hotly. “Those dreadful creatures may

tear him to pieces. He is unarmed and defenceless. They could sweep

him--”

“You would laugh also if you understood,” interrupted Olga, her

eyes dancing. “Oh, what a grand--what do you call it?--bluff? What a

magnificent bluff he is doing! It is beautiful. See,--they whisper among

themselves,--they have back down completely. Wait! I will presently tell

you what he have said to them.”

“I never dreamed any man could be so fearless. Look at the odds against

him. There are scores of them,--and they--”

“Pooh! Do you suppose he would stand up and fight them if they rushed at

him? Not he! He would turn and run as fast as he could. He is no fool,

my dear. He is a very intelligent man. So he would run if they make a

single move toward him.”

“I think this is rather a poor time to accuse him of cowardice, Madame

Obosky, in view of what he--”

“Have I accused him of cowardice?”

“I'd like to know what you call it. You say he would run if they--”

“But that would not be cowardice. It would be the simplest kind of

common sense. He is so very sure of himself. It is not courage. It is

confidence. That is his strength. He would be a fool to stand in front

of them empty-handed if they were to charge upon him. Maybe when

you have known him as long as I have, you will realize he is not a

fool,--about himself or any one else.”

Ruth stared at her. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, Madame Obosky, I have

known Mr. Percival as long if not longer than you have.”

“You do not know him at all,” rejoined the Russian brusquely. “Be still,

please! I must hear what he is saying to them now.” A little later she

turned to the American girl and laid her hand on her arm. “For-give me,

if I was rude to you. I am so very much older than you that I--how old

are you, Miss Clinton?”

“I am twenty-five,” replied the other, surprised into replying.

“And I am twenty-six,” said Madame Obosky, as if she were at least twice

the age of her companion. “See! They are dispersing. It's all over.

Come! Let us go back to the other side.”

“I am not ready to go back to the other side,” protested the American

girl, resisting the hand on her arm. “Why should we go back, now that

the danger is over?”

“Because we must not let him catch us here,” urged Olga in some

agitation.

“And why not, pray?”

The Russian looked at her in astonishment. “But surely you heard him

tell us to go back to the other side. You heard him call us idiots, Miss

Clinton?”

And Ruth Clinton suffered herself to be hurried incontinently around the

corner of the deck building.

“Once, in Moscow, I saw a Grand Duke confront a mob of students who had

gathered in the street near his house. They were armed and they had

come to destroy this man himself. There were hundreds of them. He walked

straight toward them, his head erect, his shoulders squared, and

when they stopped he spoke to them as if they were dogs. When he had

finished, he turned his back upon them and walked away. They might have

filled him with bullets,--but they did not fire a shot. At the corner

he entered his carriage and disappeared. And then what did he do? He

fainted, that Grand Duke, he did. Fainted like a stupid, silly young

girl. But while he was standing before zat---that mob of terrorists he

was the strongest man in Russia. Nevertheless, he was afraid of them.

You have therefore the curious spectacle to perceive, Miss Clinton, of

one man being afraid of hundreds, and of hundreds of men at the same

time being afraid of one. Man, he is a queer animal, eh?”

It was not long before the doubts and fears of all on board the Doraine

gave way to a strange, unnatural state of exhilaration. It represented

joy without happiness, relief without security, exultation without

conviction,--for, after all, there still remained unanswered the

question that robbed every sensation of its thrill. While they were

singing the hymns of thanksgiving in the saloon that night, and

listening to the fervent prayers; while they ate, drank and were merry,

their thoughts were not of the day but of the morrow. What of the

morrow? In the eyes of every one who laughed and sang dwelt the

unchanging shadow of anxiety; on every face was stamped an expression

that spoke more plainly than words the doubts and misgivings that

constituted the background of their jubilation. They had escaped the

sea, but would they ever escape the land? Had God, in answer to their

complaints and prayers, directed them to a land from which the hand of

man would never rescue them? Were they isolated here in the untraversed

southern seas, cast upon an island unknown to the rest of the world? Or

were they, on the other hand, within reach of human agencies by which

the world might be made acquainted with their plight?

Uppermost in every mind was the sickening recollection, however, that

for days they had ranged the sea without sighting a single craft. They

were far from the travelled lanes, they were out of the worth-while

world. Hope rested solely on the possibility that the hills and forests

hid from view the houses and wharves of a desolate little sea-town set

up by the far-reaching people of the British Isles.

The story of Percival's achievement was not long in going the rounds.

It went through the customary process of elaboration. By the time it

reached his ears,--through the instrumentality of Mr. Morris Shine, the

motion picture magnate,--it had assumed sufficient magnitude to draw

from that enterprising gentleman a bona fide offer of quite a large sum

for the film rights in case Mr. Percival would agree to re-enact the

thrilling scene later on. In fact, Mr. Shine, having recovered his

astuteness and his courage simultaneously, was already working at the

preliminary details of the most “stupendous” picture ever conceived by

man. His deepest lament now was that he had neglected to bring a good

camera man down from New York, so that on the day of the explosion he

could have “got” the people actually jumping overboard, and drowning in

plain sight--(although he did not see them because of the trouble he

was having to get a seat in one of the life-boats),--and the wounded

scattered over the decks, the fire, the devastation, the departure and

return of the boats, the storm and all that followed, including himself

in certain judiciously preserved scenes, and the whole production could

have been made at practically no cost at all. There never had been

such an opportunity, complained Mr. Shine the moment he felt absolutely

certain that the opportunity was a thing of the past.

“No wonder he got away with it,” said Mr. Landover to a group of

rejuvenated satellites. “He is hand in glove with them, that fellow is.

I wouldn't trust him around the corner. Why, it's perfectly plain to

anybody with a grain of intelligence that he's the leader of that gang

of anarchists. All he had to do was to speak to them,--in their own

language, mind you,--and back they slunk to their quarters. They obeyed

him because he is their chosen leader, and that's all there is to

this--What say, Fitts?”

Mr. Fitts, who was not a satellite but a very irritating Christian

gentleman, cleared his throat and said:

“I didn't speak, Mr. Landover. I always make a noise like that when I

yawn. It's an awfully middle-class habit I've gotten into. Still, don't

you think one obtains a little more--shall we say enjoyment?--a little

more enjoyment out of a yawn if he lets go and puts his whole soul into

it? Of course, it isn't really necessary to utter the 'hi-ho-hum!' quite

so vociferously as I do,--in fact, it might even be better to omit it

altogether,--if possible,--when some one else is speaking. There are, I

grant you, other ways of expressing one's complete mastery of the art

of yawning, such as a prolonged but audible sigh, or a sort of muffled

howl, or even a series of blissful little shrieks peculiar to the

feminine of the species,--any one of these, I admit, is a trifle more

elegant and up-to-date, but they all lack the splendid resonance,--you

might even say grandiloquence,--of the old-fashioned 'hi-ho-hum!' to

which I am addicted. Now, if you will consider--”

“My God!” exclaimed the banker, with a positively venomous emphasis on

the name of the Deity. “Who wants to know anything about yawns?”

Mr. Fitts looked hurt. “I am sorry. My mistake. I thought you were

trying to change the subject when you interrupted my yawn.”

“That fellow's a damn' fool,” said the banker, as Fitts strolled off to

join another group.

“Try one of these cigars, Mr. Landover,” said Mr. Nicklestick

persuasively. “Of course, they're nothing like the kind you smoke,

but--”

“Is mine out? So it is. No, thank you. I'll take a match, however, if

you have one about you.”

Four boxes were hastily thrust upon the great financier.

“Haf you noticed how poor the matches are lately, Mr. Landover?”

complained Mr. Block.

“As for this vagabond being superintendent of a mining concession up in

Bolivia,” continued Landover, absentmindedly sticking Mr. Nicklestick's

precious, box of matches into his own pocket, “that's all poppycock.

He's an out-and-out adventurer. You can't fool me. I've handled too many

men in my time. I sized him up right from the start. But the devil of it

is, he's got all the officers on this boat hypnotized. And most of the

women too. I made it a point to speak to Mrs. Spofford and her niece

about him this morning,--and the poor girl has been making quite a fool

of herself over him, you may have observed. Mrs. Spofford owns quite a

block of stock in our institution, so I considered it my duty to put a

flea in her ear, if you see what I mean.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Mr. Nicklestick.

“She should have been very grateful,” said Mr. Block.

Mr. Landover frowned. “I'm going to speak to her again as soon as she

has regained her strength and composure. Nerves all shot to pieces, you

understand. Everything distorted,--er--shot to pieces, as I say. I dare

say I should have had more sense than to--er--ahem!--two or three days'

rest, that's what she needs, poor thing.”

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Nicklestick.

“You can't tell a woman anything when she's upset,” said Mr. Block,

feelingly.

“Miss Clinton is a very charming young lady,” said Mr. Nicklestick,

giving his moustache a slight twist. “I should hate to see her lose her

head over a fellow like him.”

“She is a splendid girl,” said Landover warmly. “One of the oldest

families in New York. She deserves nothing but the best.”

“That's right, that's right,” assented Mr. Nicklestick. “I don't know

when I've met a more charming young lady, Mr. Landover.”

“I didn't know you had met her,” observed the banker coldly.

“Oh, yes,” replied Mr. Nicklestick. “We were in the same lifeboat, Mr.

Landover, you know,--all night, you know, Mr. Landover.”

CHAPTER IX.

Early the next morning, Percival turned out long before there were any

sounds from the galley or dining-room. The sun had not yet cleared the

tree-tops to the east; the decks of the Doraine were still wet with dew.

A few sailors were abroad; a dull-eyed junior officer moodily picked

his way through the debris on the forward deck. Birds were singing and

chattering in the trees that lined the shore; down at the water's edge,

like sentinels on duty, with an eye always upon the strange, gigantic

intruder, strutted a number of stately, bright-plumaged birds of the

flamingo variety--(doubtless they were flamingoes); the blue surface of

the basin was sprinkled with the myriad white, gleaming backs of winged

fishermen, diving, flapping, swirling; on high, far above the hills,

soared two or three huge birds with wings outspread and rigid, monarchs

of all that they surveyed. The stowaway leaned on the port rail and

fixed his gaze upon the crest of the severed hill, apparently the

tallest of the half dozen or so that were visible from his position.

With powerful glasses he studied the wooded slope. This hill was

probably twelve or fourteen hundred feet high. He thought of it as a

hill, for he had lived long in the heart of the towering Andes. Behind

him lay the belt of woodland that separated the basin from the open

sea, a scant league away. The cleft through the hill lay almost directly

ahead. It's walls apparently were perpendicular; a hundred feet or

less from the pinnacle, the opening spread out considerably, indicating

landslides at some remote period, the natural sloughing off of earth

and stone in the formation of this narrow, unnatural passage through

the very centre of the little mountain. For at least a thousand feet,

however, the sides of the passage rose as straight as a wall. That the

mountain was of solid rock could not be doubted after a single glance at

those sturdy, unflinching walls, black and sheer.

“Well, what do you make of it?” inquired a voice at his elbow. He turned

to find Mr. Mott standing beside him.

“Earthquake,” he replied. “Thousands of years ago, of course. Split the

island completely in two.”

“Sounds plausible,” mused the First Officer. “But if that is the case,

how do you account for the shallowness of the water in the passage and

out here in the basin? An earthquake violent enough to split that hill

would make a crack in the earth a thousand fathoms deep.”

“I have an idea that if we took soundings in this basin we'd find a

section twenty or thirty feet wide in the centre of it where we couldn't

touch bottom. The same would be true of the passage if we plumbed the

middle. When we came through it the ship scraped bottom time and again.

As a matter of fact,--the way I figure it out,--she was simply bumping

against the upper edges of a crevice that reaches down God knows how

far. We took no soundings, you will remember, until we swung out into

this pool. I'll bet my head that that cut through the hill yonder is a

mile deep. Earthquake fissures seldom go deeper than that, I've heard.

Generally they are mere surface cracks, a hundred feet deep at the

outside. But this one,--My God, it gives me the creeps, that crack in

the earth does.”

“Umph!” said Mr. Mott, his elbows on the rail beside the young man, his

chin in his hands. He was looking down at the water. “Captain Trigger is

planning to send a couple of boats outside to survey the coast. I

dare say he'll be asking you to go out in one of them. You're a civil

engineer and so he feels--”

“Excuse me, Mr. Mott, but what's the sense of sending boats out to

explore the coast before we find out how big the island is?”

“What's the sense? Why, how are we to find out how big the island is

unless we make the circuit of it? And how in thunder are we to find out

that there isn't a village or some sort of trading port on it--What are

you pointing up there for?”

Percival's finger was levelled at the top of the higher half of the

bisected mountain.

“See that hill, Mr. Mott? Well, unless we're on a darned sight bigger

island than I think we are, we can see from one end of it to the other

from the top of that hill. It isn't much of a climb. A few huskies with

axes to cut a path through the underbrush, and we might get up there in

a few hours. I've been figuring it out. That's why I got up so early.

Had it on my mind all night. The sensible thing to do is to send a gang

of us up there to have a look around. Strange Captain Trigger never

thought of it. I suppose it's because he's an old sea-dog and not a

landlubber.”

Mr. Mott coughed. “I fancy he would have thought of it in good time.”

“Well, in case he doesn't think of it in time, you might suggest it to

him, Mr. Mott.”

The result of this conversation was the formation of a party of

explorers to ascend the mountain. They were sent ashore soon after

breakfast, well-armed, equipped with axes and other implements,

boat-hooks, surveying instruments, and the most powerful glasses on

board. Percival was in command. The party was made up of a dozen

men, half of them from the gun crew, with an additional complement of

laborers from the steerage.

Ruth Clinton, as soon as she learned of the proposed expedition, sought

out Percival and insisted upon re-bandaging his hands.

“You must not go into all that tangle of brushwood with your hands

unprotected,” she declared, obstinately shaking her head in response to

his objections. “Don't be foolish, Mr. Percival. It won't take me five

minutes to wrap them up. Sit down,--I insist. You are still one of my

patients. Hold out your hand!”

“They are ever so much better,” he protested, but he obeyed her.

“Of course they are,” she agreed, in a matter-of-fact tone. “You did

not give me a chance last night to tell you how splendid you were in

tackling that crazy mob. I witnessed it all, you know. Madame Obosky and

I.”

“Then, you didn't beat it when I told you to, eh?”

“Certainly not. What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do? I can only say this: I'm glad Captain Trigger's opinion

of me is based on my ability to reason with an ignorant mob and not on

my power to intimidate a couple of very intelligent young women.”

“I wouldn't have missed it for worlds,” she said coolly. She looked up

into his eyes, a slight frown puckering her brow. “Do you know, Madame

Obosky had the impertinence to say that you would have turned tail and

fled if those people had shown fight.”

He grinned. “She's an amazing person, isn't she? Wonderful faculty for

sizing the most of us up.”

“You would have run?”

“Like a rabbit,” he answered, unabashed. “That's a little too tight, I

think, Miss Clinton. Would you mind loosening it up a bit?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Is that better? Now the other one, please.”

“Yes, I'm an awful coward,” he said, after a long silence.

She looked up quickly. Something in his eyes brought a faint flush to

her cheek. For a second or two she met his gaze steadily and then her

eyes fell, but not before he had caught the shy, wondering expression

that suddenly filled them. He experienced an almost uncontrollable

desire to lay his clumsy hand upon the soft, smooth brown hair. Through

his mind flashed a queer rush of comparison. He recalled the

dark, knowing eyes of the Russian dancer, mysterious and

seductive,--man-reading eyes from which nothing was concealed,--and

contrasted them with the clear, honest, blue-grey orbs that still could

fall in sweet confusion. His heart began to pound furiously, he felt a

queer tightening of the throat. He was afraid to trust his voice. How

white and soft and gentle were her hands,--and how beautiful they were.

Suddenly she stroked the bandaged hand,--as an amiable manicurist might

have done--and arose.

“There!” she said, composedly. Her cheek was cool and unflushed, her

eyes serene and smiling. “Now you may go, Mr. Percival. Good luck! Bring

back good news to us. I dreamed last night that we were marooned, that

we would have to stay here for ever.”

“All of us?” he asked, a trifle thickly.

“Certainly,” she replied, after the moment required for comprehension.

Her eyes were suddenly cold and uncompromising.

“If I never come back,” he began, somewhat dashed, “I'd like you to

remember always, Miss Clinton, that I--well, that I am the most grateful

dog alive. You've been corking.”

“But it isn't possible you won't come back,” she cried, and he was happy

to see a flicker of alarm in her eyes. “What--what could happen to you?

It isn't--”

“Oh, all sorts of things,” he broke in, much in the same spirit as that

which dominates the boy who wishes he could die in order to punish his

parents for correcting him.

“Are--are you really in earnest?”

“Would you care--very much?”

She hesitated. “Haven't I wished you good luck, Mr. Percival?”

“Would you mind answering my question?”

“Of course I should care,--very much indeed,” she replied calmly. “I am

sure that everybody would be terribly grieved if anything were to happen

to you out there.”

“Well,--good-bye, Miss Clinton. I guess they're waiting for me.”

“Good-bye! Oh, how I wish I were in your place! Just to put my foot

on the blessed, green earth once more. Good-bye! And--and good luck,

again.”

“If you will take a pair of glasses and watch the top of that

hill,--there is a bare knob up there, you see,--you will know long

before we come back whether this island is inhabited or not. I am

taking an American flag with me. If we do not see another flag floating

anywhere on this island, I intend to plant the Stars and Stripes on that

hill,--just for luck!”

She walked a few steps at his side, their bodies aslant against the

slope of the deck.

“And if you do not raise the flag, we shall know at once that--that

there are other people here?” she said, her voice eager with suppressed

excitement. “It will mean that ships--” Her voice failed her.

“It will mean home,--some day,” he returned solemnly.

The one remaining port-side boat was lowered a few minutes later and to

the accompaniment of cheers from the throng that lined the rails, the

men pulled away, heading for a tiny cove on the far side of the

basin. The shore at that point was sloping and practically clear of

undergrowth.

It was while Percival was waiting to take his place in the boat that

Olga Obosky hurried up to him.

“I have brought my luck piece for you,” she said, and revealed in her

open palm a small gold coin, worn smooth with age and handling.

“Carry it, my friend. Nothing will happen to you while it is in your

possession. It was given me by the son of a Grand Duke. It was his lucky

piece. It brought me luck, for he was killed zat very same day, and so I

was saved from him. Keep it in your pocket till you come safely back and

then--then you shall return it to me, because I would not be without my

luck, no.” She slipped her hand deep into his trousers pocket. “There is

no hole. That is good. I have place it there. It is safe. Au revoir! You

will have good luck, my friend.”

Withdrawing her warm hand from his pocket she turned and walked swiftly

away.

The throng on board the Doraine watched the party land; hats and

handkerchiefs were waved as the adventurers turned for a last look

behind, before they disappeared into the forest.

Hours passed,--long interminable hours for those who were not engaged

in the active preparations for the landing of people and stores. Captain

Trigger was making ready to transfer the passengers from the ship at the

earliest possible moment. He was far from certain that the Doraine would

maintain its rather precarious balance on the rocks. With safety not

much more than a stone's throw away, he was determined to take no

further risk.

At last a shout went up from some one on the forecastle deck. It was

taken up by eager voices. Out upon the bald crest of the mountain

straggled the first of the explorers to reach the goal. They were

plainly visible. One after another the rest of the party appeared. The

illusion was startling. It was as if they had actually emerged from the

tree-tops. With straining eyes the observers below watched the group of

figures outlined against the sky. They spoke in subdued tones. As time

went on and the flag was not unfurled, they took hope; eyes brightened,

the hushed tones increased to a cheerful, excited clatter, the tenseness

that had held them rigid for so long gave way before the growing

conviction that another flag already fluttered somewhere beyond the

screening hills.

And then, when hope was highest, the Stars and Stripes went up!

Captain Trigger assembled the ship's company on the forward deck later

in the day. The landing party returned about three o'clock. Acting on

advance instructions, they made their report in private to the Captain,

denying all information to the clamorous passengers. A brief conference

of officers, to which a number of men from the first cabin were invited,

was held immediately after Percival's return. A course of action was

discussed and agreed upon, and then all on board were summoned to the

open deck to hear the result of the expedition.

Percival reported the following facts and conclusions:

1. The island was approximately fifteen miles long and six or seven

miles wide in the centre. The basin in which the Doraine rested was

about midway between the extreme points, and about two miles inland from

the northern shore. The southern slope of the range descended to a flat

plain, or perhaps moor, some two miles across at its broadest point and

ran in varying width from one end of the island to the other. It was

green and almost entirely devoid of timber. The central eminence from

which the observations were taken was the loftiest of a range of ten or

twelve diminishing hills that formed what might actually be described as

the backbone of the island. The eastern extremity tapered off to a

long, level, low-lying promontory that ended in a point so sharp and

wedge-like that it bore a singular resemblance to the forward deck and

prow of a huge ironclad. The hills, as they approached the plateau,

terminated altogether a couple of miles from the tip of land. The

western half of the island (strictly speaking, it was a separate bit of

land, cut off from its neighbour by the ribbon-like channel), was of

a more rugged character, the hills, in fact, extending to the sea,

forming, no doubt, steep and precipitous cliffs, rising directly from

the water's edge.

(Since his return, Percival had painted on a large piece of canvas a

fairly accurate outline map of the bisected island as it had appeared

to him from the top of the mountain. This crude map was hung up in full

view of the spectators, and served him well in an effort to make clear

his deductions. His original sketch is reproduced later on in this

chronicle.)

2. There was no visible sign of past or present human habitation.

Absolutely nothing appeared to indicate that man had ever attempted to

claim or occupy this virgin land.

3. The channel through the mountain was less than one hundred feet wide.

The walls of this gorge at one point were fully seven hundred feet high,

absolutely perpendicular, and of solid rock. It was as if the hill had

been split wide open with one blow of a tremendous broad-ax. Beyond the

elevation the channel spread out fan-fashion, creating a funnel-like bay

or inlet from the sea.

4. There was no other land in sight. As far as the eye could reach with

the aid of lenses there was nothing but water, a mighty waste of water.

5. The wind, which had veered around to the south, was cold and dry.

6. A curving beach of almost snowy whiteness extended for a mile or so

along the northern shore, about half way between the entrance to the

channel and the eastern point of land. Inside the fringe of trees that

lined this beach stretched what appeared to be a long strip of rolling

meadow-land, reaching far up the hillsides.

7. Monkeys, parrots and snakes abounded in the forest. An occasional

gay-plumaged bird of the toucan variety, but larger than the ordinary

South American species, was seen, while large numbers of plump birds of

the tinamou family went drumming off through the forest at the approach

of the party. Penguins strutted in complete “full dress” among the rocks

of the southern shore. A dead armadillo of extraordinary dimensions was

found near the foot of the slope. It was at least thrice the size of

the common South American mammal. The same could be said of the single

iguana encountered. This large lizard, which was alive, must have been

fully ten feet from head to tail, and gave rise to the belief that the

supposedly extinct iguanodon, described by the scientists as attaining a

length of thirty feet, might any day be discovered in the fastnesses

of this unexplored land. The mere existence of this rather amiable,

unfrightened monster was of the greatest significance. If it were known

to man, why had it never been reported in zoological or natural history

journals?

8. The trees on the mountain-side were thick and stunted, with

interlocking limbs that created a sort of endless canopy which the sun

was unable to penetrate. The cool, dry wind that swept the slope would

account, however, for the surprising absence of moisture in soil and

vegetation in the dense shade of the trees. Oak, elm, spruce, even

walnut, and other trees of a sturdy character indigenous to the

temperate zone were identified. What appeared to be a clump of cypress

trees, fantastic, misshapen objects that seemed to, shrink back in

terror from the assaulting breakers, stood out in bold relief upon a

rocky point to the south and west of the observation hill. Their gaunt,

twisted trunks leaned backward from the sea; their shorn limbs, racked

by gales, were raised as if in supplication to the sombre forest behind

them. Trunks of enormous trees that had fallen perhaps a century ago

were found half-buried in the earth, while scattered along the northern

base of the range, overlooking the downs, a few of their gigantic

counterparts, alive and flourishing, raised their lofty heads far above

the surrounding forest, and stood like sentinels, guarding the plain.

9. A small river wound its devious way, with serpentine crooks and

curves, through the downs and across the meadow, emptying into the ocean

some distance east of the gleaming beach. That its source was far up

in the secretive hills was not a matter of conjecture, however;

the incessant hiss and roar of a cataract was plainly heard by the

investigators.

Here is the crude, hastily sketched map of the island as made by

Percival:

1. Position of stranded vessel in basin.

2. Entrance to channel from the north.

3. Entrance to channel from the south.

4. Narrow strip of woodland from channel almost to river's mouth.

5. Strip of meadow-land clear of trees.

6. River.

7. Stretch of lowland leading down to the water.

8. Crest of hill from which observations were taken with range extending

east and west.

9. Point of rocks with cypress trees.

10. Buttress-like west end of island.

11. Dense forest reaching to channel.

12. Rocky cape.

13. Level plateau, without trees.

14. Beach.

15. Penguins.

CHAPTER X.

After the second reading of the foregoing report, the first being

in English, Percival requested his fellow explorers to verify the

statements contained therein. This they did promptly. He then went on:

“I am delegated by Captain Trigger and the officers of this vessel,

after a conference just concluded,--and of which you are all well

aware,--to put before you as briefly and as clearly as possible the

decision that has been reached. I may as well confess in the beginning

that this decision is based on the recommendations of the party who went

to the top of the mountain. It is out of the question for the people on

board this vessel to go ashore until further investigations have been

made. For the present, we are all safe here on board the ship. We

don't know what perils exist in the absolutely unexplored country that

surrounds us. Additional parties are to be sent out to explore the

island, especially the eastern section of it. There is no use mincing

matters. We are confronted by a very plain situation. It is possible,

even probable, that we are the first human beings ever to set foot on

this land. If that be true, we are now so far out of the path of the few

ships and steamers sailing these southern seas that there is small hope

or chance of a speedy rescue. As a matter of fact, it isn't likely that

we will be discovered until the island itself is discovered, if you see

what I mean.

“There isn't the slightest chance that the ship we're now standing on

will ever float again. Even if the engines could be put in order,--and

that is possible, I am told,--the vessel cannot be raised. If anybody

has been nursing that sort of hope, he may as well get rid of it.

It's no good. We are here to stay, unless help comes from the outside.

There's the plain English of it. We may have to live here on this

island, like poor old Robinson Crusoe, for years,--for a great many

years. I'm going to stop just a few seconds to let that soak into your

brains. We've got to face it. We've got to make the best of it. It is

not for Captain Trigger or me or any one else to say that we will not

be taken off this island some time--maybe sooner than we think. Whaling

vessels must visit these parts. That's neither here nor there. We've got

our work cut out for us, friends. We've got to think of the present and

let the future take care of itself. Now, here are the facts. We cannot

remain on board this wreck. We've got to go to work, every man, woman

and child of us. I don't know what can be cultivated on this island, but

we've got to find out, and when we find out we've got to begin raising

it. If we don't, my friends, we'll starve to death in a very short time.

And what's more, if we do not get out there and put up houses to live

in, we'll freeze to death when winter comes along.

“According to calculations, winter is still five or six months away. We

won't get it, I dare say, before next April or May. All you have to do

is to take a look at all these trees around here to realize that we are

a long way from the tropics. It gets as cold as blazes here in the dead

of winter, I can tell you that. We've got to build homes. We've got to

build a camp,--not a flimsy, half-way sort of camp, but a good, solid,

substantial one, my friends. There is what you might call a minority

report in regard to the situation. Captain Trigger asked me to speak

for him and others who look at it as I do. Mr. Landover, who is, I

understand, one of the leading bankers in the United States of America,

contends that we are well enough off as we are, on board the Doraine,

where we've got cabins and beds and shelter from the elements. He may be

right. All I have to say to him is this,--I don't believe I mentioned

it at this conference, Mr. Landover, simply because I'm one of those

unhappy individuals who always think of the brilliant things I might

have said when it's too late to say them,--all I have to say is this: if

Mr. Landover and his supporters expect to sit snugly on this ship while

the rest of us build houses and plant crops, and then conclude to come

out and bone the rest of us for a square meal and a nice warm place to

sleep, they are going to be badly fooled. We're all equal here. A couple

of million dollars, more or less, doesn't cut any ice on this little

island. What counts here is muscle and commonsense and a willingness to

use both.

“A little while ago I asked Mr. Landover how much money he has with him.

He informed me that while it wasn't any of my business, he has about

five hundred dollars in American money and a couple of hundred pesos

besides, but that his letter of credit is still good for fifteen

thousand. Mr. Nicklestick has about five hundred dollars in money,

and so has Mr. Block and one or two others. They've all got letters

of credit, express checks, and so forth, and I suppose there is a

wheelbarrow full of jewellery on board this ship. Now, if money is to

talk down here, I wish to state that the men and women from the steerage

have got more real dough than all the first and second cabins put

together. They haven't any letters of credit or bank accounts in New

York, but there are a dozen men in the steerage who have as much as two

or three thousand pesos sewed up inside their clothes. So far as I can

make out, the only people who can afford to hire anybody to build a

hut for them, and pay for it in real money, are the plutocrats from the

steerage.

“Mr. Landover's letter of credit is good for fifteen thousand if he ever

gets back to New York, but it isn't worth fifteen cents here. His life

is insured for one million dollars, I am told. I don't know who the

beneficiaries are, but, whoever they are, they are going to put in a

claim for the million if he doesn't show up in New York pretty shortly.

He is going to be declared officially dead, and so are all the rest of

us, after a reasonable time has elapsed. Now, I don't say that we are

never going to be rescued. We may be found inside of a month. Some of us

don't quite realize the fix we are in. Mr. Codge, the purser, was saying

a little while ago that a lady from the first cabin nearly took his head

off when he told her it was impossible to send a cable message to her

people in Boston. A number of passengers have already demanded that

their passage money be refunded.

“You have doubtless heard how I came to be on board this steamer. I am

a stowaway. I have no standing among you. I haven't a penny in my

pocket,--aside from a luck-piece that doesn't belong to me. I wanted to

get back to the States so that I could carry a gun or something over in

France. I wanted to fight for my country. I wasn't thinking very much

about my life when I started for home and France, but I want to say that

I'm thinking about it now. I don't intend to starve or freeze to death

if I can help it. I am going to fight for my life, not for my country.

“This is no time to be sentimental. It is no time to sit down and pity

ourselves or each other. God knows I am just as sorry for myself as you

are for yourselves, but that isn't going to get me anywhere. We've got

to work. That means all of us. It means the women as well as the men.

It means the women with soft, white hands and the men who never did a

stroke of manual labour in their lives, just as much as it means the

people who have never done anything else but work. Something will be

found for every one of us to do, and, ladies and gentlemen, we will have

to do it without whining.

“Captain Trigger is accountable for the cargo on board this ship.

Naturally he is opposed to our confiscating anything that has been

entrusted to him for safe delivery. He takes a very sensible attitude,

however. He will officially protest against the removal of anything from

the hold of his vessel, but he will not employ force to resist us when

we begin to land stores, foodstuffs and all that sort of thing. He

understands the situation perfectly.

“Now, here is what we will have to do. We must select a site for our

camp,--or town, you may well say,--and we must build upon it without

delay. That is to be our first step. Details will come later. There are

over six hundred of us here. We represent a fair-sized village. We have

mechanics, carpenters, farmers, surveyors, masons,--and merchants, to

say nothing of cooks, housekeepers, and so on. The ship contains all

sorts of tools to work with, canvas for temporary quarters, beds and

bedding, cooking utensils,--in fact, we have everything that Robinson

Crusoe didn't have, and besides all that, we've got each other. We are

not alone on a desert island. We are, my friends, as well off as the

Pilgrims who landed on Plymouth Rock, and we are better off than the

hardy colonists who laid the foundation for the country that flies

that flag up there. Centuries ago bold adventurers set out to discover

unknown lands. They were few in number and poorly equipped. But they

ventured into the wilderness and built villages that grew to be cities.

They went through a thousand hardships that we will never know, and they

survived.

“Captain Trigger and the others selected me to make this talk to

you because I have had some practical experience in establishing and

developing a camp, such as we will have to build. Experience has taught

me one thing above all others: work, hard work of a constructive nature,

is our only salvation. Unless we occupy ourselves from one day's end to

another in good, hard, honest toil, we will all go mad. That's the long

and the short of it. If we sat still on this boat for thirty days, doing

nothing, we'd lose our minds. There isn't a man in this crowd, I am

sure, who wouldn't work his head off to spare the women an hour of

hardship. But the greatest hardship you women could possibly know would

be idleness. There will be work for every one to do, and we can thank

God for it, my friends. We will have to work for nothing. We will have

to help each other. There is but one class on this island at present,

and that is the working class.

“We've all got people at home waiting for us. By this time the whole

world knows that the Doraine is three weeks overdue at Rio Janeiro, and

that no word has been had from her. The ocean is being searched. Our

friends, our relatives are doing everything in their power to get trace

of this lost ship. You may depend on that. In a little while,--a few

weeks, at best,--the ship will be given up for lost. We will be counted

as dead, all of us. That's a hard, cruel thing for me to say, and I hate

to say it,--but we've just got to realize the position we're in. It's

best that we should look at it from the worst possible angle. I do not

speak jestingly when I say that we may as well consider ourselves dead

and forgotten. I am as full of hope and confidence as anybody and I am

an optimist if there ever was one, but I don't work on the theory that

God takes any better care of an optimist than He does of a pessimist.

“It will require months, maybe years, for us to construct a ship, and

even then it will not be big enough to transport all of us. The most we

can hope for is a craft that will be stout enough to go out and bring

help to the rest of us. I am trying, at Captain Trigger's suggestion,

to convince you that we can't build a ship, that we can't expect to get

away from this island by our own endeavours, unless we go about it in

the proper and sensible way. That means, first of all, that we must

safeguard ourselves against time. We've got to live and we've got to

keep our strength.

“Mr. Landover has made a very generous proposition. He agrees to give a

hundred thousand dollars to any boat's crew that will take one of these

lifeboats and make port somewhere. He fails to mention the compensation

they are to receive if they never make port. He forgets that this big

ship floundered around for a good many days without sighting anything

but water. He would have been perfectly safe in offering a hundred

million dollars, because he would never be called upon to pay it. I

understand, however, that his offer still stands.

“Tomorrow morning surveying parties will be sent ashore to look for a

possible site for our town. Volunteers will undertake this work. As soon

as possible thereafter a temporary camp will be set up, and practically

every one on board will be moved from this ship. Captain Trigger and

a few chosen men will remain on board. It is his wish, ladies and

gentlemen. He is the captain of the Doraine. He will not leave her. We

are all here today, and alive, because Captain Trigger would not leave

his ship. We owe our lives to him. This is not the time to propose three

cheers for the gallant master of the Doraine. It is not the time to

cheer for anybody or for anything. We do not feel like cheering.

We've done all the praying that is necessary, we've offered up all the

thanksgiving that the situation calls for, so now we've got to roll up

our sleeves and go to work.”

He, stepped down from the gun-platform. There were no cheers. Every

voice was stilled, every face was set. Many seconds passed before there

was even the slightest stir among those who had listened so intently.

Then the few English-speaking people from the steerage began to whisper

hoarsely to their bewildered companions.

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER I.

The warm, summer season was well-advanced in this far southern land

before the strenuous, tireless efforts of the marooned settlers began to

show definite results.

Some six weeks after the stranding of the Doraine, staunch log cabins

were in course of completion along the base of the hills overlooking the

clear, rolling meadow-land to the north and east. Down in the lowlands

scores of men were employed in sowing and planting. The soil was rich.

Farmers and grain-raisers among the passengers were unanimously of

the opinion that almost any vegetable, cereal or fruit indigenous

to Argentina (or at the worst, Patagonia), could be produced here.

Uncertainty as to the duration of the warm period, so vital to the

growing and maturing of crops, was the chief problem. No time was to be

lost if there were to be harvests before the cold and blighting weather

set in.

It was extremely doubtful if the spring and summer seasons combined

covered more than five months in this latitude. Assuming that the

climate in this open part of the world was anything like that of the

Falkland Islands, the rainy season was overdue. Midwinter usually comes

in July, with the temperature averaging between 35 deg. and 10 deg.

above zero over a period of four or five months. At the time of the

wreck, the thermometers were registering about 70 deg. during the day,

and dropping to 50 deg. or thereabouts after nightfall. This would

indicate that spring was fairly well-advanced, and that midsummer might

be figured on as coming in January. It was now the end of November. Warm

weather probably would last until February or March. Possibly they

would be too late with their planting, but they went about it speedily,

determinedly, just the same.

All of them had had crop failures before. All of them had seen the

labour of months go for naught in the blight of an evening's frost, or

the sweep of a prairie fire. So here on this virgin isle, in soil whose

sod had never been turned, they sowed from the bins of the slumbering

ship. Wheat and oats and flax, brought from the Argentina plains;

potatoes, squash and beet-root; even beans and peas were tried, but with

small hope. And there were women ready to till the soil and work the

gardens, women to draw the strangely fashioned ploughshares as willing

beasts of burden, to wield the hoe and spade, and to watch for the

cherished sprout that was to glorify their deeds.

The ring of the ax resounded in the forest; the clangour of hammer and

nail, the rasp of the saw, the clatter of timber went on from dawn to

dusk,--for there was no eight-hour law in this smiling land, nor

was there any other union save that of staunch endeavour, no other

Brotherhood except that of Man. There was never a question of wage,

never a dispute as to hours, never a thought of strike. Every labourer

was worthy of his hire,--and his hire was food!

The Doraine was gradually being dismantled. She was being stripped of

every bit of material that could be used in constructing and furnishing

the huts. The new camp lay not more than a mile and a half from the

basin. A road had been cleared through the wood from the small, hastily

constructed dock and runway on the eastern side of the basin to the open

territory beyond.

Material, supplies, equipment were carried through the densely shaded

avenue, and later on, after the warehouses and granaries had been built,

the leafy lane witnessed the transportation of ton upon ton of stores,

patiently borne in hundredweight lots, in bushel bags, in clumsy

parcels, by men whose work seemed endless; wheat, barley, oats, sugar,

coffee and other commodities entrusted to the steamship company for

delivery in the United States. Tobacco, canned and refrigerated meats,

olives, flour, figs and dates in large quantities were included in the

vast cargo, to say nothing of the enormous supply of canned fruits and

vegetables. Washed wool, tanned leather, homespun cotton and woollen

cloth, silks, hides, furs, rugs, laces, linseed oil, blankets,--all

these came ashore in course of time, but of the sinister treasure that

had inspired the destruction of the ship, i.e., the manganese,

the rubber, the nitrates, the copper bars, and the stacks of high

explosives, not a pound was moved. All this was left for another and

more leisurely day.

In the end, the once luxurious liner was to be reduced to “skin and

bones,” to employ a trite but eminently appropriate phrase. Ultimately

she became a black, unlovely skeleton, bereft of every vestige of her

former opulence. Her decks were torn up and the timbers hauled away to

make floors in the huts; the doors, mirrors, stairways, windows, rails,

carpets, pipes, bathtubs, toilets, lamps, every foot of woodwork from

stem to stern, berths, washbasins, kitchen ranges, boilers,--in fact,

everything that man could make use of was taken from the ship, leaving

nothing of her but a hollow, echoing shell through which the wind howled

or moaned a ghostly requiem.

Much of this material was carefully stacked or stored away against the

day when it could be utilized in the construction of a small but sturdy

ship, in which a chosen company of sailors were to fare out to sea once

more in search of the world they had lost.

Tireless and indomitable engineers later on succeeded in transferring

portions of the damaged machinery, including dynamos, to the camp, where

in course of time their skill and ingenuity bade fair to triumph over

seemingly insurmountable difficulties in the matter of restoration.

Fully six weeks elapsed, however, before the women were allowed to leave

the ship for their new homes on the land, and even then they came but a

few at a time and only as huts were ready and fully equipped to receive

them. Each hut contained a combination kitchen and living-room, with a

single bedchamber. A substantial fireplace, built of stone and mortar,

with a tall chimney at the back, was a feature in every house. The

cracks between the logs, and all chinks, were sealed with thick layers

of mortar; the ceilings, made of stout saplings, were treated in a

similar manner, while the roof, resting on a sturdy ridge-pole, and

securely anchored, was of three layers of poles, interstices mortared

and the whole covered with a vast quantity of seaweed, moss and reeds

held in place by several well-fastened sections of iron railing from the

decks of the Doraine.

While the huts were uniform in size, shape and construction, there

was nothing to prevent the occupant from subsequently enlarging and

improving his house. For the present, however, the interests of all were

best served by speed and compactness.

The superintendent of construction was Algernon Adonis Percival. As

a matter of fact, the end of the first week found him occupying the

position of General Manager for the whole enterprise, an unsolicited

honour but one which he was resolved that no one, great or small,

should deride. He had one stormy “run-in,” as he described it, with Mr.

Landover and his group of satellites. This occurred about the middle of

their first week on the island when practically every able-bodied man

from the Doraine was at work cutting a way through the forest or in

constructing the dock at the water's edge. As the incident is entitled

to a very definite place in this narrative, a more or less extended

account of it may be given here and now, even at the risk of being

classed as a digression, or a step backward in the sequence of the

history.

Mr. Landover, Mr. Block, Mr. Nicklestick and two or three other men

were grouped on the after-deck early one morning decrying the brainless

scheme to build a camp out there in the open. Their audience included

several women, among them Mrs. Spofford, Ruth Clinton, Madame

Careni-Amori, Madame Obosky, Mrs. Block and a couple of loquacious Rio

Janeiro ladies.

Percival bore down upon this group. He wasted no time in getting to the

point.

“We've been at work for two days out there, gentlemen, and up to date

not one of you has turned to with the rest of us. The understanding was

that--”

Mr. Landover whirled on him, white with anger. “That will do!” he

exclaimed. “Clear out! I do not intend to allow any such riff-raff as

you to order me to--Oh, pray do not be alarmed, ladies! This rowdy is

not likely to assault me. Nothing will happen, I assure you. Clear out,

you bum,--do you hear me?”

Percival was smiling. “I wish you wouldn't interrupt me, Mr. Landover.

As I was saying, it was understood that every man on this ship who is

well enough to--”

“Can't you see that there are ladies present? Haven't you an atom of

decency about you?”

“--understood that every man on this ship was to do his share of the

work laid out. I owe these ladies an apology for reminding you in their

presence that the boats are leaving for shore and that if you do not get

off in the next relay you will be compelled to swim to that landing over

there,--and I doubt very much whether any of you can make it.”

“Wha-what's that?” demanded Mr. Block.

Mr. Landover was speechless. A hard glitter came to Percival's eyes, the

smile left his lips.

“You heard what I said, Mr. Block. I'll make it plainer, however. If you

men don't get into the next boat leaving this ship, I'm going to

have you thrown overboard and made to swim to your work. I regret

exceedingly, ladies, that I have been obliged to resort to harsh words

in your presence, but time is so precious that I can't afford to give

them a private audience.”

“Oh, my goodness gracious!” cried Mrs. Block, twisting her fat hands in

an agony of alarm. “Maybe you better go, Moses. You vas nearly drownded

twice yet in pool at White Sulphur.”

“This is the most outrageous, high-handed,--” began Landover,

explosively, but stopped short as Percival levelled his unlovely

forefinger at him.

“Cut it out, Mr. Landover,--cut it out,” he snapped, inelegantly. “Now,

listen to me. For two days you and these boon companions of yours have

been loafing on the job. While the rest of us have been working like

dogs, you and your friends,--you needn't look insulted, because by the

looks of things they are your friends,--you've been sitting up here

talking to the ladies, smoking cigars, and telling every one how

successfully you conduct a bank in New York. Now, Mr. Landover, you're

not an old man. If you were, I'd be the first to suggest the easiest

sort of work for you. You are under fifty and you're a strong, healthy

man. You ride every morning in Central Park, you play golf in winter and

summer, and you're one of the men who made Muldoon famous.

“You are able to work as the rest of us are working. Your hands are in

a much better condition than mine. If we were in New York, I would take

off my hat to you and admit that you are one of the greatest bankers in

the world, and that you know your business. But we're not in New York.

We're down here on a lonely island. You know how to build and conduct

banks, I know how to build and conduct camps. We have no use for

scientific bankers here, but we have considerable use for experienced

camp builders. I have been put in charge of this work. I'm going to see

it through. Up in the hills I got a full day's work out of my men,--and

there were worse men among them than you will ever be. There were

gunmen, knife slingers, cutthroats and bullies,--but they had to work,

just the same. Just a minute, if you please. I'm not through. I think I

appreciate your position, Mr. Landover.

“You regard me as a four-flusher, a tramp,--maybe a thief or worse. I

am but little more than half your age and I am a person of absolutely no

importance. That's neither here nor there. I have been selected to run

this job because Captain Trigger, with Mr. Mott and virtually every

other man on this ship, believes that I know how to handle it. But even

that's neither here nor there. What I'm coming to is this. As long as

I am in charge of this job, every man, woman and child has got to do

something. Just at present there isn't much that the women and children

can do, but there is work for every man who can stand on his feet. You

needn't glare at me. I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Landover. You say you

are going to stay on this ship. Well, I've come here to tell you that

you are not going to do anything of the sort. The women and children are

to remain on board until we've got houses built for them on shore, or

until the time comes when there is work for them to do. If they choose

to come ashore occasionally it will be to watch the men work and to

cheer them up with their presence. But no man is to stay on this ship

after we've once got the real job going out there. Now you've heard my

statement, sir. I am willing to listen for a few minutes to your side of

the question. Don't all speak at once,--and please be careful, there are

ladies present.”

While Percival did not take his eyes from Landover's face during this

speech, he was aware that Miss Clinton and her aunt had turned abruptly

away and were leaning against the rail a few yards distant, their backs

to him. Olga Obosky and Careni-Amori were regarding him with shining,

approving eyes, while Mrs. Block,--gulping furiously,--clasped her

husband's arm and kept up a constant muttering. Something told him that

Ruth Clinton and Mrs. Spofford had turned against him.

“I have nothing to say to you,” said Landover, curtly. Turning on his

heel, he joined the two ladies at the rail. He spoke a few words to them

in a lowered tone, and then the three of them strode off without so much

as a glance at the young man.

Percival flushed a dull red under his tan. His eyes followed them until

they disappeared around a corner. Down in his heart he hoped that Ruth

would not deny him a fleeting look of encouragement and approval.

Landover carried himself like a soldier. He was tall, well set-up, and

almost offensively erect. He was a handsome man of perhaps forty-eight.

His cleanshaven face was firm, aggressive, domineering. There was not

a trace of grey in his dark hair. He typified strength, mentality,

shrewdness and that most essential quality in the standards of wealth

and power,--arrogance. In a word, he personified Finance.

“Now, see here, Percival,” began Nicklestick, in a most cavalier manner,

greatly encouraged by the lofty conduct of the Money King, “you know you

can't do this sort of thing. We won't stand for it, not for a minute. We

object to this high-handed business. You got to realize that--”

“Object and be hanged!” snapped Percival. “The next thing, you'll

be calling yourselves conscientious objectors. Well, it's no use,

Nicklestick. There's no such animal on board this Ark. I see a couple

of boats returning from shore. You've got about fifteen minutes to shed

that Stein & Bloch suit and jump into something that will never need

pressing again,--your working clothes. I'm doing you a kindness. That

gang out there won't stand for slackers. If you're wise you'll take my

word for it.”

He was turning away when Nicklestick intercepted him.

“What do you think they would do, Mr. Percival?” he inquired in some

agitation. “We are gentlemen. We got a right to decide for ourselves vat

we shall do. We can pay for--”

“You will find a lot of gentlemen out there who have already decided for

themselves,--and very cheerfully, too. You will not be lonely. If you

desire any further information as to the class of labourers you will

come in contact with, Mr. Nicklestick, I would suggest a careful study

of the first cabin list, the second cabin list, and finally the third

cabin list, if you can find such a thing. You will also run up against

some excellent material from the United States Navy, to say nothing of a

fine lot of able seamen. They've adopted a common name. Do you know what

they call each other?”

“No,” said Nicklestick, wiping his brow. “Vat--vat do they call each

other?”

“Men,” said Percival, and walked away.

He was followed closely by Careni-Amori and Olga Obosky, and at some

distance by the whispering, gesticulating Jews. The great soprano was

profoundly agitated. Obosky, a pace or two behind her, was tense and

silent. Her head was slightly bent. There was a strange, dog-like

expression in her eyes as they regarded the back of Percival's head.

“But what will you do?” Careni-Amori was crying, as she clutched his

arm. “He is a great man. He is a millionaire. He owns part of this

steamship line,--so he have inform me. You will not throw him into the

water,--yes?”

“As sure as you are a foot high, Madame Careni-Amori,” said he, grimly.

“Oh, mon Dieu! You hear him, Obosky? He means what he have say.”

“Be careful, my friend,” said Obosky, drawing alongside of Percival. “Do

you not see how the wind blows?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you count the cost of victory? You may lose more than you will

gain.”

Percival looked at her intently for a moment; then, in a flash, the

meaning of her words was revealed to him.

“Even so, Madame Obosky,” he returned, his jaw setting, “I am a good

loser.”

“The spoils do not always go to the victor,” she warned him.

“I still have your luck-piece,” said he, smiling as he slapped his

trousers-leg.

“It has always brought me luck,” she said, looking straight into his

eyes. “It may continue to do so, who knows? Alas for you, my friend,

you may yet have to turn to me for consolation. It is the ill-wind that

blows nobody good. Am I not shocking, Mr. Percivail?”

They had lost Madame Careni-Amori, who was behind them, shrieking a

command through a port-hole to her maid.

He looked at her in amazement. “I don't know what to think of you,

Madame Obosky.” Then he grinned. “Good Lord! You--you can't be making me

an offer of marriage?”

“Heaven forbid!” she cried. “I have had all I want of marriage, my

friend. You will never catch me doing anything so foolish as that again.

No, no! I do not desire to marry you, Mr. Percivail. Nothing so dreadful

as that! Suppose we would be married,--what zen? Poof! Because I am an

honest woman I would have to tell you some time zat I have had ze honour

to be once the mistress of a Crown Prince,--and then you would hold up

your holy hands and cry out, 'My God, what kind of a woman is this I

have marry?' and--Oh, but I would not tell you about zat Crown Prince

until we have been married a year or two, so do not look so pleased!

In a year you would be hating me so much zat you would rejoice to hear

about the Crown Prince, and I would be loathing you so much zat I would

probably have to kill you,--because I do not believe in divorce any more

than I believe in marriage. You see? Most women hate their husbands.

They never hate their lovers. It is so difficult to get rid of the one,

and so easy to keep the other,--zat is the explanation. So! Now you

may know zat love is the humblest thing in the world, and passion the

noblest, for love is for the weak while passion is for the strong. Love

is easily deceived, passion never. Love endures, passion conquers. Love

is blind, passion is sight itself. Love rules the world, but passion

rules love. Love consents, passion demands. Love is law, passion is

life. I could go on forever, but I see you do not like my discourse. Zat

is because you are already in love, my friend. Poof! You will get over

that!” She laughed.

Percival was white clear through. He was red-blooded, but at the same

time his heart was clean. Once more he found himself contrasting the

honest-eyed, pure-hearted Ruth with this sensual scoffer. There was no

denying the physical appeal of the lithe, sinuous Russian; there was no

gainsaying the call of the blood. On the other hand, the American girl

stood for everything his own mother exemplified in flesh and spirit.

As it is with all men, he was absolutely incapable of associating

passion with the mother who bore him, or with sisters who marry and give

them nieces and nephews to adore. It was impossible, utterly impossible

that they should have possessed the instincts of this woman beside

him. But even as the thought raced through his mind he experienced the

sudden, almost staggering realization that after all the chief, probably

the only difference between his women and Olga Obosky was that they were

good!

“Do you want me to tell you what I think of you?” he inquired, his eyes

hardening.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “But not now. When you have more time, my

friend. I shall be very much interested to hear what you think of me. In

the meantime, I am troubled for you. You are in love with her,--oh, yes,

you are,--and I am very much afraid zat you will lose her if you are

not careful. I am your friend. Be warned in time, Mr. Percivail. She is

sorry for him. Landover. You have humiliated him before all of us. He is

the friend of her family. Go slow, my friend, or she will turn against

you and you will lose her. You have still a good chance. She is more

nearly in love with you than she suspects. A little good judgment on

your part, my friend, and you will win. She will marry you, and when

she have done so, zen you may with impunity toss Mr. Landover in the

sea,--but not now, my friend, not now.”

“By Jove, you've got me guessing, Madame Obosky,” he exclaimed, frankly

puzzled. “I can't make you out at all.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Zat is because I am a thousand years old and very, oh, so very wise,

Mr. Percivail,” she returned, with a smile. “Au revoir!”

Percival went straight to Captain Trigger.

“See here, Captain,” he said at once, “I'm up against it with Landover.

He refuses to take orders from me. I don't want to do anything drastic

without consulting you. If you say I'm to let him off, that's the end

of it so far as I'm concerned. Of course, I can't answer for the rest

of the crowd. But if you say I am to go ahead along the line originally

laid out, I'll do it.”

Captain Trigger's eyes, red from loss of sleep, pinched with anxiety,

rested for a few seconds on the three boats coming across the basin.

Then he turned to the young man.

“Mr. Landover is one of the owners of this steamship line, Percival.”

“So I understand, sir.”

“He notified me this morning that he will see that I am dismissed from

the service if I continue to support this silly, suicidal plan to build

a camp on shore.”

“Yes, sir. And you?”

“I promptly tendered my resignation as master of this vessel,” answered

the Captain.

“You did?” cried Percival, dismayed.

“To take effect when I have tied her safely up to her pier in New York,”

said the old man, striking the rail with his fist.

“Great!” cried Percival.

“He has just come to me with the complaint that you have threatened to

throw him overboard. Is that true, Percival?”

“Yes, sir,--in a way. I mentioned an alternative.”

“Mr. Landover is no better than any of the rest of us. You will proceed

to throw him overboard, Percival, if he refuses to do his share of the

work.”

Percival gulped, and then saluted.

“Orders, sir?”

“Orders!”

The young man started away, but the Captain called him back.

“What are you going to do after you have had him thrown into the water?”

“Why, dammit all,” exclaimed Percival, “what can I do but jump in and

save his life? You don't suppose I'd let him drown, do you? And, God

knows, nobody else would save it. They want to tar and feather him, as

it is, or lynch him, or make him walk the plank.”