CHAPTER XIV.

A fortnight later, Ruth and Percival were married. He was now governor

of Trigger Island.

The ceremony took place at noon on the Green in front of the Government

Building,--(an imposing name added to the already extensive list by

which the “meeting-house” was known),--and was attended by the whole

population of the island. His desire for a simple wedding had been

vigorously, almost violently opposed by the people. Led by Randolph

Fitts and the eloquent Malone, they demanded the pomp and ceremony of a

state wedding. As governor of Trigger Island, they clamoured, it was his

duty to be married in the presence of a multitude! A general holiday was

declared, a great “barbecue” was arranged--(minus the roasted ox),--and

when it was all over, the joyous throng escorted the governor and his

lady to the gaily decorated “barge” that was to transport them from the

landing to the Doraine.

Olga Obosky made the bride's bonnet and veil, and draped the latter on

the morning of the wedding day. Like the fabled merchants of the Arabian

Nights she appeared to the bride-elect and displayed her wares. From the

depths of her theatre trunks she produced a bewildering assortment of

laces, chiffon, silks, and the filmiest of gauzes.

“You must not be afraid zat they will contaminate you,” she explained,

noting the look of dismay in Ruth's eyes. “Zey have never adorned my

body, zey have never been expose to the speculating eye of the public,

zey have not hid from view these charms of mine. No, these are fair

and virtuous fabrics. It is you who will be the first to wear them, my

friend. Take your choice. See! Zis piece, is it not wonderful? It comes

from Buda Pesth. One day it would perhaps have caressed my flesh in the

Dance of the Sultan's Dream,--but, alas,--zat is not to be. Feel, my

friend,--take it in your hand. See? You could hide it in the palm of one

of them,--and presto! Throw it outspread,--and it is like a blanket of

mist filling the room. It is priceless. It is unobtainable. None except

Obosky can afford to dance in such imperial stuff as this. Take it,--it

is yours. It is my pleasure that you should have it. Better far it

should be your bridal veil than to drape these abandoned legs of mine.”

And so it was that the scant costume of the Sultan's Dream became the

bridal veil of the governor's lady.

If Olga Obosky was sore at heart, she gave no sign. On the contrary,

she revealed the sprightliest interest in the coming nuptials. Percival

himself had told her the news within the hour after his interview with

Mrs. Spofford. In his blind happiness, he had failed to notice the

momentary stiffening of her body as if resisting a shock; he did not see

the hurt, baffled look that darkened her eyes for a few seconds, and

the swiftly passing pallor that stole into her face and vanished almost

instantly. He saw only the challenging smile that followed close upon

these fleeting signs, and the mocking gleam in her eyes.

“So?” she had said. “So the citadel is yours, my friend. Hail to the

chief! I salute you. But consider, O conqueror, what it is you are

about to do. You are setting a woeful example. There will be a stampede,

a panic. People will trample each other under foot in ze mad rush

for captivity. The wedding bell will crack under ze strain of so much

ringing. Everybody will be getting married, now zat they find it is so

easy and so simple. I congratulate you, my friend. You have been very

slow,--I have said she was yours for the asking, you will remember. She

is good, she is beautiful, she is pure gold, my friend. I am her friend.

Do not ever forget, my Percivail, I am her friend.”

He flushed warmly. He could not misinterpret her meaning. She spoke

slowly, deliberately. It was renunciation on her part.

“I understand, Olga,” he said.

She smiled, and shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, but you do not understand!” she cried. “You are so very much

perplexed. It is enough for me that you are perplexed. I am content. I

am the puzzle you will never solve. So! La la! You will never cease to

wonder. Look!”

She pointed her finger at a man who was crossing the Green below them.

“I am a puzzle to zat man also. He thought that he understood.”

“Landover? What do you mean?”

A spasm of fury transformed her features. She hissed out the words:

“I did spit in his face last night,--zat is all.”

The thirteenth of April, 1918, came on Saturday. Defying superstition,

Ruth selected it as her wedding day. It was a bright, warm autumn day,

bestowed by a gallant sun, and there was great rejoicing over this

evidence of God's approval. It came as a winter's whim, for that night

the skies were black and thunderous; the winds roared savagely between

the lofty walls of Split Mountain and whined across the decks of the

slanting Doraine, snug in the little basin, while out on the boundless

deep the turmoil of hell was raging.

And so began the honeymoon of the stowaway and the lady fair, even as

the “voyage” of the jockey and his bride had begun a fortnight before.

They sat at the Captain's table in the ghostly, dismantled saloon. Above

them hung two brightly burnished lanterns, shedding a mellow light upon

the festal board. Outside, the whistling wind, the swish of the darkened

waters, the rattle of davits and the creak of the straining timbers.

Up from his place at the head of the table rose the gray and gallant

skipper.

“Up, gentlemen,” said he, his face aglow. “I give you the health, the

happiness and the never diminishing glory of the governor's lady.”

“May she never be less,” added the gaunt First Officer, who spent his

days ashore watching the growth of a new Doraine and his nights on board

with the failing master of the older one.

And in the rare old port from the Captain's locker they pledged the

radiant bride.

“A long voyage and a merry one!” cried Mr. Codge, the purser, as he

drained his goblet dry.

Mr. Furman Nicholas Chizler bowed very gravely to the lady on the

Captain's right, and then to the one at his left.

“What care we which way we sail so long as the wind's behind us?” quoth

he.

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER I.

In the far-off Northland it is winter again,--the winter of 1919-20.

Trigger Island is bright and clean with the furbishings of summer. It

is January,--January without its coat of white,--January as green as the

tender gourd.

There are a dozen graves or more on Cape Sunrise; Betty Cruise no longer

lies alone out on the windswept point. Crudely chiseled on the rough

headstones are names that have not been mentioned in this chronicle,

still not the less enduring. One name is there, however, chipped in a

great black slab from the face of Split Mountain, that will never

be forgotten as long as Trigger Island exists: it is that of Captain

Weatherby Trigger.

The master of the Doraine died aboard-ship in the second winter. After

his death the ship was abandoned. Mr. Codge and the half-dozen old

mariners who had made their home in the dismal hulk came ashore.

Grim and ugly and as silent as the grave, save for the winds that moan

through her portholes and corridors, she lies rusting in sun and storm,

a gloomy presence that fills the soul with awe. Even the birds of the

air shun her barren decks; less fastidious bats have taken up their

abode in the heart of her, and spiders great and small are at work on a

sickly shroud.

Twenty months have passed. Christmas and New Year's day have twice been

celebrated and another Easter Sunday has found its way into the faithful

journal of Peter Snipe, and with them two amazing Fourths of July when

there was coasting on the long slopes and winter sports on the plains.

There has been one bountiful harvest and seed has been sown for yet

another. The full length of the sunny plain is under cultivation. The

bins in the granaries are well-filled with the treasures of the soil;

the gardens have increased and flourished; the warehouse is stacked

with fresh and dried fruits, vegetables, honey, and row upon row of

preserves! Great earthen jars, modeled with all the severity of the

primitive cave-dweller, serve as receptacles. The grist-mill on Leap

Frog River is busy from dawn till dusk; the forge rings with the music

of hammer and anvil; a saw-mill in the heart of Dismal Forest hums its

whining tune all day long. A noisy, determined engine, fashioned by

mechanics out of material taken from the engine and boiler room of the

Doraine provides the motive power for the saws and the means to produce

ponderous, far-reaching blasts on the transferred “fog-horn.”

New and more commodious huts have gone up, roads have been blazed

through the forests, a logging ferry plies between the opposite shores

of Mott Haven, and a ship is on the ways above the landing “stage.”

At the top of Split Mountain stands a lofty wireless tower. For months

it has been spitting vain messages to the four winds. Out of the great

silences at rare intervals come faint flickers of radio calls, jumbled,

indistinct, undecipherable,--but, for all that, definite pulse beats of

a far-off life.

Trigger Island went mad with joy when the first of these aerial

mutterings was reported down from the mountain-top. “Only a question

of time now,” they cried in their delirium. But weeks went by before

another sound was heard. Now the report of feeble, long-separated

manifestations, like vague spirit-rappings, no longer caused excitement

or enthusiasm,--only a rueful shaking of heads.

Lieutenant Platt's station at the top of the mountain is a rude,

elementary affair, notwithstanding the many weary, puzzling,

disheartening months spent in its construction. The damaged, almost

useless dynamo from the Doraine had to be repaired and conveyed to the

crest of the eminence; what seemed to be fruitless ages were consumed

in devising an engine with power sufficient to produce even the feeble

results that followed. And when the task of installing the plant was

completed, the effective radius was far short of a hundred miles.

Constant efforts were being made to develop greater sending power, but

the means at hand were inadequate, the material unobtainable.

The firing of the Doraine's gun had long since been discontinued. The

supply of shells being greatly reduced, Lieutenant Platt decided to

waste no more of them, but to wait for some visible evidence that a

vessel was within signalling distance: a shadowy plume of smoke on

the far horizon or the white tip of a sail peeping over the rim of the

world.

Frugality is the watchword. The days of plenty are sternly guarded so

that their substance may not be squandered; always there is the thought

of the lean year that may come, the year when the harvests fail and

famine stalks naked through the land.

The first law, therefore, is thrift. Not thrift in its common, accepted

sense, based on the self-denial of the individual, but a systematic

shoulder-to-shoulder stand for the general welfare of the community.

There is no such thing as waste on Trigger Island. The grim spectre of

want and privation treads softly behind every mortal there, and there is

none who treats its invisible presence with disdain. Even the wood-ashes

from stoves and fireplaces are carefully hoarded in hoppers, for the

alkaline solution obtained by treating them with water is lye. This lye

is being used chiefly in the production of a soap not unlike that made

by thrifty farmers' wives in the Argentine, experimentation with

the pulpy fruit of a tree belonging to the variety known as Sapindus

marginatus bringing about rather astonishing results.

For many months of the year the people wear sandals on their bare feet.

Only those who toil in the forests don the uncouth boots turned out

by the firm of cobblers known as Block & Nicklestick. Shoes, boots

and slippers of another day are zealously guarded by their owners, in

anticipation of still another day,--the day of deliverance. “Waste not,

want not,” is the motto of Trigger Island.

The second winter brought a double catastrophe, and for days thereafter

deepest gloom prevailed. Even the stout-hearted Percival drooped under

the weight of it.

Fire wiped out the work of months in the space of a few bleak, bitter

hours. The sturdy little ship that was so well along toward completion

was destroyed.

Months of faithful, patient, dogged toil had resulted in the

construction of a stout hull which stood proudly on the ways to

be admired and glorified by the eager, confident supporters of the

determined little band of builders. Six weeks more would have seen the

vessel off the ways and floating gaily on the surface of the snug little

basin, ready for the final touches, the provisioning and the ultimate

departure of the hardy company that was to take her out into the open

stretches in quest of the helping hand. For weeks a devoted, one-minded

community had been preparing food, raiment and comforts for the men who

were to go forth in the new Doraine. The masts and spars were in place,

the forecastle and cabin were almost ready for occupancy, the galley was

nearing completion,--and then came swift, relentless disaster.

The night was cold and windy. Down at the water's edge, almost under the

bulging side of the ship, two men had their quarters at one end of the

low, rambling carpenter shop. At the other end was located the forge.

The very thing they were there to guard against happened on this

miserable night. Fire broke out in the forge.

The man on watch had fallen asleep. His name was Smiley. It is mentioned

here for the only time in this narrative.

Shortly before midnight, his companion was awakened by the smell of

smoke. He scrambled out of his blankets on the floor,--and cursed the

man who still slept in his chair beside the smoke-befogged lantern on

the end of a carpenter's bench. Flames were creeping along the wooden

partition separating the forge from the shop. Half a mile away three

hundred men were sleeping,--but half a mile is half a mile. Before the

watchmen could sound the alarm, after their first courageous efforts

to subdue the blaze, the building was a roaring mass of flames and a

gleeful wind had carried tongues of fire to the side of the vessel where

they licked shapeless black patterns at first and then swiftly turned

them to red.

Stark-eyed, shivering people stood far back among the trees throughout

the rest of the night and watched the work of months go up in flame and

smoke. Nothing could be done to save the ship. Hewn from the hardiest

trees in the forest, caulked and fortified to defy the most violent

assaults of water, she was like paper in the clutch of flames. In the

grey of early morn the stricken people slunk back to their cabins and

gave up hope. For not only was their ship destroyed but the priceless

tools and implements with which she had been built were gone as well. It

was the double catastrophe that took the life, the spirit, out of them.

And while the day was still breaking, the man who had slept at his post,

stole off into the forest and cut his throat from ear to ear.

But now, months afterward, another ship is on the ways. Indomitable,

undaunted, the builders rose above disaster and set to work again.

New tools were fashioned from steel and iron and wood,--saws, chisels,

sledges, planes and hammers--in fact, everything except the baffling

augurs. Resolute, unbeaten hands toiled anew, and this time the humble

craft was not to be given a luckless name.

Superstition was rife. All save Andrew Mott saw ill-omen in the name

“Doraine.” Steadfastly he maintained that as the Doraine had brought

them safely to the island, guided by a divine Providence, a Doraine

could be trusted to take them as miraculously away. And as for changing

the name of his prattling ward, he fairly roared his objection; though

an uncommonly mild man for a sailor, he uttered such blasphemous things

to a group of well-meaning women that even Sheriff Soapy Shay was

aghast.

After the dreary period that followed the disaster, there came a sharp

awakening as from a dream filled with horrors. Something lying dormant

in the com-mon breast had stirred. It was the unbeaten spirit that would

not die. These men and women lifted up their heads and beheld the star

of hope undimmed. In a flash, the aspect changed.

“We must start all over again,” was the cry that awoke them, and from

that time on there was no such word as fail in the lexicon of Trigger

Island.

Slowly, laboriously out of the ashes rose a new hull, a stauncher one

than its ill-fated predecessor. The year wasted in the building of the

first ship was lamented but not mourned. Cheerfulness, even optimism,

prevailed throughout the village. No man, no woman lifted the voice

of complaint. Resignation took the form of stoicism. A sort of dogged

taciturnity was measurably relieved by the never-failing spirit of

camaraderie. There was even a touch of bravado in the attitude of these

people toward each other,--as of courage kept up by scoffing. Even

Death, on his sombre visits, was regarded with a strange derision by

those who continued to spin. They had cheated him not once but many

times, and they mocked him in their souls.

“I'm not afraid of Death,” was Buck Chizler's contribution. “I've just

discovered that Death is the rottenest coward in the world. He either

waits till you get too blamed old to fight, or else he jumps on you when

you ain't looking, or when you're so weak from sickness you don't care

what happens. I used to be afraid of Death. And why? Because I wasn't

onto the old bum; Why, look at what he does. He jumps onto weeny little

babies and feeble old women and--and horses. Now, I'm onto him, and I

ain't got any use for a cheap sport,--not me.”

The little community had taken to religion. As is invariably the case,

adversity seeks surcease in some form of piety. Men who had not entered

a church since the days of their childhood, men who had scoffed at the

sentimentality of religion, now found consolation in the thing they had

once despised. They were abashed and bewildered at first, as one after

another they fell into the habit of attending services. They were

surprised to find something that they needed, something that made life

simpler and gentler for them, something uplifting.

“We're a queer mess of Puritans,” reflected Randolph Fitts. “You know

that parrot of old Bob Carr's? Well, he took it out and wrung its neck

last night,--after all the time, and trouble, and patience he spent in

giving her a swell private education. There never was a bird that could

swear so copiously as that bird of Bob's. He taught her every thing

she knew. He worked day and night to provide her with an up-to-date

vocabulary. He used to lie awake nights thinking up new words for old

Polly to conquer. Now he says the blamed old rip was deceiving him all

the time. She began springing expletives on him that he'd never heard

of before in all his forty years before the mast. She first began using

them a couple of months ago when he undertook to reform her. He

started in to teach her to say 'good gracious' and 'goodness me' and

'hoity-toity' and all such stuff, and she cursed so loud and so long

that he had to throw a bucket of water on her.

“Every time he came home from church, that redheaded harridan would open

up on him with such a string of vituperation that he had to hold his

ears so's not to forget himself and backslide. Well, it got so that Bob

couldn't live with her any longer. She simply wouldn't puritanize. The

nearest he ever got her to saying 'good' was when she said it with only

one 'o,' and then as prefix to 'dammit.' So he decided the only way to

reform her was to murder her. She managed to nip a piece out of his hand

while he was doing it, however, and he's had the hump all day because he

fell from grace and said something he'd oughtn't to. Yes, sir; we're a

queer mess of Puritans. Look at us. Catholics, Presbyterians,

Baptists, Methodists, Jews, infidels, Theosophists,--even Christian

Scientists,--all rolled up into one big bundle labeled: 'Handle with

Prayer.' We know nearly all the Ten Commandments by heart, and the

Beatitudes flow from us in torrents. My wife was saying only the other

night that if Sheriff Shay didn't arrest that bird for using profane

language, she'd start a petition to have--Hello, Soapy! I didn't know

you were present.”

“What was she going to do?” demanded the Sheriff of Trigger Island.

“There's no use telling you now. It's too late. Polly has gone to a

place I don't dare mention, so what's the use talking about it?”

“I can't go 'round pinchin' fallen parrots,” growled Soapy. “Besides,

I'm the feller that learned her most of the cuss-words old Bob never

heard before. I never saw a bird that was so anxious to improve. She

used to set there with her ear cocked, just simply crazy to learn

something new. Every time she'd see me coming she'd begin to hop up and

down on her perch and call me names, figurin' I'd lose my temper and

give her a tongue lashin'. Gosh, I'm glad she's dead. It was gettin'

to be an awful nuisance chasing parrots out of the trees back of Bob's

house. They got so's they'd come down there and set around all day

pickin' up things she said. Somebody told me the other day he heard a

parrot 'way up in the woods swearin' like a sailor. He fired a club at

it, and what do you think it said to him?”

“If you weren't such an ungodly liar, Soapy, I'd ask you,” said Chief

Justice Malone.

Soapy regarded him sorrowfully.

“If you keep on sayin' things like that, Judge, I'll have to tell your

wife you ain't true to her,” said he.

“And that would be the most prodigious lie you ever told,” exclaimed Mr.

Malone.

“Sure. You and me know it's a lie, but you'd ketch hell, just the same.”

CHAPTER II.

The population of Trigger Island has increased. Following the example

of Buck Chizler and the Governor himself, scores of dubious lovers

took heart. They succeeded in dispelling certain misgivings--and doubts

lurking in the hearts,--not to say consciences,--of approximately

three-fourths of the unmarried women on the island, with the result that

Father Francisco and Parson Mackenzie were kept exceedingly busy for a

number of weeks.

The “state,” guided by the newly elected Chief Justice, extracted vows

even more severe than those incorporated in the marriage

service. And yet, despite the emphatic declarations of certain

candidates,--principally male,--there remained in the minds of

all,--including brides,--a lingering doubt. On the other hand, several

ardent and undoubtedly honest gentlemen were unable to marry the objects

of their affection for the simple reason that too many people were able

to recall the lamentations of the ladies themselves, in the early days

when it was customary to suffer because of the suspense and agony their

poor husbands were enduring at home.

The case of Joe Hooker and Matilda Larson was particularly distressing,

and ultimately led to the passage of a rather drastic law by the

Council. Judge Malone was the father of this law. It provided for the

automatic annulment of all previous marriages at the expiration of two

years,--provided, however, the absent husband or wife didn't turn up to

contest the matter. This law also granted absolute freedom to the absent

husband or wife, who was thereby authorized to remarry without further

notice,--or words to that effect. It was, declared Randolph Fitts, a

perfectly just and equable law, and would no doubt ease the minds of

quite a number of people in far-off lands,--if they ever heard of it.

Joe and Matilda had been married nearly two months when, in the thick

of a connubial row, he demanded her passport. He even went so far as to

threaten her with his if she didn't produce it at once. Matilda's

temper was no milder than Joe's. She not only dug up her passport but a

marriage certificate as well, while all he could show was a passport.

It was a very unfortunate contretemps, in view of the fact that they

shortly afterwards kissed and “made up.” It so happened that there

were quite a number of witnesses to the flaunting of these damaging

documents, and as Trigger Island was then in the first stages of a

religious upheaval, it was impossible to overlook this definite instance

of iniquity. Despite the recantations of the chagrined couple,--and,

it must be added, the surreptitious disappearance of the incriminating

papers,--the matter was brought before the tribunal of justice. Chief

Justice Malone was equal to the emergency. Indeed, he had been expecting

something of the sort, and was prepared. He ordered both of the

interested parties to bring suit for divorce from their legal spouses,

one for “failure to provide,” the other for “desertion,” and promptly

granted decrees, service by publication having been obtained through the

medium of the Trigger Island Pioneer, printed monthly by Peter Snipe,

editor and publisher, limited to an edition of one, owing to the

scarcity of paper, and posted conspicuously for all subscribers on the

bulletin board in front of the “government building.” Additional spice

was lent to the affair by the surprising reluctance of Joe and Matilda

to re-enter the paradise from which they had been ejected. Apparently

they had had enough of each other. Moreover, they had both “got

religion” and insisted on repenting at leisure, separately and alone.

But people took a very decided stand in the matter. They could repent in

any manner they liked after Matilda's baby was born, but not before. And

so they were married once more, and, strange to relate, lived happily

and contentedly thereafter.

Now, while all this may strike the reader as footless and trivial, it

really has a distinct place in the chronicles of Trigger Island.

If, perforce, the writer has succeeded in treating the situation

facetiously, it should not be assumed that the people of Trigger Island

had any desire or inclination to be funny about it. On the contrary,

they took it very seriously, and quite naturally so, if one stops to

consider the narrow confines by which their very existence was bounded.

There were no such things as “trifles” in the daily life of Trigger

Island. The smallest incident took on the importance of an event, the

slightest departure from the ordinary at once became significant. In

other circumstances, these people would have been vastly amused by the

quixotic settlement of the affairs of Joe and Matilda; they would have

grinned over the extraordinary decree of Justice Malone, and they would

have taken it all with an indulgent wink. As a matter of fact, they

were stern-faced and intense. They had made laws of their own, they had

established a code. The violation of either was not to be countenanced.

It was of no consequence to them that Judge Malone's methods were

without precedent, that they were not even a travesty in the true light

of the law.

No one was more soberly in earnest than Michael Malone himself. The

proceedings were carried out with the utmost dignity and formality.

There were no smiles, no jocose comments.

Nothing will serve more clearly to illustrate the sense of isolation to

which the people of Trigger Island had resigned themselves than the fact

that they accepted the Judge's decision and the subsequent marriage

as absolutely unassailable, either from a legal or an ethical point of

view.

The town itself was flourishing. Traffic and commerce were carried on

in the most systematic, organized manner. Everybody was busy. The utter

impossibility for one man or set of men to profit at the expense of

others naturally put a curb upon ambitions, but it did not subdue the

spirit of enterprise.

There is a baby in the Governor's Mansion,--a lusty boy with blue eyes

and an engaging smile. He is four months old, and his name is already a

household word on Trigger Island. It is not Algernon, nor is it Adonis.

It is John;--John Clinton Percival.

The Governor's Mansion is a pretentious structure. It has four rooms and

a bath! A wide porch extends along the full front of the house, with a

steeply pitched awning protecting it from the rain and sun. At one end

of the porch is a very cosy arrangement of hand-wrought chairs and

a commodious swinging seat. The other end, just off the parental

bed-chamber, has been converted into an out-door sleeping-room for John

C. Percival. The Governor's lady has no nursemaid. She does her own

housework, her own washing and ironing, and she takes care of her own

baby. (There is no such thing on Trigger Island as a servant. More

than one woman who reads this tale will sigh and murmur something about

Paradise.) Ruth still teaches in the little school. Though she is the

first lady of the land, she supports herself, she earns her daily bread.

It is the law irrevocable. There are no distinctions. Nor would she have

it otherwise.

The “Mansion,” as it was universally called, stands alone at the upper

end of the Green, facing the meeting-house. The nearest hut is at least

two hundred yards away. Work on its construction was begun the day

after the wedding. For weeks men had toiled eagerly, enthusiastically,

voluntarily, and in the first gay days of spring it was completed.

Since then, the same hands, the same thoughts, the same interests were

constantly employed in improvements,--not only to the house itself but

to the grounds about it. The Governor's “Mansion” became the plaything

of the people. Percival's protests were received with amiable grins.

“It's our house, boss,--not yours,” explained Buck Chizler, whose spare

time was largely expended in the development,--you might almost say,

the financing,--of a flower-bed on the lawn. It was to be the finest

flower-bed of them all, he swore. “This is government property and we,

the people, are going to do what we please with it.”

“That's all very fine, Buck, but don't you think you ought to be

spending your spare hours with your wife, instead of puttering around

here?”

“Do you know who the boss of this job is? My wife. I'm nothing but an

ordinary day-laborer, a plain Mick, a sort of a Wop, obeying orders.

Good gosh, you don't think I've got brains enough to design this

flower-bed, do you? No, sirree! It takes an artist to think up a design

like this. When I get all these rocks in place according to plans you'll

see what I mean. It'll be a hum-dinger, A. A. This here thing running

off this way is the tail. Come over here and look at it from this

side,--it's upside down from where you're standin'.”

“Tail? Tail of what?”

“Tail of a horse. This is going to be a horse when it's finished.”

“My God!”

Buck was not above being irritated by the dismay in Percival's voice.

“Minnie's got her heart set on it, A. A.,” he explained. “It's going to

be a sorrel horse, you see,--with a blue tail and a red head. Mustard,

hollyhocks and geraniums is what she's going to plant here when I get

the bed fixed. Socrates,--he was the best horse I ever straddled,--he

was a sorrel. I took him down the--”

“As far as you've got, Buck, it looks more like a dachshund than a

horse,” observed Percival.

Buck eyed his work deprecatingly. “That's because there ain't space

enough. I had to either saw his legs off or else have him layin' down.

Minnie had him kneelin' in her first sketch, but gosh, it was the

funniest thing you ever saw. It ain't possible for a horse to kneel

with his hind legs, but she had him doin' it all right,--kneeling

forward, at that, with his tail stickin' straight up so's it wouldn't

be in the way of his heels. It's all Jack Wales's fault. He simply would

put that blamed sun-dial of his right in the middle of this plot,--and

these doggoned gravel-walks running every which way give me the

blind-staggers. Why, A. A., you got more gravel walks here than

they've got in Central Park. And all these scrubby hedges, stone walls,

fountains, flower-beds, cedar freaks,--my God, Perce, I'd hate to come

home a little squiffed if I lived in that house of yours, 'specially at

night. Look at old Pedro and Philippa over there, setting out that stuff

that looks like sparrowgrass. And that prize job of Ed Keller's,--my

God, A. A., what good is a dog kennel on this island? There ain't a dog

inside a thousand miles. The only one we ever had was that poodle old

Mrs. Velasco had, and it died before--”

“That isn't a kennel, Buck.”

“It ain't? Well, what is it?”

“It's a Swiss chalet.”

“What does Ed Keller know about Swiss chalets?”

“Nothing,--absolutely nothing, Buck,” admitted Percival forcibly.

A tall, perfectly straight flagpole graced the extensive “front-yard,”

and from its peak floated the flag of Trigger Island,--a great white

pennon with a red heart in the centre, symbolic of love, courage,

fidelity. But on the tip of Split Mountain the Stars and Stripes still

waves from sunrise to sunset.

The new cabins are farther up the slope of the mountains, overlooking

what is now called the “old” town. There is something fairy-like in

the picture one sees at night from the Green below. Dozens of lighted

windows gleam softly through the foliage, for all the world like

witches' lamps. The day reveals thin, blue plumes of smoke stealing out

of the tops of the trees to be wafted off into nothingness; they come

from invisible chimneys far down in the leafy fastnesses. Up here are

the huts of the newly married. Almost without exception, they are tiny

affairs, scarcely larger than the metaphorical bandbox. Each contains

two rooms.

During the very hot weather in January and February, the long, curving

beach is alive with oddly dressed bathers and idlers. This is at midday

only, when the sun is so hot and fierce that all work ceases for two

hours or more. Though the sun is hot, the water is never warm. A dip in

the surf is all that any one save the hardiest cares to take. They loll

on the cool white sands, under improvised shelters made of boughs,

or indulge in spirited games on the long level stretches. This is the

play-hour of the people throughout the hot months of summer. They “knock

off” work of all sorts, and seek relief from the stifling heat of the

woodland in the cool wet sands along the shore.

The costumes are strange and varied; some are pretty, others almost

ludicrous. Small children appear in a scant breech-cloth; women of all

ages and proportions wear a sort of one-piece “jumper,” arms bare and

legs uncovered up to the knees. The men affect nothing except trunks

made from coffee sacks. The few real bathing-suits belong to such

experienced travellers as Nicklestick, Shine and the Blocks,--regular

and persistent patrons of the hotels at Atlantic City, Palm Beach and

Rockaway. They never travel without a full and complete equipment. Mr.

Nicklestick, very superior in his red two piece “costume,” goes so

far as to contend that a man never should be without a bathing-suit,

because, says he, “it takes up no room in your trunk, and if you leave

it at home some one else is sure to stretch it so's you can't use it

yourself again.”

Olga Obosky and her three dancing-girls, Careni-Amori, and several

of the Brazilian ladies possess Ostend costumes in which they disport

themselves with complacent disregard for public opinion, favourable or

otherwise.

“She's got 'em all skinned a mile,” was Morris Shine's comment upon

Olga's lithe, graceful figure. “Ain't that so, Abey?”

The remark was addressed to Abel Landover.

“Even so,” returned that gentleman, glaring at the offender, “it doesn't

give you the right to call me Abey. You've got to cut it out, Shine.

Understand?”

“Sure,” said the affable Morris. “Only I've got a brother named Abraham,

and that was my father's name too. It comes natural to me to--Why, by

gracious, she's got the Venus Belvedere lashed to the mast. Did you ever

see--”

“I've never had the pleasure of seeing the Venus Belvedere,” interrupted

Landover coldly.

“You haven't?” exclaimed Morris, amazed. “The armless wonder? You ain't

seen her? Why, she's supposed to have the most perfect figger in the

world. Maybe you've seen her without knowing what her name is. They

never put the name on it, simply because every school boy and girl is

supposed to know who it is without being told. Funny you don't know--Oh,

she ain't alive, you know,--she ain't real. She's a statue,--thousands

of 'em turned out every year. Gee, the feller that designed that statue

must have cleaned up a pile. But, as I was saying, our little old Olga

has got her--Say, did you ever see a figger like that?”

“Yes,” broke in Landover shortly, “thousands of them.”

Mr. Shine looked sceptical. “Well,” he said after a moment's reflection,

and with studied politeness,--having already offended at the outset,

“all I got to say is, you talk like a woman, that's all I got to say.”

Landover was a greatly changed man in these days. There had come a

crisis in the affairs of Trigger Island, not many weeks before the

second annual election in April, when he was obliged to show his true

colours. The banker suddenly realized with a shock that he was actually

involved in a well-organized, though secret plot to overthrow the

so-called “government.” He had been completely deceived by the wily

Manuel Crust and several of his equally wily friends. They professed to

be organizing an opposition party to oust the dictatorial Percival and

his clique from office at the ensuing election,--a feat, they

admitted, that could be accomplished only by the most adroit and covert

“educational” campaign, “under the rose” perforce, but justifiable in

the circumstances. They had led Landover to believe that he was their

choice for governor. They went among the people, insidiously sowing the

seeds of discontent, hinting at the advantages to be obtained by the

election of an entirely new set of officers, mostly from among the

people themselves, but headed by the ablest man on the island,--Abel T.

Landover. They argued that as treasurer and comptroller of currency he

had shown himself to be the only man qualified to direct the affairs of

the people.

And Landover believed them. Despite his superior intelligence and

his vaunted ability to size up his fellow man, he was as blind and

unsuspecting as a child when it came to penetrating the real motives

of the conspirators. Vain, self-important, possessed of an abnormal

conceit, men of his type go ahead ruthlessly, ignoring the details, bent

only on achieving the ultimate. In Landover's case, he made the fatal

error of underestimating the craftiness of Manuel Crust; he looked upon

him as a blatant, ignorant ruffian of the stripe best known to him as

a “beer saloon politician,”--and known only by hearsay, at that. He

regarded himself as the master-politician and Crust as a contemptible

necessity.

As a matter of fact, Crust was using him to very materially advance his

own ends. The big Portuguese had a very definite purpose in mind. He had

no more intention of making Landover the chief man of the island than

he had of flying to the moon. He,--Manuel Crust,--was to have that

distinction! He despised Landover and all that he represented. He hated

him because he was rich, educated, favoured by fortune,--and given to

washing himself with unnecessary frequency and thoroughness. Manuel was

foul of body as well as foul at heart. He bitterly resented the sanitary

rules set up and enforced by the Council because those rules interfered

with what he was pleased to call his personal liberty. Why should he be

required to wash himself if he didn't want to do so? And why should he

do a great many silly things that Dr. Cullen ordered, just because a lot

of aristocrats were in the habit of doing them?

His hatred of Landover, however, was impersonal. The banker merely

represented a class. On the other hand, he hated Percival as an

individual; he hated him with every drop of blood in his black, venomous

heart. He had a certain grudging regard,--it might even be called

respect,--for the class to which Landover belonged; he was sometimes

conscious of a strange but quite positive sense of his own inferiority.

But he did not for an instant put Percival in the class with Landover.

He looked upon the young American as being no better than himself, and

yet the people from the Doraine had showered honours upon him, had made

him their chief, had suffered him,--a vagabond without a penny to his

name,--to marry the fairest and rarest woman of them all. What right had

this interloper to everything that was worth having, while he, an honest

fellow who always had paid his way, was denied even the smallest place

in the councils of the land? What right had he, a tramp, to sit upon a

throne?

Landover was an unwitting, but thoroughly self-satisfied dupe. He fitted

in very nicely with Manuel's plan to gain control of the island. There

were certain people who regarded the great banker as an apostle, a man

to follow, to be imitated,--such men as Block, Nicklestick and a few

others. Was he not one of the great financial geniuses of the day? Was

he not a power, a tremendous power, in the banking world? Was he not

a man who understood how to transform a dollar into a business block

almost over-night? For a time, sentiment had played tricks with their

boasted astuteness. Swept along by the current, they had failed to

appreciate the true conditions. They began to realize that it had been a

mistake to keep such men as Percival in power; behind the hand they

went about convincing each other that it was high time to rectify the

original error. These, in addition to the ignorant, easily persuaded

rabble from the steerage,--who, by the way, could give ample testimony

as to Percival's ability to “bluff,”--provided Crust with a decidedly

formidable following. The steerage people had but to be reminded of the

time when Percival tricked them so successfully.

Crust contended that if the American could fool them once, he would do

so again,--in fact, he went so far as to say that he had been doing it

all the time.

There was nothing open and above board about the methods of Manuel

Crust. He proceeded about the business of fomenting dissatisfaction and

strife with an artfulness surprising in one of his type. At no time did

he openly denounce the “government.” He was very careful about that.

A jesting word here, a derisive smile there, a shrug of the

shoulders,--and in good time others less politic than himself began to

do the talking. Others began to complain of the high-handed, dictatorial

manner in which Percival and his friends ruled the community.

The secret, stealthy opposition grew apace; it assumed sinister

proportions,--all the more sinister because it was masked by every

outward sign of submission. Crust had won friends right and left among

the very people who would have killed him not so many months before but

for the very man he was planning to destroy.

Outwardly he had changed,--not subtly, it is true,--from a sullen,

threatening bully into a hearty, smiling, sympathetic comrade who laid

himself out to be obliging. Even Percival was puzzled, if not deceived,

by this surprising transformation.

CHAPTER III.

It was Olga Obosky who discovered and exposed the plot. A young Spaniard

had fallen hopelessly, madly in love with her. He was a good-looking,

hard-eyed boy from the pampas,--a herder who was on his way to visit his

mother in from Rio. He was a “gun-slinger” bearing close relationship to

the type of cowboy that existed in the old days of the Far West but who

is now extinct save for pictorial perpetuation on the moving-picture

screens.

Down in his wild young heart smouldered a furious jealousy of Percival.

Crust played upon this jealousy to fine effect. He did not hesitate

to feed the flame with sly speculations, innuendos and even tales

concerning Percival and Olga.

One day the Spaniard, in the midst of his violent protestations and

pleadings, became reckless with promises to Olga. He swore that if she

would have him he would make her the first lady of the land in place of

the stupid American girl who now held the honour. Then, having loosed

his tongue, he poured out the whole of the ugly scheme which was to

alter every existing condition on the island. The wiping out of the

dictator and his swell-headed gang of “intellectuals”; the seizure of

all firearms, ammunition and stores; the complete subjugation of the

people, even to the point of slavery; the elevation of Manuel Crust

and his followers to a state of absolute power; the confiscation of all

property,--including women! He naively advised her to jump at the chance

offered her,--the chance to avoid the most unpleasant feature of the new

regime.

“As my woman,” he said, “you will be safe. It is understood. It is all

arranged. If you belong to me, nothing can happen to you. We shall be

of the elect. I am to be of the council. I am to be one of the masters,

the--”

“But,” she cried, scarcely able to believe her ears, “how is all this to

be accomplished? How will the few overcome the many? You say there are

scarcely more than a dozen of you, my friend. What can a dozen men do

to--”

“It will be simple,” cried he, his eyes flaming. “How is it that

Percival and his little gang hold all of us in bondage? It is because

they have the guns, the revolvers, the bullets. Well, we shall have the

guns, and everything. When the time comes, when the people have voted

in the election and a new party is in control, then we will have our

chance. We will have the upper hand. To hell with the people, Olga. They

will count for nothing once we have charge of the guns and stores. This

Percival he has ordered the election. He insists that the people be

given a chance to vote once a year, to elect some one to take his place

if they feel like it. He says it is only fair. Faugh! He laughs in his

sleeve. Come! Your promise! I love you. I must have you for my woman.

I cannot live without you. I will give you power to spit in the face

of that woman down there--that American aristocrat! We will be rich, we

will be happy, we will have everything. Diamonds and pearls and rubies

and all the gold there is on this island. We will be the ones to go away

in the ship, and we will have jewels to shame the richest of them.”

“We--you and Manuel and the rest--are to go away in the ship?” she

cried, cold to the marrow of her bones.

“Sure. Why not? Are we not to be the owners of that ship? It is your

chance to go back to the world again,--with me! Oh, and I agree to this

also: If you do not want me any longer after you are in Rio or Buenos

Aires or anywhere out there,--if you would rather be free again,--I

promise to release you. What could be fairer than that? Nothing! I shall

kill myself, of course, when you leave me,--but still I promise, and I

never break a promise. But I shall love you so much that you will never

leave me. You are my queen. Hell, how I love you--how I love you!” His

face darkened, then slowly paled. He realized that he had gone too far.

Leaning close to her, his frightened eyes not a foot from hers, he said:

“You cannot deny me now. I have told you everything. I do not know why

I have told you. I must be crazy with love of you. Ah,--the look in your

beautiful eyes! God, how it takes the weight off my mind. You will love

me,--you will be mine,--I see it in your eyes. When? When?”

She affected a bantering smile. She knew how to play with such fools as

he.

“Do you think I am a fool? How do I know you are not lying to me about

all this? It may be a trick to influence me. No, no! I am not such a

simpleton. You promise me diamonds, and gold, and much love. You promise

to take me away from this dreadful place on a ship, back to the world

I worship. But you may be lying. I must have something better than your

word, my friend.”

“But I am telling you the truth. I swear it!” he cried eagerly.

“Keep your hands off of me,--do you hear! Don't touch me! Not yet, not

yet. I must have some proof that you can give me all these things you

offer. Will you have Manuel Crust guarantee that--”

“My God,--Manuel,--he must not know I have spoken to you. He must never

know,” he gasped. “Take my word,--believe me, beloved one. It is

the God's truth I tell you. Within the month I will lay diamonds,

pearls,--everything,--at your feet. I--”

“Leave me now. Come again,--tomorrow. I must think. I must--”

“But you will love me? You will come to me? You--”

“You are a very handsome boy,” she said softly, “and I should like to

believe you.”

He followed her for a few steps, trouble in his eyes.

“It is not enough. I must have your promise,” he said.

She looked at him coldly. “You will have it when I am ready to give it,”

she said, and his face lightened for a moment, only to darken again.

“I will cut your heart out if you breathe a word of this to any one,” he

whispered hoarsely.

“Is that the way for a lover to speak?” she returned.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “It is the way,--with me.”

“Come to me tomorrow and tell me exactly what my share of the treasure

is to be,--and then I will let you know whether it is to be you--or

Manuel Crust, my friend. Oh, you see, I am greedy,--and I can love

Manuel quite as easily as I can love--”

“I will cut his heart out if you--”

“There--there! It will not be necessary. Come tomorrow.”

That same afternoon she went to Percival with the Spaniard's story.

“Well, we'll nip that in the bud,” said he, setting his jaw. “The first

thing to do is to warn Landover.”

“Warn Landover!” cried the Russian. “He is all mix up in it,--he is one

of ze ringleaders.”

“No, he isn't. He's not that kind of a man. He doesn't know a thing

about all this, I'll stake my life on it.”

“But, Olga,” cried Ruth, white-faced and troubled; “Fernandez will kill

you. He will,--Good heaven, girl, did he not swear to cut your heart out

if you--”

“Poof!” cried the other, snapping her fingers. “He will not do zat,

my dear. I am not afraid. Do you know what happens to informers in my

country? They vanish. No one ever sees them again, and no one ever asks

where they have gone. They are here today--tomorrow they are not. It is

the same the world over.”

“You mean,--Manuel's men will make way with him? How horrible!”

“Do not waste your sympathy on zat Fernandez. He is no good. You would

see what kind of man he is if this plot should succeed.”

“But you will have to give him your answer tomorrow,” cried Ruth.

Olga shot a keen glance at Percival's face.

“It is for you to say, Percivail, what my answer shall be,” said she,

after, a slight pause. A queer pallor spread over her face.

“For me to say?” he exclaimed.

“Are you not the governor? If it suits your plans for me to give myself

to zat man--”

“My God, Olga! What the devil are you driving at?”

“--to satisfy him until you are prepared to nip zis revolution in the

bud, as you say,--I shall--”

“Thunderation!” he gasped. “You mean you would sacrifice yourself--Great

Scot! What do you think I'm expecting to do? Go to sleep for a month or

so? Bless your heart, my dear Olga, if you are even thinking of getting

married to Fernandez, you'll have to be pretty spry about it. Because

I'm going to nip the business in the bud before tomorrow morning.”

“Zat is what I thought,” said she, the colour rushing back to her face.

That evening Percival called a meeting of the “cabinet,”--as the council

was now called. They were asked to come to his home, instead of to the

meetinghouse. This, of itself, was surprising. Landover had never set

foot inside the “governor's mansion.” While his attitude toward the

“governor's lady” was studiedly courteous, he made no effort to resume

the intimate and friendly relationship that existed before her marriage

to his enemy. Contact with Percival was unavoidable. They met frequently

in “cabinet” conferences, but avoided each other at all other times.

He came to this hastily called meeting, however, and Percival was the

only man present who was not dumbfounded. Sheriff Shay, in summoning the

members to this secret meeting, had delivered a message that Landover

could not well afford to ignore.

Seventeen men were crowded into the little sitting-room of the house.

Each one of them bore a high-sounding title. There were present, besides

Percival, State Treasurer Landover, Chief Justice Malone, Minister of

War Platt, Minister of Marine Mott, Minister of Agriculture Pedro Drom,

State Clerk Flattner, Surgeon General Cullen, Lord High Sheriff Shay,

and the following members of the Executive Council: Snipe, Block,

Jones, Fitts, Knapendyke, Calkins, Ruiz' and Alvara. Ruiz was a Chilean

merchant and Alvara a Brazilian coffee grower. Calkins was an English

cattle buyer.

Percival, with his customary abruptness, announced that there was a plot

on foot to destroy the present government and turn the island over to

the mercy of a gang of desperadoes headed by Manuel Crust.

Landover was on his feet in an instant.

“I am in a position, gentlemen, to declare that there is not a word of

truth in that statement. It is true there is a very definite movement on

foot to organize a new party to contest the election of many of us

who are gathered here tonight. The people want a change. They are

dissatisfied. They have a right to vote as they please, to choose their

own--”

“We are not here to discuss the election, Mr. Landover,” broke in

Percival. “Before we go any farther, however, I wish to state that if

you are chosen Governor of Trigger Island, you will find no one more

willing and ready to serve you than I. But, that is beside the question.

If you will listen to me, I will tell you exactly what it is that

confronts us. The election next month is to be the signal for all kinds

of hell. You may be elected governor, Mr. Landover,--but you will not be

allowed to serve. Now, here is the story that came to me today,--and I

can vouch for it. I am authorized,--in fact I am commanded to reveal to

you the name of my informant. You may be sure I did my best to

prevail upon her to remain unknown, for the present, at least, but she

threatened to go forth and shout her story from the housetops if I did

not do as she wished.”

The conference ended an hour later, and Abel Landover had shown his

true colours at last. He stood up, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes

ablaze, his voice husky, and addressed the group.

“Gentlemen, I have been wrong. I am grateful to Mr. Percival for his

generosity in warning me of the danger into which I was rushing. We have

not been friends. He could have left me to my fate. I would not have

blamed him. He has played fair,--and I have not. I ask you all to

bear witness to that humiliating admission. I have argued here tonight

against all of you,--when down in my heart I had the sickening fear

that this damnable story is true. I now believe it to be true. I now see

through the whole devilish game.

“I give you my word of honour as a gentleman and an American, I did not

realize the true conditions until tonight. Perhaps I might have found

out in time to upset their plans,--but that is doubtful. These men

are smart. They are natural born plotters. They are dark men with dark

souls. This fellow Fernandez has fooled me completely. He is a gay,

smiling boy, but now that I have heard Madame Obosky's account of him, I

recall many little traits in his make-up that go far to substantiate my

new opinion of him. I never quite understood till now why he hated you,

Percival. Frankly, I knew that he had it in his heart to kill you. Crust

has told me of his difficulty in keeping him from running a knife into

you. I thought it was all talk, boyish bravado,--but now I know he meant

it.”

He lifted his head and set his jaw. “Gentlemen, I have a shameful

confession to make. Ever since I can remember, my sole thought has been

to rule. I did not know what it was to take orders from another man

until I came to this island. My whole being has been in revolt. The

thought uppermost in my mind for two years has been to re-establish

myself as a dominating force. To that end, I have played pretty bad

politics. I have worked upon the credulity and cupidity of these men,

promising them positions of authority if I were chosen by vote to govern

the affairs of this island. But, I am sure you all will believe me

when I say that it was my purpose to administer those affairs honestly,

fairly and as capably as I knew how. I was not only deceived by these

men, but by myself as well. I have played, like a blundering fool, into

their hands. My chagrin is beyond words. I can only say to you now that

you may count upon my unfailing support in any action you may decide to

take. My forebears were honest, loyal, law-abiding Americans. I--I think

I may say without fear of contradiction that it is impossible for me to

run otherwise than true to form.

“I lied, Percival, to Ruth Clinton about the encounter in my stateroom

on the Doraine. Believe me or not as you see fit, but I think that was

the only deliberate lie I have ever told in my life. I have done a great

many high-handed things, I have been inconsiderate of others, I have

crushed opposition in my own way, I have never allowed myself to

acknowledge defeat. My hand has been against you since the day you

appeared on the decks of the Doraine. It was not in my nature to see

good in you. To me, you were a good-for-nothing--Well, I'm glad to see

you smile! That is the devil with you,--your confounded smile. I ask you

to overlook what I have said, and done--and been, Percival,--and shake

hands. You have nothing to apologize for. There never has been a time

in all these months that I have not felt you to be a real man, an

honest one, and a gentleman. I think I know an honest man when I see

one,--indeed, it is my business to read men,--and I rarely make a

mistake.”

As the two men shook hands, Randolph Fitts remarked drily:

“Seems to me I remember your saying something of the sort the first day

you ever laid eyes on A. A., Abel.”

“The trouble is,” put in Soapy Shay sarcastically, “you don't know a

dishonest one when you see him, Bill.”

“Veil, let's get down to business,” said Moses Block nervously. “Ve

must go slow and careful-like. If we show our hands too soon, they will

uprise and--veil, I don't know vat!”

“Mr. Mott, what would you do if you got wind of a plot like this aboard

ship?” inquired Percival, his eyes narrowing.

“I would have the whole gang in chains before morning. Then I'd give

'em a taste of the 'cat' at daybreak, and before noon I'd have the

ringleaders hanging from a yard-arm,” said Andrew Mott, succinctly.

“Oh, my gracious!” gulped Mr. Block.

“Now, I'll tell you what would happen up in Copperhead Camp,” said

Percival, darkly. “They would get a beautiful cow-hiding and then

sentenced to wear a ball and chain, day and night, for anywhere from six

months to two years,--depending largely on the process of regeneration.

My experience has been that six months is enough.”

“We wouldn't dare do that, A. A.,” said Fitts. “You must not forget

public sentiment,--and public pity. I've got a better plan. How far out

is that little island off New Gibraltar, Platt?”

“A quarter of a mile, I should say.”

“Well, if they're not satisfied with life and conditions here, let's

make 'em a present of a nice little island of their own. That's what

I've always advocated as the proper way to treat anarchists. Stick 'em

away on an island completely surrounded by sharks and let 'em run it to

suit themselves.”

“But there are no sharks in these waters,” said Flattner. “They'd swim

over here some night and slit all our throats.”

“Not a chance. They hate water too much to have ever learned how to

swim. Now, here's the scheme. Round up as many of them as we're dead

sure about, row 'em out to the island, dump 'em with enough food and

water to last a week, supply them with tents and beds and tools, and let

'em build their own penitentiary. They'll have to do it or freeze next

winter. Once a week send food and drink out to them. The water is a

hundred fathoms deep between Trigger Island and that little green wart

out there on the face of the ocean. It will look like a million miles to

them. How does it strike you, gentlemen?”

Off the precipitous western extremity of Trigger Island lies a tiny

scrap of tree-covered land. It is perhaps one hundred yards wide and

thrice as long. An exploring party had visited it shortly after the

wreck of the Doraine, but since then no one had set foot upon its

shores. Its steep slopes, densely wooded, viewed from afar, suggested a

mountain top sticking up out of the sea. By boat, skirting the coast, it

was a good ten miles distant from the town.

Three men were seized that night and put through a rigid examination.

Early the next morning twelve more were taken, Manuel Crust among them.

Half of them, in their terror, “squealed.” Crust himself was one of

these. Almost before the people of the town knew what was afoot, the

fifteen had been tried, convicted, and were on their way to the landing

where boats were waiting to take them and their belongings off into

exile. As for the conspirators themselves, the blow was so swift, so

sudden, that they were dazed. It was like a bolt out of a clear sky.

Judge Malone sent them to “the Island” for indeterminate periods. At

stated intervals they were to be released, one by one, and restored

to citizenship. The shortest term of exile, however, was one year. The

releases were to be decided by lot, except in the case of three

men: Crust, Fernandez and an Irish sailor named Clark. They were the

ringleaders and they were to remain on “the Island” until the time came

for them to go aboard the relief ship with all the other citizens of

Trigger. At the end of the first year, and once a month thereafter for

twelve months, drawings were to be held, and the man whose name was

drawn would be released.

“You are prisoners of state,” said Judge Malone, in passing sentence.

“The state is obliged to feed you, and clothe you, and sustain you if

you fall ill, no matter how bitterly it goes against the grain. You will

not be obliged to work, or wash, or observe a single law. You may rob

each other to your hearts' content, you may murder each other with

perfect impunity, you may do just as you like. We started out to conduct

the affairs of this island along lines laid down by the Golden Rule. I

have come to the conclusion that the Golden Rule would be all right if

it were not for the human race. I am beginning to believe that the Rule

of Iron is the only one for the people of this earth to live under,--and

that is a pretty hard thing for an Irishman to say. You men ought to be

lined up against a wall and shot. We do not feel that we have the right

to take your lives. It is not in our hearts to destroy you, as you would

have destroyed us. But you may not dwell among us.”

Fernandez, wild with fury, shrieked vengeance upon the head of Olga

Obosky. Out of his ravings, the unsavoury crew gleaned enough to

convince them that he was responsible for their present unhappy plight.

“You will pay for this, you snake!” he yelled, foaming at the mouth and

shaking his fist at her. “I will drink your heart's blood! Remember what

Joe Fernandez says. I will come back here and get you,--Oh, I will get

you,--and when I am through with you your dog of a lover may have what

is left. I will cut you to pieces! I swear it--I swear it! Hear my oath!

You double-crossed me! You squealed on me! I will come back, and I will

drink your heart's blood! I swear it!”

He spat in her direction as he was dragged away with the rest of the

gang. Through his glittering, bloodshot eyes he saw the cool, derisive

sneer on her red lips. He had failed, however, to note the keen,

appraising look with which she searched the faces of his baffled,

glowering companions. In that long, tense look she had seen dawning

comprehension change to conviction; she had read his doom, so she

could, in perfect security, give him that scoffing, heartless smile to

take with him on the journey from which he was never to return.

Fifteen men went out to “the Island” that afternoon. From that day, the

authorities provided weekly rations for that number of men. To this

day they are ignorant of the fact that there are but fourteen mouths to

feed.

CHAPTER IV.

In the cool of a balmy January evening, following what had been the

hottest day the castaways had experienced since coming to Trigger

Island, a group of men and women sat upon the Governor's porch. There

was no moon, but the sky was speckled with millions of stars.

Olga Obosky, sitting on the squared log that served as a step, leaned

back against the awning post, her legs stretched out in luxurious

abandon. She was fanning herself, and her breath came rapidly,

pantingly. Now and then she patted her moist face with a handkerchief.

“How warm you are, Olga,” said Ruth, who sat beside her. “And you must

be dreadfully tired.”

“I am hot, but I am not tired,” replied the other. “I could dance all

night, my dear, without tiring. Did you really like the children, Ruth?”

“They were lovely. You have done wonders with them.”

“Regular Isadora Duncan stuff,” sighed Peter Snipe, drawing lazily at

his pipe. “Woodland nymphs, phantom pixies floating on the wind, zephyrs

in the guise of fairies, dreams come true,--my dear Olga, you are a

sorceress. You change clods into moonbeams, you turn human beings into

vapours, you cast the mantle of enchantment over the midsummer night,

and we see Oberon, Titania and all the rest of them disporting on the

breeze. And to think that only this afternoon I saw all of those gawky

girls working in the fields, their legs the colour of tan bark, with

sandals that looked like canal-boats, skirts made of hemp,--just regular

kids. And you transform them tonight into gleaming cloudlets to float

upon the ambient atmosphere--”

“For heaven's sake, Pete, stop being an author and talk like a real

man,” interrupted Fitts. “Can't you say, 'Gee, they was great, Olger'?”

It was “Twelfth Night,” and Olga's pupils had given a fairy dance on

the Green. To conclude the almost mystic entertainment, the great Obosky

herself had appeared in one of her most marvellous creations,--the

“Dance of the Caliph's Dream,”--the sensational, never-to-be-forgotten

dance that had been the talk of three continents. There was no spotlight

to follow her sinuous, scantily clad figure as it spun and leaped and

glided about the dim, starlit Green; there was no blare of brass and

cymbals, nor the haunting wail of flageolets,--only the tinkle of

mandolins and Spanish guitars to guide her bewildering feet,--and yet

she had never been so alluring.

When it was all over,--when the charmed circle of faces had vanished

into the byways of the night,--she came and flung herself down upon

the steps of the Governor's mansion. She had wrapped her warm body in a

sheath of yellow velvet; the tips of her bare feet were exposed to the

grateful night air. Her uplifted eyes shone like the stars that looked

down into them; her lips were parted in a smile; her flesh quivered with

the physical ecstasy that comes only with supreme lassitude.

“You never danced so beautifully in your life, Olga,” said Careni-Amori.

“And after two years, too. I cannot understand. I shall never sing again

as I sang two years ago. But you,--ah, you dance even better. I take

courage from you. Perhaps my voice has not gone to seed as Joseppi's

has,--poor man. Not that it had very far to go,--but still it was second

only to Caruso's, and that is something. How can it be that you improve

with idleness, while I--while we go the other way?”

“I shall never dance like zat again,” replied Olga, her eyes clouding.

“You speak as if it were your swan dance,” cried Michael Malone.

“Oh, I shall dance for ever,” said she, “but never again like zat. You

would ask why not. I cannot tell you. I do not know. Only can I say I

shall never dance like zat again,--never.”

Ruth turned her head quickly to look at the woman beside her. Olga's

face gleamed white in the starlight. Her eyes were still searching the

speckled dome, and the smile had left her lips.

“Don't say that, Olga,” she whispered softly. “You will delight great

audiences again,--you will charm--”

“Possibly,” interrupted the other, lowering her voice, turning her eyes

upon Ruth, and smiling mysteriously. “Great audiences, yes,--but what

are they? I appeared tonight before an audience of one. I danced as I

have never danced before,--all for zat audience of one. Your husband, my

dear. He one time informs me he has never seen me dance. Well,--tonight

I dance for him. Now, he can say he have seen Obosky dance. He will

never forget zat he have seen Obosky dance.”

Ruth laughed, but it was a strained effort. “He was positively

enchanted, Olga,” she said. Then she added: “But for goodness' sake,

don't ever let him know that you did it all for him. He will be so proud

and important that--”

“Oh, he knows I danced for him,” broke in the Russian calmly, in a most

matter-of-fact tone.

“You--you told him?”

“I did not have to tell him. He knew, without being told. La la, my

dear! Do not look so shocked. It is a habit I have. Always I dance for

one person in my audience. I pick him out,--sometimes it is a she,--and

zen I try only to please zat one person. I make him to feel he is the

one I am dancing for, zat he is all alone in the great big hall,--all

alone with me. Maybe he is in the gallery, looking down; maybe he is in

a box, or standing up at the back of the house,--no matter where he is,

I pick him out and so I think of no one else all ze time I dance.”

“And, by the same token, he is powerless to think of any one else. I

see. No wonder you charm them out of their boots.”

“And all the rest of his life he will remember that I danced for him

alone, zat man. As for me,--poof! I would not recognize him again if he

came to see me a thousand nights in succession. Once I saw a very tiny

boy in the stalls. He was with his mother and father. I danced for zat

child of six. When he is a very, very old man he will look back over

the years and see me dancing still,--always the same whirling, dazzling

thing that filled his little eyes and soul with wonder. So! Percivail

has seen me at my best. He will tell his grandchildren how wonderful

Obosky was,--and he will think of her to his dying day as something

beautiful, not something vile.”

“Oh, Olga!”

“You see, my dear,” said the other, composedly, “I wanted to make a good

impression on zat virtuous husband of jours. Now he will think of me as

the artist, not as the woman. It is much better so, is it not?”

“Sometimes you say things that cause me to wonder why I don't hate you,

Olga Obosky,” cried Ruth under her breath.

Olga laughed softly. “I repeat zat Golden Rule to myself every night and

every morning, Ruthkin,” said she, somewhat cryptically. Then they were

silent.

Conversation on the porch behind them lagged and finally ceased

altogether. The soft swish of fans was the only sound to disturb the

tranquil stillness.

“Nineteen-twenty,” fell dreamily from the lips of Randolph Fitts's wife.

“I used to think of Nineteen-twenty as being so far in the future that

I would be an old, old woman when I came to it. And here it is,--I am

living in it,--and I am not old.”

“Presidential year,” said Michael Malone, as he struck a match to

relight the pipe that had gone out. “Doesn't take them long to slip

around, does it? Seems only last week that I voted for Wilson. I wonder

if he'll be running again.”

“Sure! And if he can keep us in the war as long as he kept us out of

it,” said Peter Snipe, “we'll have to elect him again.”

“I'd give a lot to know whether we've got the Germans licked or not,”

mused Fitts. “We've had nearly three years to do it in.”

“Depends entirely on the navy,” said Platt, Minister of Marine, late of

the U. S. Navy.

“What can the navy do if the Germans will not come out?” demanded

Landover.

“Why, confound it all, the navy can go in, can't it?”

“The British Navy hasn't,” was Landover's reply.

“What's the use of speculating about the war?” said Percival, as he

threw himself on the grass at Ruth's feet. “Either it's over or it

isn't, and here we sit absolutely in the dark. They might as well be

fighting on Mars as over in Europe, so far as we are concerned. For

God's sake, let's not even think about the war. We'll all go crazy if we

do.”

“You're right,” said Fitts, gloomily.

“In any case,” said Malone, “Trigger Island has done all that any

self-respecting government can do. She has declared war on Germany. We

have nothing to be ashamed of. Still, I'd feel better if we could fire a

few shots at the dirty blackguards.”

“The war is over,” said Olga, staring up at the stars. “The Germans are

beaten. I have said so for many months, have I not?”

“You have,” agreed Malone. “But I don't see that you have anything on

the Kaiser. He said it was over in 1914.”

“'Don't argue with him, Olga,” said young Mrs. Malone. “He's Irish.”

“Like all Irishers he's longing for something he'll never get,” said

Fitts, drily.

“And what is that?” inquired Mrs. Malone.

“Home-rule,” said Fitts.

Olga Obosky yawned luxuriously. “I am so sleepy. My sandals, Governor

Percivail. I am going home.”

He picked up the sandals lying on the grass beside him and held them out

to her. She coolly extended one of her feet.

“It cannot bite you. Put zem on for me, your Excellency.”

WEST WIND DRIFT

He knelt and, slipping the sandals on one after the other, fastened the

straps over her bare insteps.

“So,” she sighed. “Thank you. Good night, Ruthkin. No! I shall go home

alone. There is nothing to be afraid of now on zis island, my dear. The

ardent Fernandez is playing--what you call it?--pea-knuckles?--he is

playing pea-knuckles away off yonder on zat prison island, as he has

been playing for nearly a year.”

Little she knew of Fernandez!

Ruth and Percival walked around the corner of the porch with her, out of

sight of the others.

“It was a perfectly ravishing dance, Olga,” said he. “If I live a

thousand years I shall never forget how beautiful it was.”

“You see?” cried Olga softly, pressing Ruth's hand. “Was I not right?”

“Men are very queer things,” said Ruth, with a curious sidelong glance

at her husband. Then she squeezed his arm tightly and went on with

a little thrill in her voice: “Good night, Olga. Thank you for the

lesson.”

“What's all this?” inquired Percival.

“Nothing you would be interested in, my friend,” said Olga, with a

little laugh. She waved her hand airily as she moved swiftly away in the

gloom.

They watched her yellow figure fade into the starlit shadows. As they

turned to rejoin the others, Ruth said:

“I think you might have told her how beautiful she was, dear.” So much

for the native perversity of woman, even when she is most content.

He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss upon the soft, warm

palm. It was a habit of his,--and she never failed to shiver in response

to the exquisite thrill. She drew a deep breath, and leaned a little

closer to him.

“Look up yonder, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Do you see the one star in

all the heavens that shines the brightest? It is the only one I see when

I raise my eyes. The big, full star in the Southern Cross. The others

are dim, feeble little things preening themselves in reflected glory.

That great, beautiful star at the foot of the Cross is all that I can

see. It's no use for me to look elsewhere. That star fills my vision.

Its splendour fascinates me.”

She waited for him to go on. Her eyes were shining. But the analogy was

complete. She laid her cheek against his and sighed tremulously. After a

moment, they turned their heads and their lips met in a long, passionate

kiss.

“I should be content to stay on this dear little island for ever,

sweetheart,” she murmured. “My whole world is here.”

He stroked her hair lovingly, and was silent for a long time. Then he

smiled his whimsical smile.

“It's all right for you and me, dear,--but how about the future

President of the United States sleeping up there in his crib?”

She smiled up into his eyes. “It's a nuisance, isn't it?--having to stop

and consider that we are parents as well as lovers.”

They rejoined the group on the porch.

“I had a horrible dream last night,” said Peter Snipe, getting up and

stretching himself. “That's why I'm staying up so late tonight. I hate

to go to bed.”

“What was your dream, Peter?” asked Ruth.

“Do you believe in 'em?”

“Only in day-dreams.”

“Well, I dreamed our little old ship was finished and had sailed at last

and for once our wireless plant up there began to get messages from the

sea. I dreamed I was sitting up there with the operator. It was a dark,

stormy night. The wireless began to crackle. He jumped up to see what

was coming. He was getting messages from our own ship, away out there

on the ocean. She was calling for help. 'Sinking fast,--sinking

fast,--sinking fast.' Over and over again,--just those two words.

'Gad,--it was so real, so terribly real, that the first thing I did this

morning was to walk down to see if the boat was still on the stocks. She

was there, a long way from being finished, and--and, by gad, I had hard

work to keep from blubbering, I was so relieved.”

“It will take more than a dream to knock that ship to pieces,” said

Percival. “When she's ready for the water, there will not be a sturdier

craft afloat. Andrew Mott says she'll weather anything outside of the

China Sea. Don't look so distressed, Amy. Pete's a novelist. They never

do anything but dream horrible dreams. Generally they go so far as

to put them into print, and people read 'em and say they are wildly

improbable,--especially if they have a happy ending. It's always the

happy ending that makes them improbable,--but popular. Isn't that so,

Pete?”

“If we didn't give them a happy ending, they would refuse to recognize

us the next time they saw us on a bookseller's counter,” said Peter.

“Well, I guess I'll be on my way. I've got a busy day tomorrow, setting

up the Trigger Island Pioneer,--and as I belong to that almost extinct

species known as the bachelor, I am forced to be my own alarm clock.

Going my way, Abel?”

“Good night, Ruth,” said Landover. “Give the Lieutenant Governor a good

smack for me,--and tell him he is still in my will.”

“Umph!” grunted Fitts. “I'd like to know what you've got to leave the

little beggar. Your letter of credit?”

“Certainly not,” replied Landover. “Something worth while, Fittsy, my

boy. I am making it now. It's going to be a hobby-horse, if I live long

enough to finish it. Good night, Perce. 'Night, everybody.”

When the last of the company had departed, Ruth and Percival stood for

a long time in silence, listening to the far-off thrumming of a Spanish

guitar, their tranquil gaze fixed on the murky shadow that marked the

line of trees along the shore, her head resting lightly against his

shoulder, his arm about her waist.

“What are you thinking of, dear?” she asked at last.

“Peter's dream,” he replied. “It has put an idea into my head. The day

that ship down there sails out to sea with her courageous little crew, I

shall start laying the keel for another just like her.”

Neither spoke for many seconds. Then she said, a deep, solemn note in

her voice: “I understand, Perce.”

They went into the house. Later they stole tiptoe to the side of the

crib where slept the sturdy, sun-kissed babe. The two middle fingers of

a chubby hand were in his mouth. With one hand Percival shaded the

pitch candle he had brought from the kitchen. She leaned over and gently

touched the smooth, warm cheek.

“I--I can't believe he is real, Perce,” she whispered.

“He isn't,” whispered he. “He is something out of a fairy story. Nothing

as wonderful as he is can possibly be real.”

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's West Wind Drift, by George Barr McCutcheon