"Down below!" the words struck harshly on Dan's ear for good old Brother
Bart was more used to obedience than command, and he was sick and shaken
and doing his guardian duty under sore stress and strain to-night.
"Go below! What for?" asked Dan, shortly. "I'm all right up here, Brother
Bart. I can't stand being packed in downstairs."
"Stand it or not, I'll not have ye up here," said Brother Bart,
resolutely. "Down with ye, Dan Dolan! Ye were put under my orders, and
ye'll have to mind my words."
"Not when it means being sick as a dog all night," answered Dan,
rebelliously. "I tell you I can't stand it down in that stuffy place
below, and I won't, I am going to stay up here."
"And is that the way ye talk?" said Brother Bart, who had a spirit of his
own. "And it's only what I might look for, ye graceless young reprobate!
God knows it was sore against my will that I brought ye with me, Dan
Dolan; for I knew ye'd be a sore trial first to last. But I had to obey
them that are above me. Stay, then, if you will against my word; for it's
all I have to hold ye, since ye are beyant any rule or law.--We'll go
back, my man," continued Brother Bart to the burly deck hand who had been
supporting his swaying form. "Help me to get down to my bed, in God's
name; for I am that sick I can scarcely see."
And Brother Bart tottered away, leaving Dan standing hot and defiant by
his new friend, Mr. Wirt.
"Sorry to have made trouble for you," said that gentleman; "but when I
found that good old man wandering sick and distracted over the boat,
stirring up everyone in search of a lost boy, there was nothing to do but
give him the tip."
"Freddy may stand it," said Dan, fiercely; "but I won't be grannied. What
harm is there in staying up here?"
"None at all from our standpoint," was the reply; "but the good old
gentleman looks at things in another light. You're under his orders," he
said; and there was a faint, mocking note in the words, that Dan was keen
enough to hear. He was hearing other things too,--the pant of the engines,
the throb of the pulsing mechanism that was bearing him on through
darkness lit only by the radiance of those sweeping worlds above; but that
mocking note in his new friend's voice rose over all.
"Orders!" he repeated angrily. "I bet _you_ wouldn't take any such orders
if you were a boy."
"No, I wouldn't, and I didn't" (there was a slight change in the speaker's
voice as he paused to light a cigar), "and you see where it left me."
"Where?" asked Dan, curiously.
"Adrift," was the answer,--"like this big boat would be if there was no
one to command: beyond rule and law, as that good old friend of yours said
just now,--beyond rule and law."
"Beyond rule and law,--rule and law." The words began to hammer somehow on
Dan's head and heart as he recalled with waking remorse poor Brother Bart
tottering away in the darkness,--Brother Bart, who, as Dan knew, was only
doing his duty faithfully, to the boy under his care,--Brother Bart, who,
like the steamboat, like the stars, was _obeying_.
For a moment or two Mr. Wirt puffed at his cigar silently, while the
fierce fire that had blazed up in Dan's breast sank into bounds, mastered
by the boy's better self, even as he had seen Nature's fierce forces of
flame and steam mastered by higher powers to-day.
"In short," said Mr. Wirt at last, as if he had been having thoughts of
his own, "I am a derelict, my boy."
"What's that?" asked Dan, who had never heard the word before.
"A ship adrift, abandoned by captain and crew,--a wreck that tosses on the
sea, a peril to all that come near it. There is nothing a good sailor
dreads more than a derelict, and he makes it his business to sink it
promptly whenever he can."
"Couldn't he tow it into port?" asked Dan, with interest.
"Not worth the trouble," was the grim answer.
"Jing!" said Dan. "I'd try it, sure."
"Would you?" asked Mr. Wirt.
"Yes," replied Dan, decidedly. "If a ship can float, it must be worth
something. I'd try to fling a hawser about it somewhere, and haul it in
and dry-dock it to find out what was wrong. I've seen an oyster boat, that
was leaking at every seam, calked and patched and painted to be good as
new."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Wirt, with a short laugh; "but the oyster boats don't
go very far a-sea, and derelicts drift beyond hope or help. I am that
kind, and if--if" (the speaker hesitated for a moment),--"if I had a boy
like you, I wouldn't take any chances with him: I'd keep him off my deck;
I'd put him on a sound ship with a wise captain and a steady crew, and he
should be under orders until--well, until he had learned to sail midnight
seas like this by the light of the stars." And, tossing his half-smoked
cigar into the water, Mr. Wirt turned abruptly away without any further
"goodnight."
"He's a queer one," said Dan to himself, as he stared after the tall
figure disappearing in the darkness. "I don't know what he means by his
drifting and derelicts, but I guess it's a sort of talk about breaking
laws and rules like I am doing here to-night. Gee! but Brother Bart is an
old granny; stirring up all this fuss about nothing; and I'll be dead
sick, I know. But I'm under orders" (Dan stretched his arms over his head,
and, drawing a long, reluctant sigh, took a last look at the stars), "and
I guess I'll have to go."
And he went, making his way with some difficulty over the swaying decks
and down deep stairs where the footing was more perilous than the heights
of Old Top; through long stretches of gorgeous saloons whence all the life
and gayety had departed; for, despite the stars, the sea was rough
to-night, and old Neptune under a friendly smile was doing his worst.
Jim and Dud, sturdy fellows that they were, had somewhat recovered their
equilibrium and were dozing fitfully; but little Freddy was still white
and wretched; and poor Brother Bart, all the ruddy glow gone from his
face, lay with his hands clasping his Rosary, very sick indeed.
"Say your prayers as well as ye can, laddie," he moaned to that small
sufferer. "The Lord be merciful to us both if we're not to see the morning
light!--Ah, are ye back, Dan Dolan?" as his eyes fell upon the wandering
sheep of his flock standing beside him. "May God forgive ye for this
night's work! It was the looking for ye that killed me entirely."
"O Brother Bart, no, you're not as bad as that!" said Dan, remorsefully;
"but I'm down here now to take care of you and Freddy, and you see if I
don't do it right."
And Dan, who in the old days of Tabby and the blue teapot had watched with
and waited on Aunt Winnie through many a night of pain, proved as good as
his word. It was as close and hot and stuffy as he had foreseen; the big
boat plunged and rolled so that it was hard to keep his footing; at times
he himself grew so sick that he could scarcely steady his helping hand,
but he never gave up his job. He bathed poor Brother Bart's aching head
with all a woman's tenderness; bandaged Freddy's throbbing temples with
the cold compress that sent him off to sleep; made dizzy forays into
unknown domestic departments for cracked ice and soda water; shocked
Brother Bart out of what he believed his last agony by reporting everyone
on the boat in "the same fix."
"We'll be in smooth water, the men say, by morning; and then you'll be all
right, Brother Bart. Let me bathe your head some more, and try to go to
sleep."
And when at last Brother Bart did fall asleep in the grey glimmer of the
early dawn, it was a very pale, shaking, dizzy Dan that crept out on the
open deck beyond the staterooms for a breath of fresh air. He could not
have climbed to forbidden heights now even if he would. But they were in
smooth waters, and the boat was pushing onto a sandy point, where a branch
railroad came down to the shore. A dozen or more passengers were preparing
to land; among them was Mr. Wirt, with a gun slung to his shoulder, a
knapsack on his back, and his two great tawny dogs pulling in their
leashes impatiently,--all evidently ready for a summer in the wilds.
Dan felt too weak and sick for conversation until Mr. Wirt's eye fell upon
the pale, trembling boy, who, with head bared to the morning breeze, was
clinging weakly to an awning post.
"Why, hello, my lad!" said the gentleman. "What's the matter. I thought
you were all right when I saw you last up above."
"I was," answered Dan, grimly. "But I came down, and, jing! I've had a
night of it, with Brother Bart and Freddy both dead sick on my hands."
"And you nursed them all night?" (There was an odd tremor in the speaker's
voice.) "Are they better this morning?"
"Yes," answered Dan. "They are all right now, sleeping like tops; but they
had a tough time. It was lucky I gave up and came down to look after
them."
"So you obeyed orders, after all. And now you're all broken up yourself?"
said the gentleman, compassionately.
"Pooh, no!" was the sturdy answer. "I don't break up so easily. I'll be
all right, too, in a little while,--after I've had more of this fresh air.
Going to get off here?--" as the boat pushed up to the wharf.
"Yes," said Mr. Wirt. "I'm off to the woods for a few weeks; but--but
maybe you will see me again later. Meanwhile what did the little fellow
call you?"
"Dan,--my name is Dan Dolan," was the answer.
"Then good-bye, Dan!" Mr. Wirt's shapely hand closed over the boy's in a
strong pressure. "You've given me a lesson, Dan,--I won't forget you." And
he was off with his dogs across the gangway to the shore just flushing
with the morning light.
The worst was over; and Dan, worn out with his night of watching, was glad
to creep into his "packing box" of a stateroom, and, flinging himself in
his berth, dropped off to sleep,--a sleep full of strange dreams. They
were wild and troubled dreams at first. He was down in black depths where,
stripped to the waist, he was working amid roaring fires and hissing
steam; he was out on a dark wide ocean, striving to fling a rope to a
wreck drifting helplessly amid thundering breakers; he was up on a
wind-swept deck, with Brother Bart's shaking grasp dragging him down
below. Then suddenly the picture changed: it was not Brother Bart but old
Father Mack whose trembling hand was upon his arm, guiding him through the
leafy shadows of the college walk where they had last talked together.
Beyond and above them was the dazzling glory of the stars, those sweeping
worlds on which the young dreamer had looked last night. But as he walked
on now, the leafy shadows seemed to grow into arched and pillared aisles
rising far, far above him, and the stars were but the countless tapers on
a mighty altar reaching to heights he could not see; and Aunt Winnie, was
kneeling on the steps,--old Aunt Winnie, with clasped hands and uplifted
eyes. Then the guiding hand seemed to tighten on his arm, and it was
Brother Bart again beside him,--Brother Bart, his sturdy, ruddy self
again, shaking him awake.
"I hate to rouse ye, Danny lad" (there was a new friendliness in the old
man's tone), "for it was the long, hard night ye had with us; but we're to
get off here. Praise be to God, our killing journey is nearly done!"
And Dan stumbled out hurriedly to the deck, to find the boat pushing into
the harbor of a quaint old town, whose roofs and spires were glittering in
the noonday sunshine. Pretty sailboats were flitting hither and thither on
sunny wings; the white stretch of beach was gay with bathers; the full
notes of an orchestra came from the band stand on the jutting pier.
"Jing!" exclaimed Dan, in amazement at such a festive scene. "Is this
Killykinick?"
"No," was Dud Fielding's surly answer. "I wish it was. But I mean to cut
over here to the Fosters whenever I can. This is Beach Cliff, where we
have to take a sailboat to Killykinick. And," Dud went on, with deepening
disgust, "I bet it's that old tub that is signalling to us now."
Dan's eyes, following Dud's sullen gaze, saw, among the gaily painted
pleasure craft moored at the wharfs, a clumsy little boat with rusty sides
and dingy sail. An old man stood in the stern waving a tattered flag that,
caught out by the breeze, showed in large faded letters--Killykinick.