“I feel safe, too.”
“You’re tired, then, and cold. Put the blanket about you, and rest.
I’ll paddle the rest of the way.”
She shook her head, and resumed her paddling.
“It wasn’t that. It wasn’t that, please. I’ve camped out often. But
George—poor George!”
Her words came as a shock to me. So George still occupied first place
in her mind. I had been right: she had seen George as he had been when
first she had learned to care for him; and she had realized that she
still cared. Her first thought in the moment of our hurried flight
from the cabin had been of him. Even though she had seen him go to
pieces piteously she still cared. She thought of him before all
others. Well, that was as it should be, as I had hoped it would be
when I brought George up to the cabin, sane and sober, and in his
right mind. It was right.
But Fate persisted with its tantalizing pranks, for here was I, an
outsider, still necessary in the task of bringing George and Betty to
the haven of safety and happiness. The doctor would look after George;
I felt sure that Chanler’s condition would keep him free from any
cruelty by Brack. I would do my best to look after Betty.
She would be very happy, too. She had the faculty of happiness. That
faculty was saving her from the torture of fear now; it would be a
guarantee of future happiness for her and George. Verily, when a man
forecasts a woman’s ways he is as a child!
My reason for going to the cavern on the hillside was twofold. The
place offered a fair shelter for Betty where she could lie hidden
safely. I also wished to recover the rifle which I had taken from
Barry.
I was certain that sooner or later Pierce would make an attempt to
join us if it was possible, and with the rifle and my pistol we would
at least be two armed men. If Pierce came, even though Brack was in
possession of the yacht, we could strike out through the wilderness,
keeping near the coast, in hope of finding a settlement.
In spite of the darkness we easily found the inlet where Barry’s
negligent watching had given me an opportunity to escape. At first I
thoughtlessly steered the canoe straight at the sandy beach, but an
instant before our bow would have run up on the sands the same
instinct which had prompted me to snatch food and blanket from the
cabin, warned me to back water. Brack would have his men out by
daylight searching the bay for signs of our whereabouts. If we landed
on the soft sand of the beach the canoe and our tracks—especially the
rubber heels of Betty’s outing shoes—would easily be seen.
On one side of the inlet a ledge of rock jutted into the water and
toward this I now turned the canoe, explaining to Betty the reason for
so doing.
“How did you ever think of that?” she exclaimed. “You haven’t done
these things before, have you?”
“Not since I was a boy,” I replied.
“Did you play Injun then?”
“Of course. All boys do.”
“I’m glad.”
“So am I; it’s helpful just now.”
“Yes; but I didn’t mean that.”
“What then?”
“Because if you played Injun you must have been a regular boy, and
regular boys have such a lot of jolly fun, Mr. Pitt?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you ever feel like playing Injun now? No? Too old and
dignified? Never play Injun any more?”