I Sam, the Boat Person
II Pajamaed Vulgarians
III Miss Accessory--After--the--Fact
IV Questions--and a Clue
V The Plot Curdles
VI "Pals!"
VII New Slants
VIII Who Copped the Buzz-Stuff?
IX The Ascending Scale
X What Reggy Drew
XI Treed!
XII Turning the Tables
XIII Ringing In
XIV What the Paul Jones Did
XV When Sam Came In Handy
XVI Rough Stuff
XVII Thickening Mystery
XVIII Who? What? Why? Where?
XIX Stung!
XX "Good Work Pal!"
XXI New Lights on Sam
XXII Footsteps Above
XXIII Unscrambling the Mystery
XXIV Curtain!
*SAM*
*CHAPTER I*
*SAM, THE BOAT PERSON*
Miss Chalmers stood on the wharf at Clayton, poised upon one foot, while
she employed the other in executing alternate tap-taps, denoting
impatience, and vigorous stamping, by which she registered rage. Even
the half-grown boy who had volunteered to find her a boatman knew that
she was angry.
Her free foot beat upon the rough flooring of the wharf with increasing
vigor. The wharf did not care; it was old and stout, and did not
pretend to be ornamental.
Miss Chalmers's shoe might have protested, had it possessed a voice, for
it was new and spotless, and of delicate constitution. With its mate,
it had cost Miss Chalmers twenty dollars, a fact which is set down to
obviate the necessity of describing what else the lady wore. Her whole
costume was in complete financial and artistic harmony with its
twenty-dollar-shoe foundation.
It was dark and clear and warm--somewhat after nine o'clock of an August
night. There were gleams of light upon the St. Lawrence, some in
motion, some merely shimmering restlessly as they lay fixed upon the
rippling surface. It was an evening for poetry and romance and
beauty--if only the last steamer had not departed.
The boy came back and confirmed his previous impression that no other
boat would stop that night at Witherbee's Island.
"It's absurd--inexcusable!" exclaimed Miss Chalmers sharply.
"Yes, ma'am," said the boy.
"How am I to get there, then? Well? Answer!"
"I got a man who'll take you."
"Where is he?"
"Down that way," replied the boy, nodding his head toward the end of the
wharf.
"A reliable man?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You know him?"
"No, ma'am."
Miss Chalmers stamped her foot again.
"How can you say he's reliable if you don't know him?" she demanded so
imperatively that the boy winced and shuffled his feet.
"Well, he's got a power-boat, and his name's Sam," said the boy
defensively. "He ain't ever been wrecked 's fur as I know."
Miss Chalmers made an eloquent and helpless gesture with both arms, then
surveyed her light field-equipment--six trunks and a grip.
"Show me the man," she spoke abruptly.
The boy made off in haste, with Miss Chalmers at his heels. He led the
way among bales and boxes and barrels, stopping presently under a dim
oil lantern set upon a post.
On the string-piece of the wharf sat a man, smoking a pipe. He looked
up at Miss Chalmers casually, yet speculatively, then arose and nodded
amicably.
"Looking for me?" he asked.
Miss Chalmers was annoyed at the phrasing; never yet had she "looked
for" a man. But she swallowed her annoyance.
"I must go to Mr. Stephen Witherbee's island--to-night," she said.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You know where it is?"
"Oh, yes!"
"How far is it?"
"Something like fifteen miles."
"Can you take me there at once?"
"Well," said the man, removing his pipe from his mouth and regarding
Miss Chalmers with solemn interest, "it all depends on what you call 'at
once.' I can take you there, but I'm no speed-king."
"Take me, then!" exclaimed Miss Chalmers. "And get my trunks."
The man went up the wharf at a leisurely gait, accompanied by the boy.
Almost immediately the boy came back.
"He says he can't take all them trunks, and for you to pick out two."
Miss Chalmers strode back to her trunks with no improvement of temper.
She found the boatman surveying them placidly.
"Which is the emergency-kit?" he asked pleasantly. "I'm not running a
freighter, ma'am."
"They've all got to go--every one!"
The man shook his head doubtfully.
"Swim?" he asked presently, looking Miss Chalmers evenly in the eye.
"Why, cer-- Oh, how ridiculous! Will you or will you not take those
trunks?"
"Oh, I'll take them--only maybe the boat won't. Anyhow, we'll make a
stab," he said cheerfully, shouldering the nearest trunk.
The boat took them, but not without wabbles of warning and an ominous
loss of freeboard. The boatman dumped them aboard with easy
nonchalance, while Miss Chalmers shivered in solicitude. But she made no
comment; she was in a hurry, and she did not purpose to descend to
argument with a 'longshore person.
"Well, I guess we're ready," said the boatman as he gave the last trunk
a final kick into place and reached a hand up for his passenger.
Ignoring the hand, Miss Chalmers stepped swiftly aboard, unaided.
"Here, boy!" she called, tossing a quarter back upon the wharf.
The boy fell upon the coin and was off.
The six trunks of Miss Chalmers occupied three-fourths of the cock-pit,
so that she found herself crowded far aft, in close and unpleasant
proximity to the bearded and greasy-shirted master of the launch. She
wrapped her skirt close about her knees--not a very difficult task as
skirts go--compressed her lips tightly, and stared out upon the river.
There was an interval of several minutes, during which the launch
coughed, gasped, and volley-fired, while the boatman panted and heaved
at the flywheel. Five times the engine started, and five times it
stopped with a sob. The man arose from his knees, fumbled about for a
candle, lighted it, and examined the gasoline contraption curiously.
Then he spun the fly-wheel again, which produced more coughing and
another wailing sob of despair.
Miss Chalmers turned abruptly from her survey of the river.
"For Heaven's sake, prime it!" she snapped.
The boatman twisted his head and regarded her with undisguised
astonishment. He not only looked at Miss Chalmers, but he studied her
hat, her gown, and her twenty-dollar shoes. He also resurveyed the six
trunks. But Miss Chalmers had again turned her attention to the lights
upon the river, and was unconscious of his scrutiny.
"That's a good tip," he observed, after satisfying his eyes.
Whereupon he primed the engine, and the boat buzzed away from the wharf.
Miss Chalmers was but partially relieved in mind when she found herself
being borne out upon the St. Lawrence.
The day on the railroad had been hot and cindery, and the train was
hours late at Clayton. To cap that misfortune, she had loitered to
purchase some stamps and write some telegrams, and arrived at the wharf
in time to get an excellent view of the disappearing stern-light of the
last regular boat that would stop at Witherbee's Island that night. It
seemed easier to get to Europe, she reflected.
Well out into the American channel, the boatman shifted his helm and
headed the launch down-stream. He was smoking again, leaning back
comfortably against the coaming, his long legs stretched out so that his
feet were braced against the nearest trunk.
Occasionally he glanced at the lights that shone cordially from the
islands and the mainland, and now and then paid brief attention to some
passing craft; but most of the time he appeared to be studying the back
of Miss Chalmers's head. Several times he smiled, and once his silent
reflections brought forth a soft chuckle.
An hour passed. The launch still voyaged in mid-stream, making
irregular detours where islands loomed out of the channel. Miss
Chalmers extended her hand close to a flickering lantern that stood on
the floor of the cock-pit and examined the dial of her wrist-watch.
"How far have we gone?" she demanded.
The boatman studied the shore for a few seconds.
"Oh, seven or eight miles," he answered.
"And you say it's fifteen?"
"To Witherbee's? Oh, all of that."
"You mean to tell me this boat cannot do better than seven or eight
miles an hour?"
"She has done better," sighed the boatman. "She did eleven once. But
she was new then, and her bottom was clean, and her cylinder wasn't full
of carbon, and she didn't leak, and her carbureter didn't have asthma,
and she didn't have six trunks on board, and--"
Miss Chalmers interrupted the apology with an angry exclamation.
"It's nearly eleven o'clock," she said. "It's beyond endurance! I wish
I hadn't started."
"Well, we can turn around any time," remarked the boatman mildly. "But
she won't do better than eight miles an hour at the outside. You can
play that bet to win."
Miss Chalmers devoted to the boatman a swift and stormy glance. He
irritated her even more than his atrocious boat. The easy, almost
familiar style of his speech was something to which she was
unaccustomed--from the lips of common persons. It seemed to her that he
assumed a position of equality.
A boatman--a grimy-handed, hatless, whiskered boatman! A person who
hired out!
She set her jaws tightly and resumed her unsatisfying study of the
river. Her dignity checked upon her lips a withering rebuke.
More islands were passed and the channel widened somewhat. The
passenger observed with growing annoyance that there were fewer lights
ashore. The summer folks were going to bed. High time, she thought; she
was tired herself.
Nearly half an hour more elapsed, enlivened only by an astonishingly
swift movement on the part of the steersman, who uncoiled himself like a
spring, flung himself forward, and rescued, with a long and lean arm,
the grip that belonged to his passenger just as it was about to slide
quietly from the narrow deck into the hospitable St. Lawrence.
Unceremoniously he jammed it into a safer place under the gunwale. Then
he resumed his lolling posture at the tiller. Miss Chalmers made no
comment.
Then, after a little, the rhythmical wheeze of the engine was supplanted
by a series of irregular choking gasps, then a sharp popping at broken
intervals, and then--silence.
The boatman sat up lazily, reached for the lantern, and held it close to
the machinery. The launch carried her momentum for a minute, then swung
broadside to the current and drifted contentedly. Miss Chalmers bit her
lip.
Very deliberately the boatman studied the engine, poking the lantern
about and, when it failed to illuminate dark recesses, lighting the
stump of candle. Then he spun the fly-wheel.
There was no answer. Again and again he spun it, but the engine
remained inert. After a while he resumed his placid and apparently
purposeless examination of the gasoline monster.
"Well, what is the matter now?" demanded a cutting voice.
"Engine stopped," said the boatman, putting down the lantern and
beginning to refill his pipe.
"Thank you for the information," said Miss Chalmers icily. "Why has it
stopped?"
"I couldn't begin to tell you--ma'am."
There was something about the "ma'am," drawled out at the end, that
peculiarly exasperated her; it seemed to lack the servility that was
familiar to her from the lips of servants.
"Do you know anything about engines?"
"Not much that's good."
Miss Chalmers's temper was rising rapidly. She looked at her watch,
then at the dark shores and islands.
"How dared you bring me out here if you didn't--Oh,
it's--it's--perfectly outrageous! It's--"
She left the sentence unfinished, seized the lantern, brushed her way
past the boatman without so much as a scornful glance, and dropped to
her knees in the bottom of the cock-pit.
The floor was oily and dirty, but Miss Chalmers paid no attention to
that. She devoted the next five minutes wholly to an examination of the
engine. The boatman watched and smoked.
Item by item, she inventoried the one-cylinder pest. She peered into
the oil-cups; she smeared her gloves on the cam that operated the
timing-lever; she fussed with the tickler on the carbureter; she did a
score of other things, while her audience watched in silence. After she
got through with the engine she turned her attention to the batteries,
tightening a wire connection here and there.
"Now, where's your socket-wrench?" she demanded.
"Socket-wrench?" repeated the boatman. "That's a new one on me. I don't
remember--"
"Haven't you ever taken out the spark-plug?"
"Oh, you mean that funny thing that screws it out. Sure! I've got one
somewhere."
He fumbled under a seat and drew out a box that contained a disorderly
array of tools. Miss Chalmers dived a daintily gloved hand into it and
brought forth what she sought.
"If you want me to do that--"
He did not finish the sentence, because she already had the spark-plug
in her hand and was holding the points close to the light.
"Dirty, of course," she commented disgustedly. "Have you any
sand-paper?"
He found a bit after more fumbling, and watched her while she scrubbed
the metal points until they were bright. Then she replaced the plug and
screwed it into position with a vigorous twist of the wrench.
The boatman had settled back in his place. After that she found a
screw-driver and removed the cover from the float-chamber in the
carbureter. A brief inspection of this mysterious compartment satisfied
her.
"Now spin that fly-wheel," she said abruptly, rising from her knees and
moving aside to make room for him.
The boatman spun the fly-wheel, not once, but many times. Twice the
engine started, only to stop after a few revolutions.
"It's abominable!" exclaimed the passenger. "What do you propose to do?"
"Nothing, I guess," replied the boatman. "You've done more things now
than I ever knew could be done. Don't suppose you damaged anything, do
you?"
She glared at him, then turned her scorching glance out upon the river.
"Here comes a boat!" she said suddenly.
The boatman followed the line of her pointing finger and discerned the
lights of a craft that was bearing rather closely toward them.
"Do you think they will help us?" she asked.
"Might," he admitted.
"They must! I can't stay here all night. Hail them!"
He put two fingers between his lips and sent forth a shrill whistle.
"Do you call that a hail?" she exclaimed, rising to her feet. She made
a miniature megaphone of her hands and flung a vigorous "Ahoy!" across
the water.
The boat was closer now. Presently there was an answering voice.
"Any trouble?" said the voice.
The question affected the boatman like a shock of electricity. He
started from his seat, leaned over the gunwale, and squinted through the
gloom.
"Breakdown," called Miss Chalmers. "What boat is that?"
"Yacht _Elizabeth_. Want any help?"
Before Miss Chalmers could answer a voice at her ear boomed out:
"No-o-o, thanks! All right in a minute."
She turned in amazement upon the boatman, who was now on his knees in
front of the engine, his face hidden from her.
"Why--you--you--"
The jingling of a bell from across the water interrupted her. Then she
heard the churning of a propeller, and the dark outline of the yacht
began to move again.
"Ahoy!" screamed Miss Chalmers.
"Never mind!" roared her boatman.
She whirled upon him furiously.
"How could you! How _dare_ you! Are you mad? Do you think--"
She broke off and sent another hail in the direction of the yacht. But
that craft had disappeared in the night, and there was no answering
call.
She looked down upon the kneeling figure, a tempest of wrath upon her
lips. The boatman was fussing aimlessly with a wrench.
Miss Chalmers fought for self-control. She had a passionate desire to
slay, but she lacked a convenient means. Besides, she could not see
that homicide would speed her way to Witherbee's Island. And even in her
stormiest moments, Miss Chalmers never quite abandoned her grip on
things as they were and problems that had to be met.
But she was bewildered, even alarmed. She did not fear the
consequences, however unpleasant, of an all-night drift on the river.
It was the boatman who furnished cause for dismay. She wondered if he
was insane.
"I would like to know," she said, struggling to quiet her voice, "why
you did that."
"Did what?"
"Sent that yacht away."
"Reasons," he responded briefly.
"Reasons! What reasons?"
His only answer was a shrug.
"I demand to be told why you sent those people away."
There was another hunch of his shoulders.
"Dou you mean deliberately to keep me out here in this boat all night?"
"Oh, not at all!" he said easily.
"Then why did you--"
"Sorry. Can't explain."
Miss Chalmers sat down with a gasp and tried to consider the situation.
It was past midnight. The launch was slowly drifting down-stream in a
steadily broadening channel. The boatman was unable to operate his
engine, and had refused an offer of help. He was probably mad. She
wondered if he was dangerous.
For several minutes she sat in silence, watching him as he fussed about
the machinery in an amateurish fashion. Then she gritted her teeth and
aroused herself to action.
"Get out of the way!" she commanded.
He moved to make a place for her, and once more she knelt on the greasy
flooring. Very patiently, considering the state of her emotions, Miss
Chalmers went over the engine again.
She shook her head, puzzled. Nothing seemed to be wrong with it.
Suddenly she turned to him.
"Where's your gas-tank?" she demanded.
"Forward. But you needn't look there. There's plenty. I filled it--"
She seized the lantern and began climbing over the trunks; she was not
going to take the word of an incompetent. Her white gown suffered
dismally as she scrambled in the direction of the gasoline-tank, and she
had a sinking sensation that the spectacle afforded to the boatman was
lacking in dignity. But she was determined, and tried to comfort
herself with the thought that it was quite dark.
She located the tank and unscrewed the cap. The aperture was large
enough to admit her hand and arm; in she plunged them resolutely. The
tank was nearly full. She replaced the cap and crawled aft again.
Then the boatman did a strangely considerate thing. He turned his back
and pretended to be doing something to the engine, while Miss Chalmers
slipped down from the trunks and shook her skirt about her ankles. She
made a mental note of it.
"Where does your gas-line run?" she asked briskly.
"Gas-line?"
"Oh, the pipe that connects the tank with the engine!" she cried in
exasperation. "Don't you know _anything_?"
The boatman grinned cheerfully.
"I'm learning," he said. "It runs along under the gunwale on the port
side, I think. I never paid much attention, but--"
"Hold the lantern here," she ordered, now on her hands and knees, with
her head poked under the gunwale.
The boatman obeyed.
"Now move forward," she directed.
He moved the lantern as she directed, while Miss Chalmers explored the
gas-line, beginning at the carbureter.
Presently they arrived at an obstacle in the shape of the passenger's
baggage.
"Move that grip," was her next order.
He yanked the rescued bag from its place of safety, and she craned her
head into the opening. A few seconds later she withdrew it and bestowed
upon the boatman a look of unutterable contempt.
"Get down here," she said.
He knelt beside her.
"Poke your head in there."
He obeyed. Miss Chalmers also poked her head in, so that wisps of her
brown hair brushed his unshaven cheeks.
"Now, do you see that little handle there?" she inquired.
"Yes, ma'am."
The boatman's voice was meek.
"Do you know what it is?"
"No, ma'am."
"Well, it's the cut-off in the gas-line."
"Never noticed it before," he commented blandly.
"And it's cut off now," continued Miss Chalmers.
A gentle swell rocked the boat, and their heads bobbed together. She
paid no attention.
"You cut it off when you jammed my grip under there," she said tersely.
"There! Now I've turned it on again. The idea is that a
gasoline-engine always runs better when supplied with gas. Now spin
that fly-wheel!"
The boatman went aft and obeyed. The engine started joyfully. The
launch moved. Miss Chalmers resumed her seat and surveyed her costume
by the yellow light of the lantern.
"Now you take me to Witherbee's Island as quickly as you know how--if
you do know," she observed.
The boatman made no answer. When the launch had obtained headway he
altered the course, and presently they were passing through a series of
narrow channels, between darkened islands. He seemed to know where he
was going, but Miss Chalmers had no confidence in him. She was merely
relieved to observe that they were going somewhere. Presently they
headed in toward a wooded island that was dark, save for a tiny light
that flickered at the water's edge. As they neared the shore the
boatman made his first remark since the engine had resumed wheezing.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to know--"
"I haven't run a six-cylinder car for nothing," interrupted Miss
Chalmers sharply. "Is this the dock?"
For answer he stopped the engine and guided the boat alongside a low
wharf, at the end of which burned the lantern they had seen.
"Witherbee's Island," he said as he reached to help her ashore.
Miss Chalmers sprang upon the wharf without aid and demanded her trunks.
The boatman heaved them out methodically. He paused for an instant to
study an inscription on the end of a particularly bulky and heavy one,
and, when he had difficulty in deciphering it, reached for the lantern.
He read: