PORTRAIT OF A LADY

*CHAPTER VIII*

*WHO COPPED THE BUZZ-STUFF?*

Mr. Witherbee dashed out on the porch, mopping his brow, although the

morning was yet cool. The company paused at breakfast.

"Again, by Judas!" he shouted, glaring at his wife.

Mrs. Witherbee half rose from her chair and looked apprehensive.

"Again?" she echoed.

"Yes, again! Burglars!"

"Stephen!"

Mrs. Witherbee sat down abruptly and began fanning herself with a

napkin.

"That's what I said--burglars!"

The master of the house rolled his eyes and breathed heavily.

"Is--is anything stolen?" asked Polly Dawson faintly.

"Stolen? Yes!" cried Mr. Witherbee so fiercely that his smallest guest

shrank from him.

The company sat silent, wide-eyed.

"They've stolen the burglar-alarm!"

"Stephen!"

"Don't Stephen me! I tell you they've stolen it!"

"Upon my soul!" said Mr. Morton, putting down his tea.

"But who--how--when?"

The questions descended upon Mr. Witherbee in a volley.

"Who? How the blazes do I know? How? Why, just took it, of course.

How does anybody steal anything? When? When nobody was looking, madam.

That's my conclusion."

Mr. Witherbee glared truculently at his spouse.

"But why didn't the thing go off?" asked Gertrude in a mystified voice.

"It did! It's gone!" shouted her father.

"All the wires, father? And the gong? Why, I noticed the gong myself

as I came down-stairs."

"I didn't say the wires and the gong!" stormed Mr. Witherbee. "You

don't have to steal them to steal a burglar-alarm. I mean, they copped

the works--the buzz-stuff--the juice!"

"Stephen!" protested his wife, still fanning herself, "that kind of

speech doesn't--"

"What's speech got to do with this, madam? This is no time for speech;

this is a time for talk! Do you understand that? Talk! I say they've

stolen the works!"

"Dad means the batteries, mother," explained Tom Witherbee, rising.

"Let's go and see."

The breakfast party followed him into the house, Mr. Witherbee storming

noisily at the rear.

"There! Look for yourselves, if you don't believe me!" he cried.

Each member of the party, in turn, looked into the coat-closet under the

front stairway. A small shelf in a corner had been built to hold six

dry cells. It was bare of anything save dust now. Two wire connections

projected uselessly from the wall.

Mr. Witherbee's guests looked at each other in silence.

"Now, who the deuce would do a thing like that?" said Tom Witherbee

tentatively, when the pause had become prolonged.

"Who, indeed?" murmured Rosalind.

She was staring at the empty shelf as if it had a peculiar fascination

for her.

"What I can't understand," said Mrs. Witherbee, "is why a burglar would

want to steal the batteries out of a burglar-alarm."

"Why, madam?" exploded her husband, whirling upon her. "Why? Anybody

knows why! Why does a burglar poison a watch-dog? To keep it from

barking. Why does a burglar chloroform a family? To keep 'em from

waking up! Why does he steal the works out of an alarm? To keep the

bell from ringing, madam. Lord Harry, it's plain enough!"

"That does sound rather reasonable," assented Rosalind, still fascinated

by the empty shelf.

"They're getting ready for a raid, I tell you--a raid on the house!"

declaimed Mr. Witherbee furiously. "They're just paving the way. And

when they come--by George--there'll be nothing to wake us up!"

Mrs. Witherbee shivered.

"But, Stephen," she said, wrinkling her forehead in puzzlement, "if they

could get into the house to steal the batteries so as to make ready for

a raid, why didn't they raid the house, instead of stealing the

batteries?"

"That's a problem, too," commented Rosalind. "How do you account for it,

Mr. Witherbee?"

"Account for it?" His flashing glance went from his wife to Rosalind,

then back again. "Why should I account for it? I'm not a burglar. It

takes a thief to know why! The point is, it's been done--that's all."

"It's cursedly odd," said Mr. Morton, as he stroked his yellow mustache.

Mr. Witherbee glared at his guest, opened his mouth to say something,

then made a helpless gesture and remained silent.

"You just noticed this, dad?" asked Tom.

"When I went to get a hat."

"Did you ask any of the servants about it?"

"No! What would a servant want with an electric battery? If you're

going to ask me if I suspect my servants, I'll tell you no--right now,

sir."

"Father's right, Tom," said his mother. "The servants are perfectly

trustworthy."

"Of course they're trustworthy!" snapped Mr. Witherbee. "They're also

deaf, dumb, and blind--_non compos mentis_ and plain dotty. But they're

honest. Anybody might walk in here and steal the plaster off the walls

without getting caught. Yes, and for all your servants might know,

steal you out of bed, madam!"

"Mercy, Stephen!" exclaimed his wife faintly. "Don't suggest such a

thing!"

"We can get more batteries, father," said Gertrude soothingly.

"Batteries! Of course we can get batteries. And what's to prevent

anybody from stealing the new ones?

"I tell you, the whole neighborhood's overrun with thieves. First it's

us, rung out of our sleep in the middle of the night; then it's

Davidson; then it's us again. Now it's his turn. After that they'll

probably steal the island."

Rosalind, abandoning her study of the empty shelf, went back to the

deserted breakfast-table and resumed her grapefruit.

"I had no idea," she murmured softly, "that they worked the

burglar-alarm. I thought they worked the door-bell. But--I'm glad!"

Rosalind was the only person who did not finish breakfast in desultory

fashion. She ate deliberately and contentedly. There were no

disturbing symptoms in her conscience. She was revenged--revenged for

the shock of the midnight alarm, for the flight in the darkness, for the

knee that bumped itself on the chair, for the night in the boat-house,

for a gown that would never be worn again; yes, for everything save the

bracelet. That was adorning the arm of Gertrude this morning.

But she would be revenged for that, too, she told herself. And when

Rosalind Chalmers promised herself anything, she was a patient and

persistent performer.

"What in the world are you laughing at, Rosalind?" asked Mrs. Witherbee.

"Was I laughing? It was rather rude of me. But a burglar-alarm seems

such a funny thing to steal. Think of stealing a noise!"

"To tell you the truth, my dear," said Mrs. Witherbee, after making sure

that her husband was not within hearing, "I'm glad the old batteries are

gone. They frightened me nearly to death night before last. Of course, I

don't like to have thieves about; but if they must come, I'd much prefer

they'd let me sleep."

Tom and his sister, Polly Dawson and Mr. Morton were playing tennis;

Fortescue Jones and the Perkins young man were smoking cigarettes, and

the two Winter girls were knitting for the Belgians, when Mr. Witherbee

hove in sight, leading a reluctant dog. There was a general suspension

of industry.

"Where'd you get that, dad?" asked Tom.

"Been over to Davidson's in the launch," said Mr. Witherbee. "Here!

Buck up--Rover, Prince, Fido--what the deuce did he say your name was,

anyhow? Hold your head up; get that tail out. Some dog--eh?"

"What's he for?"

"Burglars."

Rosalind checked a smile and stroked the ears of the cringing animal.

"Is he well recommended?" she asked.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that," answered Mr. Witherbee, as he

regarded the beast frowningly. "Davidson says he isn't worth a hoot.

But he thought maybe if he was kept on a strange place where he doesn't

feel at home, he might get fierce again. So I don't want any of you to

make friends with him. I'm going to put him on short rations until he

gets a mean opinion of everybody."

"He doesn't seem as if he ever had been fierce," observed Rosalind, as

the dog thrust his muzzle into her palm.

"He's got a pedigree," declared Mr. Witherbee as he dragged the animal

away from the friendly hand. "His father bit a man once, so Davidson

says. And one of his brothers got killed in a fight. He's got the stuff

in him, if there's any way to bring it out."

"You mean to say, Stephen," remarked Mrs. Witherbee severely, "that you

propose to train that animal to bite us?"

"Not us, madam; certainly not! I mean to train him to bite burglars."

"Of course," said Tom Witherbee, as he walked back to the tennis-court,

"he'll need a practise bite now and then. Wait and see if dad doesn't

call for volunteers."

"All right, young man!" snorted his father. "The amount of interest you

show in protecting your mother, your sister, and myself is no credit to

you. But let me tell you, sir, that other persons hereabouts are

realizing the seriousness of this situation. We are organizing.

Davidson has called a meeting at his island to-night. There will

probably be a dozen owners there. We're going to do something about

this thing, you can gamble on that. We'll probably establish a patrol.

I expect some of the Canadian owners will come in on it, too."

"The international navy at last!"

"Shut up, Tom! Here, you beast--come on!"

Mr. Witherbee disappeared around the corner of the house, dragging the

dog behind him.

Rosalind, having succeeded in discouraging the attempts of Fortescue

Jones to explain just why the fox trot represented more foot-tons of

energy per mile than the one-step, managed to escape alone for a stroll

about the island.

She was not particularly interested either in her hosts or their guests.

But she endured that patiently. What really annoyed her was the

persistence with which her mind reverted to Sam, the boatman.

The uproar over the batteries had merely served to rekindle the matter.

She was by no means at peace when she thought of the uncouth navigator

and his slatternly boat. He not only puzzled, but vaguely disturbed

her.

Of course, for his own safety, she felt well assured he would attempt to

cause her no annoyance; and yet the foundation for possible

embarrassments and unwelcome explanations was there. She was not a

law-breaker, to be sure; but the boatman emphatically was. And in some

measure it seemed that she had been an accomplice.

The rack and thumb-screw could not have extorted confession from

Rosalind concerning some of the things that had happened. But the

difficulty lay in the fact that the boatman, if he chose, could render

her own confession superfluous. And what might he not do, if caught, to

save his own neck?

She was particularly annoyed when she remembered the interview that had

been of her own seeking. The result, so far as she was concerned, had

been rather inglorious. He had even laughed at her! He had refused the

bribe she offered; he would put no price on his silence.

And he had called her pal! Her cheeks went hot when she remembered

that.

Down at the Witherbee wharf, Rosalind sat and idly watched a small

power-boat that stood a mile off the island, evidently irresolute as to

destination. It was not until it finally laid an unmistakable course for

the Witherbee place that her interest was awakened.

When the boat reached the landing, one of the two men who occupied it

lifted his cap and inquired if it was Mr. Witherbee's Island. Being

assured that it was, the men fastened their craft, stepped out, and went

up the path toward the house, the direction of which Rosalind had

indicated with a gesture.

Half an hour or so later they returned, Mr. Witherbee with them. All

three were talking volubly. One of the strangers held a paper in his

hand.

Rosalind, whose eyes were keen, deciphered two words that were written

in a bold hand on one side of the sheet. Her pulse quickened, but that

was the only manifestation of the excitement which the paper produced in

her.

After a moment of talk on the wharf, the two men embarked, thanked Mr.

Witherbee, and went on their way.

"That's a funny go," said her host, turning to her.

Rosalind raised her eyebrows in polite curiosity.

"American customs agents," explained Mr. Witherbee. "Looking for

diamond-smugglers. It seems there's been a good deal of it going on.

Last night somebody left an anonymous letter in their boat. That's what

brought them down here."

"Here?"

"They didn't show me the whole thing, but it contained some sort of a

hint about Mr. Morton."

"Mr. Morton?"

"Uh-huh! Ridiculous, of course; I told them so. I think I satisfied 'em

on that score. They said, of course, they were compelled to look up

every possible clue.

"They didn't think of accusing Morton of anything. Just wanted to know

something about him; that was all. I introduced him. They didn't seem

to take much stock in whatever the letter said."

"Of course not," agreed Rosalind.

"But here's the queerest part. On the back of the paper was the name of

Mr. Davidson. They went over to his island before they came here and

showed it to him. And Davidson said that it was his own handwriting!"

"How curious! Of course he didn't know anything about the note?"

"Not a thing in the world. The note was written in lead-pencil in an

entirely different hand. But there was his name on the back of it. It

looks like a half-sheet of paper torn off from the other part. Davidson

acknowledges the signature, and that's every blessed thing he knows

about it. Now, wouldn't that get you?"

"It would," admitted Rosalind, forgetting her abhorrence of slang.

"I tell you I'm glad I got the dog," declared Mr. Witherbee as he went

off muttering.

Rosalind was content to be alone again for a little. She knew where she

had seen the piece of paper before; she remembered very distinctly the

boatman's copy of Hamersly's "Social Register."

But smuggling! That was something brand-new to consider.

What did he know about smuggling unless he smuggled himself? In

Rosalind's mind he began to appear as something more than a common

thief. A little seemed to have been added to his stature.

What perplexed her most of all, however, was the reference to Morton,

the Englishman.

Why Morton? Why had the boatman furnished Morton's name to a pair of

customs officers? Perhaps a crude ruse to divert suspicion from himself,

thought Rosalind; yet that theory did not satisfy her.

She was not quite sure that the boatman was crude in his methods, no

matter how hopelessly ignorant he might be concerning gasoline engines.

Now she remembered Morton's survey of the river, watching for Sam's

boat; also, she recollected the questioning of Sam as to the Witherbees'

guest.

What did these two know about each other?

Rosalind sensed a suddenly awakened interest in the Englishman, who had

occupied a very minor place in her thoughts up to the present. She

resolved to satisfy her curiosity, so, rising from her seat on the

wharf, she went briskly up to the house.

Mrs. Witherbee, also a Belgian knitter, was in a corner of the porch.

Rosalind dropped into a seat beside her. For a few minutes she watched

the tennis-players, then remarked indifferently:

"Mr. Morton plays a rather strong game, don't you think?"

"Well, I don't understand tennis," said Mrs. Witherbee; "but they tell

me he does. He's a rather interesting man."

"Is he?"

"Don't you find him so, my dear?"

"I hadn't thought about it," answered Rosalind. "You've known him for

some time?"

"No, we haven't," said Mrs. Witherbee. "He's been here most of the

summer, but he's only been with us a few weeks. He was Mr. Davidson's

guest at first. He's an old friend of Mr. Davidson, it seems. That's

how we came to meet him.

"Stephen took a fancy to him and invited him over here. I imagine he

was glad of the chance, because things were rather slow over at

Davidson's without any young people, particularly after Billy Kellogg

went away."

"Billy Kellogg?"

"Mr. Davidson's nephew. A nice boy, but an idler. You probably heard

his uncle mention the fact that he was working in New York. Mr.

Davidson forced him to. The straw that broke the camel's back, it

seems, was when Billy lost a big sum of money playing bridge with Mr.

Morton. That disgusted his uncle."

"But didn't Mr. Davidson feel any resentment against Mr. Morton for

having won his nephew's money?" asked Rosalind.

"Apparently not," said Mrs. Witherbee, knitting busily. "You see, men

are funny about those things. Mr. Davidson said if it hadn't been Morton

it would have been somebody else, and that it was all a fair gamble.

But he was furious at his nephew for losing.

"And now he gets reports from the banking-firm every day, telling him

how finely the boy is getting on. And that's how, in a roundabout sort

of way, we got Mr. Morton. Rather distinguished-looking, isn't he,

dear?"

Rosalind shrugged her shoulders and watched the tennis-player.

"Of course he's dreadfully English," added Mrs. Witherbee; "but he can't

help that. And his name--it's Evelyn! Stephen thinks it's the funniest

thing he ever heard--H. Evelyn Morton.

"But he likes him, just the same. Everybody does. You will, my dear.

Why, Rosalind, you can't tell but he just might be the one who--"

"I think I'll go up-stairs and take a nap," said Rosalind hastily. "I

have a slight headache."

*CHAPTER IX*

*THE ASCENDING SCALE*

Rosalind did not have a headache, and she did not take a nap. Instead,

when she had closed the door of her room she faced herself in the

mirror.

"You are becoming a great liar," she said bluntly.

With the fidelity of a movie, the image in the mirror returned the

compliment.

"On second thought," said Rosalind, "I withdraw that. You are not

becoming a great liar--you _are_ a great liar."

The lips of the animated image assured her that the amendment was

accepted.

"You have lied about little things, big things, foolish things, serious

things--everything. I detest lying. It is cowardly, vulgar, and

demoralizing. Worse than that, it's troublesome. But"--she sighed

softly--"occasionally it is necessary."

She turned abruptly away from the image, went to a writing-desk, and

spent several minutes with a pen and a sheet of paper. When she had

reviewed her composition with care, she folded it into small compass,

slipped it into a vanity-box, and snapped the lid smartly.

"That's just to make sure," she murmured. "I suppose there will be more

later."

After that she sat passively by the window for fifteen minutes,

appearing to watch the tennis-players, yet devoting her complete

attention to her thoughts.

Smuggling, of course, was not so bad as burglary, she reflected. Lots

of excellent people smuggled--not in a really vicious way, and not with

the least hint of sinister intent; it was just a sort of sporting

proposition. They did not smuggle for a living, or even for incidental

profit; they were not professionals.

She knew a lot of perfectly amiable, well-bred, and charming smugglers,

who smuggled a trifle now and then for the excitement of beating the

game. There was herself, for instance.

But professional smuggling was different, she told herself severely.

And when it was coupled with burglary, it assumed a serious aspect. She

would not permit herself to be lenient in this. Yet she was intensely

curious.

If Sam was a smuggler as well as a burglar, who was H. Evelyn Morton?

What did Sam know about Morton, and what did the Englishman know about

Sam?

Of course, it was natural for Sam to attempt to divert suspicion from

himself. But why throw it upon Morton?

"If it wasn't for the smuggling part I think I could understand," mused

Rosalind. "If Mr. Morton won all this money from Mr. Davidson's nephew,

I suppose it has been a matter of some talk. Probably this boatman has

learned of the fact, and is merely waiting for an opportunity to rob Mr.

Morton. And Mr. Morton probably has his suspicions, and is keeping a

watch upon Sam for his own protection. That's perfectly reasonable.

"But, then, why should Sam try to get Mr. Morton into trouble, and

probably thereby spoil his own chance of robbing him? I can't

understand that, unless he is incredibly stupid. And--he isn't stupid."

At the end of her fifteen-minute study Rosalind made a resolution and

went down-stairs to see about executing it. She contrived, with no

great expenditure of effort, to detach Mr. Morton from his tennis.

"Don't you think," said Rosalind, "that it would be great fun to go

fishing?"

"Upon my word, I never gave it a thought," said Mr. Morton. "But I

believe you're right, you know, Miss Chalmers."

"Then let's."

"From the wharf?"

"No! That's a stupid place."

"We'll try the point, then."

"No!"

Mr. Morton looked puzzled.

"We must get a boat," explained Rosalind.

"Oh!"

"A boat and a boatman who knows where there is good fishing to be

found."

He considered the idea for a moment.

"I--er--believe Mr. Witherbee is using his own launch this afternoon,"

Mr. Morton observed. "But--well, you know, we might be able to get--"

He paused in doubt. During an instant's silence their eyes met

steadily.

"Yes, I think we might," said Rosalind. "Will you see if he's anywhere

in sight?"

With a bow, Morton strode in the direction of the shore.

"I am rather curious to see those two persons together," murmured

Rosalind, as she watched him go upon his errand.

It was nearly an hour before he put in an appearance.

"Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting," he said. "But I had to take a

boat and row about a bit to find him. It's all right, however; he's at

the wharf."

"That's very lovely of you," declared Rosalind graciously. "We might

bring some of the others, too, if you like. Suppose you hunt them up.

I'll go down to the boat."

She found the boatman wiping the seats and otherwise engaged in the

discouraging task of trying to make his craft tidy. He greeted her with

a brief nod.

"Fishing?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Muskies?"

"Why--yes."

"Well, that's good sport," he commented.

"You can take us to the proper place, of course?"

"Who--me?"

The boatman shook his head.

"Then why in the world do you pretend to hire out---"

Sam interrupted her.

"You don't want to go fishing," he said.

Rosalind's cheeks assumed a pink tint.

"Not for muskies, anyhow," added Sam.

In his eyes was a hint of amusement that angered her.

"It is my intention to go fishing," she declared coldly. "It is not my

intention to have my word questioned."

He shrugged indifferently.

"Oh, very well, Miss Chalmers! How many in the party? Space is

limited, you know."

"Myself--Mr. Morton--perhaps half a dozen others."

"Miss Dawson?" he asked.

Rosalind looked at him in quick astonishment.

"Because I can't take Miss Dawson," he added.

"You mean to say--"

"What I really meant to say was 'won't' instead of 'can't.' I won't

take Miss Dawson."

For an instant Rosalind was quite too surprised for speech, a condition

easily apparent to Sam, who volunteered further:

"No use to ask questions, Miss Chalmers. I'll give no reasons."

"This is the most unheard-of thing yet!" she exclaimed. "You mean to

say that you presume to select my own guests for me?"

"No, ma'am; not exactly. But in this case-- Here they come now. I

guess it's all right; I don't see her."

Morton appeared on the wharf, followed by the Winter girls and Fortescue

Jones.

"This will be all, I think," he said.

Rosalind did not meet the boatman's eye as the party embarked. She had

a feeling that there would be an insulting gleam of satisfaction in it.

For fully half an hour after they left the wharf she was a silent member

of the party, engrossed in wonderment over this new development. It

seemed to possess no meaning whatever; at least, none that she could

even speculate upon. He would not take Polly Dawson in his boat.

Sam sat stolidly in the stern, smoking and watching the river.

Occasionally his glance wandered to Morton, yet incuriously. This

passenger seemed to possess no more interest for him than the Winter

girls or the young man who toiled unskilfully over a jointed rod. As

for Morton, the existence of the steersman did not appear to be within

his ken.

Suddenly Rosalind remembered. She had come to study, not to fish. She

had contrived a meeting so that she might observe a result. It was an

experiment in human alchemy; put her Englishman and her boatman together

and she felt that a reaction was inevitable. So now she began to

observe.

Disappointment did not improve her temper. There was no reaction--no

smoke, no fire, no explosion. They did not speak, neither did they

exchange furtive glances. They were maddeningly at ease. Rosalind was

soon disgusted with her experiment. She was quite willing to abandon

it.

But the Jones young man was fishing by this time. The two strikes and

two misses had rewarded his efforts, and he was brought to a pitch of

absorbed excitement. Rosalind felt she was doomed to a dull afternoon.

It had now degenerated into a common fishing-party, even though there

was but one fisherman, and it did not lie in her mouth to explain that

it was never meant to be an angling affair at all.

She attempted to put her mind into a state of resignation, the most

difficult mental feat she ever attempted, and one at which she usually

met failure. Morton was dull when he talked at all. He was three per

cent. conversation and ninety-seven per cent. silence. The Winter girls

knitted as if it were a penance. There was momentary hope when

Fortescue Jones broke the tip of his rod, but that took wings when he

produced another.

Only the boatman truly enjoyed himself. Hatless, he reveled in the sun

that bathed his head and bared neck. His pipe was drawing smoothly and

steadily. But, most wonderful of all, his engine pulsated as

rhythmically and surely as the power-plant of a six-thousand-dollar

limousine. It was fairly uncanny in its perfection.

The launch ranged past the eastern tip of Grenadier Island, then across

toward the Canadian shore, thence up-river, Fortescue Jones fishing

desperately, and bringing nothing within fifty feet of a gaff.

"We're going too fast," complained the fisherman.

Sam turned a glance of inquiry at Rosalind. She shook her head. The

launch held its pace.

Another half-hour passed with scarce a word spoken aboard. Rosalind was

bored to desperation. Her experiment in alchemy was the flattest kind of

failure. She turned upon young Jones with sudden and undeserved

severity.

"I should think it would be exceedingly tiresome to catch nothing," she

said.

"It is," he assented hastily.

"Then why do you fish?"

"Why--why, I thought it was a fishing-party!"

"Without fish?"

"I've had half a dozen strikes."

She sighed and flashed a savage look at the boatman. He grinned.

"Shall we turn back?" she asked Morton, who was stroking his mustache in

a preoccupied manner.

For answer he pointed toward a power-boat almost astern and following at

a rapid rate.

"Seems, by Jove, as if they wished to speak with us," he said. "A chap

just waved."

Rosalind studied the oncoming craft. It carried a small British ensign

at the stern. Four men were standing in the cock-pit, staring intently.

As she watched one of them signaled.

"Stop the boat!" she commanded.

Sam obeyed, then turned for the first time to observe the pursuing

vessel, now close aboard.

As the launch slackened to a slow drift the smart-looking power-boat

with the British flag ranged alongside. A man who appeared to be in

authority touched his cap formally.

"Who's the owner of this vessel?" he asked.

"Me," answered Sam without removing his pipe from his mouth.

"Name of vessel?" demanded the stranger briskly.

"_Fifty-Fifty_."

"What?"

"I said _Fifty-Fifty_."

"Registered?"

The boatman shrugged his shoulders.

"Let's see your license."

"Oh, this is an American boat," said the owner indifferently.

"Well, you're in Canadian waters. I'm a Canadian officer. I am

entitled to inspect your papers. Let's see them."

"Didn't bring 'em."

The man turned and held a whispered conversation with two of his

colleagues. One of them nodded.

"We'll probably have to take you ashore for that," he remarked very

sternly.

Sam displayed no evidence of interest. He merely looked at Rosalind.

That lady had been suddenly aroused from boredom. She was very much

interested.

"I am responsible for the boat being here," she said. "I am hiring it.

What is the trouble?"

"The trouble is, madam, that this man is navigating Canadian waters

without being able to produce proper papers."

"But that does not seem like a very serious offense," remarked Rosalind.

"I imagine it is being done every day."

"It's been done a number of times by this vessel, madam. We've watched

it."

"Still, I do not see that it is a matter of much importance. I am sure

no damage has been done."

"We're not so sure, madam."

A second man twitched the sleeve of the speaker, and they conferred in

low tones.

"What is your name, madam?" demanded the spokesman, turning again to

Rosalind.

She told him.

"And the names of the members of your party, please?"

She gave him those, while he made a careful memorandum of each.

"And this man?" with a nod at the boatman.

"Sam."

"Sam what?"

"Merely Sam, so far as I know."

He looked at the boatman for further enlightenment.

"Sam merely," echoed that person.

Again there was a whispered conference aboard the second craft.

"Do you know a man named Schmidt?" asked the one in authority, speaking

to the boatman.

Sam indicated that he did.

"Heinrich Schmidt?"

"I believe that's his name. They fit together, anyhow."

"Who is he?"

"One of my best customers."

"Where's he from?"

"Chicago, so he told me. What's the game?"

"You took him to Rockport three days ago, didn't you?"

"That's right."

"And to Gananoque?"

"Right again."

"And he's been to Kingston twice with you?"

"Three times," corrected Sam.

"What was he doing at those places?"

"Doing? How do I know? I didn't follow him."

The four men in the strange boat withdrew to the farther end of their

craft and put their heads together. Rosalind watched them impatiently.

Even Morton displayed a mild interest, while the Winter girls stopped

knitting and looked worried.

"Where does this man Schmidt stop?" demanded the spokesman when he

emerged once more from the conference.

"Oh, he's been drifting around at two or three places on the American

side."

"Who does he meet?"

"Give it up," answered Sam. "I'm not in charge of him. I'm just his

boatman."

"If you are looking for smugglers," interrupted Rosalind, "why--"

"We're not, madam," snapped the stranger.

He turned again to Sam.

"Did this man Schmidt ever discuss military subjects with you?"

"Yes, indeed. That is, once."

The men exchanged significant glances.

"When--and what?"

"The last time I had him out," said Sam. "He wanted to know if I didn't

think Grant gave General Sigel a raw deal when he put somebody else on

the job in the Shenandoah Valley."

The spokesman in the trim power-boat frowned heavily.

"That all?"

"All I remember. Except he said his father fought with Sigel and always

claimed that Halleck framed him. I don't know whether he did or not,

but I said I'd speak about it some time and see if I could find out.

You wouldn't happen to know yourself, would you?"

The man glared suspiciously. Rosalind turned her face away and began

dabbling one hand in the water, over the side of the boat.

"Well, I guess we'll take you up to Kingston," said the spokesman after

a minute of deliberation. "There are a few things that need looking

into."

Sam glanced about him casually.

"Not now you won't," he observed as he proceeded to refill his pipe.

"We've crossed the line."

The man made a swift survey of the river and the islands and uttered an

angry exclamation.

"You see, you talked too much," added the boatman deferentially. "You

talked so long that we drifted over into American water. If you try to

take me now they'll send a battleship after me, or an ultimatum, or

something else just as bad."

There was a hurried consultation among the four strangers, with

evidences of disagreement. It ended when the man in command turned upon

Sam with a stern visage.

"Hereafter," he said, "you enter Canadian waters or ports at your own

risk. In the name of the English government I warn you. I also

authorize you to extend the same warning to the man Heinrich Schmidt.

If he is found north of the international boundary-line let him look out

for himself. That applies to you, your boat, and any passengers you may

have aboard."

Marjorie Winter turned pale.

"But really," she ventured timidly, "I'm very sure that none of us is

against you, sir. See--these are for Belgians."

She held up a half-finished sock.

The man who sounded the warning did not look at it. He gave a sharp

command and the boat with the British ensign snorted off across the

river.

"I think we will go home now," observed Rosalind.

Without a word Sam started his engine.

It was a silent party that returned to Witherbee's Island. Rosalind was

glad it was so. The affair was at once too big with possibilities and

too nebulous as to facts for idle gossip.

To the best of her knowledge she had never seen a spy. She wondered if

she were really looking at one now. He did not look like one.

Nor, for that matter, did Morton, who might well be expected to display

interest at the very least if it were true that Sam and the Schmidt man

were making voyages into Canadian ports that might end in nooses.

First a common thief, next a smuggler--now a spy! Rosalind found

pleasurable excitement in her thoughts. Gertrude Witherbee was on the

wharf when the launch came in. She was waving a yellow envelope at

Rosalind.

"Telegram for you!" she called.

Rosalind took the message and read as follows:

"Will arrive some time this evening.

"WILLIAMS."

Reginald Williams, the persistent one, was coming! Rosalind gasped.

Not that she minded Williams or his persistence. He was well enough in

his way, and he could always be properly discouraged. She had no fears

on that point.

But Reginald was the bracelet man! And the bracelet was now upon the

smoothly tanned arm of Gertrude. And Reginald would see it--and

recognize it. And he would wonder and ask questions and blurt

something. There would be explanations and revelations and--

Rosalind shuddered, and pondered the matter deeply.

"It simply cannot be!" she exclaimed aloud.

"What can't be, dear?" asked Gertrude.

"Why--oh, nothing. I was just doing some oral thinking."

Gertrude smiled wisely. She knew about Reginald. And she knew--or

thought she knew--that Reginald would ask again, and that, as Rosalind

said, it simply could not be.

*CHAPTER X*

*WHAT REGGY DREW*

Mrs. Witherbee, driven into a corner by an angry Rosalind, confessed

that somewhere in the back of her mind there may have been a lurking

purpose when she invited Reggy Williams to become a member of her summer

household. Not being subtle in the least, Mrs. Witherbee interpreted

the wrath of Rosalind at its face value. Hence, she sustained a shock

within an incredibly short space of time.

"It was a most thoughtless thing," said Rosalind sternly.

"But, my dear, I didn't for a moment dream that his attentions would

really--"

"Attentions? Bosh!"

Mrs. Witherbee opened her eyes wide.

"I'm not interested in his attentions--not in the slightest degree,"

said Rosalind. "They do not disturb me one way or the other. I am,

however, purely from the standpoint of humanity, interested in the

preservation of his life."

"His life!"

"Certainly. I thought you knew."

"But Rosalind, dear--"

"Why in the world you didn't ask me I don't know," said Rosalind, making

a hopeless gesture with both arms. "Everybody else knows it."

Mrs. Witherbee's faced had attained a greenish pallor.

"Knows what?" she asked tremblingly.

"Knows that Reginald Williams has a heart that is liable to drop him in

his tracks any time."

Mrs. Witherbee raised both hands and opened her mouth.

"Certainly," added Rosalind sharply. "He's been suffering from it for

some time. He's not allowed to take violent exercise, or to undergo any

excitement or sudden shock. He has to be kept perfectly quiet. And

above all he must not be given the slightest hint of his trouble. You

see, he doesn't know it himself."

"Doesn't know it!"

"Indeed not. The physicians are afraid that it would make matters worse

to tell him. So they told only his family, and his family has informed

his friends. And Reggy is really in the hands of his friends without

knowing it."

"But he'll be with friends, here," said Mrs. Witherbee, brightening.

"Friends--yes!" exclaimed Rosalind. "But how about the excitement?

Think of what's been going on here--of what may happen at any time. Why,

it might kill him!"

Mrs. Witherbee sat down suddenly and limply.

"What shall we do?" she moaned.

"There is only one thing to do, of course; that is to make the best of

it. He must be kept absolutely quiet, but he must not know that he is

being kept quiet.

"Under no circumstances must he be told anything about burglars or

smugglers or spies or anything of that sort. He must not know about the

burglar-alarm, or the raids at this place and Mr. Davidson's--or

anything! It may be a matter of life or death with him. Nobody must

even suggest such a thing!

"Why, Gertrude mustn't even wear that bracelet, because it's so odd it

will start him asking questions, and then the whole thing is likely to

come out!

"Everybody must be told to say nothing whatever about anything that

might give him a shock. Not only that; they mustn't even _do_ anything

exciting.

"I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" faltered Mrs. Witherbee as she rocked in

her chair.

"It's too late to stop him, of course," continued Rosalind. "I suppose

he's at Clayton by this time. So the only thing we can do is to take the

utmost precautions. And we must be particularly careful that he does

not even suspect!"

"Oh, we will; we will, my dear."

"And you'll tell everybody?" said Rosalind anxiously.

"Every soul! I'll tell Stephen immediately. We'll all help--we'll be

_so_ careful!"

Rosalind watched Mrs. Witherbee hurry in search of her husband and

smiled grimly.

"Something had to be done about it," she murmured. "I couldn't think of

anything else offhand."

It was dusk and the Witherbee household was sitting on the porch

unnaturally quiet when a voice from the path that led to the wharf rent

the air with a bellow.

"Ho there, somebody! Wonder you wouldn't welcome a guest!"

Simultaneously a tall, bulky figure appeared at the edge of the lawn and

crossed at a rapid walk. It stopped at the foot of the steps. Two

grips that were carried in one hand were tossed upon the porch with a

flirt of the wrist. Then followed a trunk, which had been balanced

jauntily on one shoulder. And then Reggy Williams cleared five steps in

one leap and began shaking hands with everybody.

"Nice folks!" he shouted. "Not a soul to meet a fellow! Hello,

Rosalind; you're looking fine and fit. Hello, Gertrude! Hello, Tom,

you lazy mucker! Why didn't you give me a hand? Didn't know I'd be

here so soon, eh? I've a good mind to carry you down to the river and

chuck you in."

He charged about the porch like a nervous rhinoceros, bawling

salutations and leaving in his wake an array of painfully throbbing

fingers.

Reginald Williams stood six feet three. He was wide and thick and

boisterous, and there was a deep red tan on his face that actually

served to exaggerate his bulk.

Mrs. Witherbee, her hands clasped to her bosom, regarded him with

horror.

"Won't you--please--take a chair?" she whispered timidly.

"Chair? Why, thanks--if you'll stick it in front of a table. I haven't

had a mouthful since noon, and I don't mind saying I can eat anything

and everything you've got in the house. Here, Tom! Don't fuss with that

trunk; I'll take care of that later."

Mr. Witherbee cautiously pushed a porch rocker against Reginald's legs.

"We'll get you some grub," he said anxiously. "Only sit down first.

Rest yourself, old man."

"Rest! That's all I've done all day in a train that didn't have

ambition enough to keep within two hours of her schedule. I could have

pushed the blamed thing faster than it went."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Witherbee, his brow furrowed in anxiety. "But just

sit down a bit. Enjoy the air--it's great up here. See that view--isn't

it amazing? Everything so quiet so, peaceful Oh, it just puts ten years

on a man's life to spend a little while up here! No worry, no cares, no

excitement."

Reginald sat reluctantly.

"No excitement!" he exclaimed. "Then, by George, we'll make some! How

do you live without it? I can't. I'm going to start something, sure as

you live. But I'd like to eat first."

The Witherbee family ventured inquiring glances at Rosalind. That

lady's face bore a curious expression of doubt and dismay. But she did

not lose her self-control. Stepping behind Reginald's chair, she raised

a finger to her lips and shook her head warningly.

"I'll get you some toast directly," said Mrs. Witherbee. "And how do you

like your tea?"

Reginald guffawed, then apologized:

"Excuse me; didn't mean to be rude. But if you've got any cold ham in

the house and some bread and butter, and a scuttle of hot coffee you

needn't bother about the toast and tea. And you needn't fetch it out

here; lead me to it."

The Winter girls exchanged apprehensive glances. Mr. Witherbee made a

sign to his wife, who disappeared into the house. Rosalind followed

her. The two ladies met in the pantry.

"I--I'm frightened to death," whispered Mrs. Witherbee. "Is he always

that way?"

"Nearly always," sighed Rosalind. "That's what makes it so sad."

"I hadn't thought of it as being sad, my dear. It--it just seems sort of

terrible. Doesn't he know?"

"Ssh! Of course not. He doesn't even suspect."

"The poor man!" said Mrs. Witherbee softly. "Then it is sad, isn't it?

Isn't there any way to--control him?"

"It's very difficult," admitted Rosalind. "He's headstrong. And of

course, not knowing, you can't expect him to restrain himself. He's

always been accustomed to leading an active life."

"Active, my dear! Why, he's violent. My knuckles are still aching. Do

you really think we ought to let him have ham--and coffee?"

"We might as well," said Rosalind in a hopeless voice. "He'd probably

make a scene over toast and tea."

"And he seems so healthy, poor fellow! And so strong!"

"He's deceptive," Rosalind observed hastily.

There was a heavy tramping of feet overhead, then a crash that rattled

the dishes in the pantry. Mrs. Witherbee rushed into the hall, stifling

a scream. Rosalind bit her lip.

When the mistress of the island returned her eyes were wide with terror.

"He--he carried his trunk up-stairs!" she gasped. "He wouldn't let

Stephen or Tom touch it."

"He does those things," said Rosalind unhappily. "He doesn't realize,

you know. We can't restrain him by force, but we must do all we can."

"Does he have--attacks?"

"Oh, often. Terrible ones."

Mrs. Witherbee clasped her hands.

"And it's a two-mile sail to the nearest doctor!" she moaned.

"Never suggest a doctor to him," warned Rosalind. "He wouldn't

understand and you can't tell what he might do. Don't think of such a

thing!

"But if anything should happen--"

"We must run the risk. We must make the best of it somehow. I'd cut

more ham than that, I think; he'll only be out after more if you don't.

I'll get the bread; no need to call the servants. I imagine we'd better

bring it to him on the porch."

An awed household watched Reginald Williams eat. It was a rapid and

extensive proceeding.

"Sorry to have put you out," he roared genially as he emptied the

coffee-pot. "But a man has to have a bite now and then to keep his body

and soul in close relation."

"Of course," assented Mrs. Witherbee gently. "Good food, rest, and

plenty of sleep."

"Oh, I'm not sleepy! I'm good for all night if there's anything doing."

"We live very quietly here, Mr. Williams."

"Oh, well, we'll manage to start something. Won't we, Tom?"

Tom Witherbee mumbled an unintelligible reply and glanced at Rosalind.

She shook her head severely.

Suddenly Reginald missed the master of the house.

"Where's Mr. Witherbee?" he demanded.

"He--he went out in the launch," faltered Mrs. Witherbee.

"Why the dickens didn't he invite somebody? Nothing I'd like better on a

night like this."

"He just went over to Mr. Davidson's island," explained Gertrude in a

soothing tone. "He didn't think anybody would want to go."

At this point Fortescue Jones, who had been regarding Reginald with

amazed eyes, entered the conversation. Said he:

"He went over to see about bur--"

The elbow of Tom Witherbee put an abrupt end to the sentence.

"To see about what?" demanded Reginald.

Mrs. Witherbee rolled her eyes helplessly. Her husband had gone to the

burglar meeting.

"To see about burlap," said Rosalind hastily.

"Burlap?"

"Certainly--burlap. He wants it to wrap things in."

"Must want it pretty badly," commented Reginald, "if he has to make a

special voyage to get it. Oh, well, if we can't go sailing let's start

something. Let's dance!"

Rosalind leaned weakly against a pillar of the porch.

"We--we don't dance," said Gertrude.

"Don't dance!"

The eyes of Reginald Williams successively met those of the two Winter

girls, Polly Dawson, Gertrude, and Rosalind.

"You haven't all sprained your ankles, have you?" he asked.

"I mean we haven't been doing any dancing here," explained Gertrude

desperately. "We--Mother doesn't like it."

This statement astonished Mrs. Witherbee to such an extent that she

opened her mouth and held it that way for several seconds. Then she

nodded.

The next half-hour on the Witherbee porch was crowded with the efforts

of ten persons to curb the restless spirit of a young man who wanted to

do something.

They spoke softly and upon soft topics, such as gardening and clothes

and fresh air. They argued nothing, but agreed upon everything. They

urged Reginald to sit down. They tried to make him wear Mr. Witherbee's

top coat. They watched with sickening dread as he smoked. They

scarcely breathed when he proposed to take a moonlight swim.

Then one by one they went off to bed, yawning prodigiously and declaring

that it was getting very late. Reginald and Rosalind found themselves

alone.

He waited to make sure that the last of the company had disappeared,

then turned to her with a bewildered look.

"What on earth is the matter with this crowd?" he demanded.

"What seems to be the matter?" asked Rosalind.

"Matter! They all act as if they were afraid to make a noise or turn

around. They even whisper. Nothing's gone wrong here, has it?"

"No, indeed!" hastily.

"Well, it's about as cheerful as a shipwreck. Has it been going on like

this very long? I don't see how you and the rest of the younger folk

stand it."

"It's rather pleasant to be quiet for a change, Reggie."

"Quiet! I don't call that being quiet--it's sepulchral. I came up here

to have a good time. I'm going to shake this crowd up to-morrow."

"You mustn't!"

Rosalind's voice was anxious. Something more would have to be done, she

was certain. Reginald was capable of executing his threat.

"I'll tell you," she said in a low tone. "But you must not mention the

fact to any person that I did tell you. It's on account of Mr. Morton."

"The Englishman? What's the matter with him?"

Rosalind hesitated. What was the matter with Mr. Morton? She felt that

she was rapidly becoming mired.

"Well, you see, Mr. Morton is just recovering from a breakdown," she

ventured.

"What kind of a breakdown?"

"Mental."

"Loose in the bean, eh?"

"Reginald! You know I hate slang. No; he's not--that. Not nearly so

bad. But he had a breakdown--mostly nervous, I think. It came from

overwork, I believe. He must have absolute quiet--no excitement,

nothing to irritate him.

"But you must not mention it to a soul, Reggie; and particularly you

must not let him see that you notice anything peculiar. He's very

sensitive."

Reginald grumbled.

"So that's why we all have to keep very quiet," said Rosalind with

finality.

"He ought to be shipped off to a nut college," declared Reginald.

"Anybody like that is liable to break loose at any time. I didn't come

up here to be a keeper."

"Well, you are not compelled to remain."

Rosalind's voice was cool.

"Oh, but I am I You know very well I couldn't stay away. Why, I

practically invited myself."

He tried to capture one of Rosalind's hands, but she, alert, easily

evaded his clumsy caress.

"Please don't begin that again," she said in annoyance. "If you do I'll

go home to-morrow."

"But, Rosalind, you know very well--"

"Will you stop?"

"Oh, very well! But I give you fair warning that I haven't stopped for

good."

She sighed and frowned.

"I thought I'd struck the limit of unsociability on the way down here,"

observed Reginald. "The fellow that brought me was deaf and dumb."

"Really?"

"Couldn't speak a word. Couldn't hear, either. I had to write on a

piece of paper where I wanted to go."

"A boatman, was he?"

"Yes. And the worst of it was, his boat broke down a couple of times on

the way, and he didn't seem to know much about fixing it. I couldn't

help him, and he didn't even have the satisfaction of being able to

swear."

Rosalind found herself listening with breathless attention.

"What sort of a boat was it?" she asked.

"Not much to look at. Rather dirty, too."

She had more than a suspicion.

"What did the man look like?" carelessly.

"A chap with a beard. Long, thin person. Why?"

"Oh, nothing! I think I've seen him around. You say he is a deaf-mute?"

"Absolutely. I met him on the wharf up at Clayton, and when I asked him

a question about the boats he made signs at me. Then I felt sort of

sorry for him, and thought I'd give him a job."

Rosalind's brain was in a whirl. Sam, the boatman, playing the

deaf-mute! She could not even begin to guess a reason.

"He knew where the place was, all right; I'll say that for him," added

Reginald. "But it's not particularly entertaining to be cooped up with

a dummy in a bum boat for a couple of hours."

"I should imagine not," she murmured.

"But I did the swearing for him, anyhow. And--funny about that, too--he

must have understood what I was doing, for he grinned from ear to ear

and nodded his head. It must be tough not to be able to do your own

cussing."

"I don't suppose it does afford much relief to do it with your fingers,"

Rosalind agreed. "That is," she supplemented righteously, "if it ever

does give one any relief. It's a miserable habit."

"It's not a habit," said Reginald. "It's a vocation, if you do it

right. Who's this coming?"

Heavy, deliberate footfalls announced the return of Mr. Witherbee from

the meeting of the vigilants.

"Get your burlap?" inquired Reginald pleasantly.

"Burlap?" echoed Mr. Witherbee.

Rosalind interposed hastily.

"You must have forgotten your errand," she said, laughing. "You know

perfectly well you started out to get some burlap."

"Burlap?"

Mr. Witherbee repeated the word with a rising inflection.

Rosalind had slipped behind Reginald and was making a frantic pantomime.

The master of the island stared at her for a few seconds, wrinkling his

forehead.

"Why, certainly," she said. "Don't you remember saying you were going

to see if Mr. Davidson had some?"

"Oh, yes," answered Mr. Witherbee slowly. "Come to think of it, I did

start out to get some. And just as you say, I forgot all about it. By

the way, sit down, Williams. Take it easy. You must be tired after a

long day's journey."

"Everybody seems to think I'm tired," sighed Reginald. "I guess in

order not to disappoint them I'd better go to bed. Good night."

He stamped noisily inside and up the staircase.

"Is--is he all right?" asked Mr. Witherbee in a hoarse whisper.

"Oh, perfectly. We've kept him just as quiet as possible."

"That's right; that's right. Poor chap. And he's so healthy to look

at, too! By the way, what's this burlap game?"

Rosalind laughed.

"It's all on account of that stupid Jones boy," she explained. "He

started to blurt something about why you had gone to Mr. Davidson's, and

he had half of 'burglar' out when Tom bumped him with his elbow. Then I

had to finish it somehow, and all I could think of was burlap. You see,

it had to be something that couldn't possibly excite Reggy."

"I get you," grinned Mr. Witherbee. "Burlap, eh? I'll have to remember

to get some now."

Suddenly his expression changed and he became grave.

"We've organized," he said in guarded tones. "There were seven islands

represented. We're going to hire a patrol. Some of them are going to

get watchmen, too. And it's high time, Rosalind."

He stepped closer and looked about him cautiously.

"Somebody's been on the island again," he whispered. "But don't say

anything yet!"

"Again!"

"To-night, I think. Somebody's stolen the dog!"

"You are sure?"

"Positive. I tied the beast up near the dock when I went out in the

boat. And he's gone!"

Rosalind could only blink at this intelligence.

"But I don't want to worry Mrs. Witherbee about it," added that lady's

husband. "And of course we've got to keep it from Williams. So don't

say anything. Good night. Grand watchdog, that; I guess he needed

stealing."

*CHAPTER XI*

*TREED!*

It was early afternoon when Sam nursed the _Fifty-Fifty_ into the

rock-bound cove that formed his island harbor, made her fast, and

stepped ashore. He advanced up the winding path to his cabin. Midway

in its length he paused and listened.

A dog barked.

The boatman resumed his advance at a quicker pace. He caught sight of

the cabin, then of an agitated red setter that ran to and fro beneath a

tree whose branches brushed the roof of the dwelling. The animal was

yelping nervously.

Next the boatman saw a pair of feet, shod in snowy white and outlined

sharp and clear against the dark-green foliage. The feet were attached

to a pair of ankles, also in white--ankles that were slim, aristocratic,

even haughty.

Then as he stepped forward the rim of a white skirt came into view. A

second later his advance brought him to a point from which he obtained a

full view of Rosalind Chalmers, sitting on the branch of a tree.

"Call off your dog!" she commanded.

Sam removed his gaze from the vision in the tree and studied the animal

thoughtfully. The setter, having sighted the boatman, ceased baying and

sat down with an alert eye upon the quarry.

"The dog, I said!" said Rosalind harshly. "Call him off!"

Sam's glance returned to the lady on the branch.

"Good afternoon," he said pleasantly.

Rosalind returned the inspection through angry eyes.

"Are you going to call off the dog?" she demanded.

"Why, I was just thinking about it," drawled Sam. "I don't know that I

ought to discourage him."

The lady in the tree uttered an exclamation.

"You see," added the boatman, "the dog is only doing his duty. His job

is to protect my property. He looks out for it when I'm away."

She observed that the boatman was staring intently, not at her

eyes--where it is customary to look at a person--but at her ankles,

where it is not always polite to stare. She knew they were conspicuous,

but she also realized the futility of flinching. Sitting on a limb,

there was absolutely no way to make her skirt cover them.

"This--this is an outrage!" she stormed.

"Why, perhaps--ma'am. But whose fault?"

"The beast--he--chased me!"

"I told him to."

"You told him to?"

"That is, I told him to chase anybody. I hardly expected he'd tree you.

Did I, old sport?"

The dog relaxed his vigil long enough to turn his head, wag his tail

furiously, and give throat to a joyous bark.

"You see, this is where I live," added Sam with a nod at the cabin.

"He's in charge when I'm not here."

"In charge since--"

"Yesterday."

"You stole him!"

The boatman seemed indifferent to the charge.

"That dog belongs to Mr. Witherbee," declared Rosalind. "You know

perfectly well you stole him. And--will you call him off?"

"Perhaps--by and by," answered the boatman.

He seated himself on the ground ten feet below her and began fumbling

for tobacco. Rosalind was pink with rage.

"I'm coming down!" she declared.

Sam did not appear to hear the announcement.

She slid cautiously along the limb for a few inches, steadying herself

by a tight grip on another branch. The dog sprang to his feet and yelped

furiously. Rosalind became rigid again.

"Will you call him off?"

Sam studied her ankles, then resumed the methodical filling of his pipe.

"What brought you here?" he asked after a pause.

"I came in a rowboat."

"Alone?"

"Certainly."

"I didn't see the boat."

"It drifted away--I wouldn't be here except for that."

"What did you come for?"

Rosalind gritted her teeth and wondered if the dog would really bite.

"I was merely rowing," she said, trying to calm her voice. "I--I

thought the island was unoccupied."

"You didn't happen to be looking for a smugglers' cave, did you?"

"No!"

"Or a burglars' den?"

"_No!_"

"Or an international spy?"

She remained furious and silent.

"It's rather important for me to know," he explained as he scratched a

match. "There's so much hunting going on that it isn't safe to ignore

it. You don't happen to be a member of a posse, do you?"

"Will you let me down?"

"That's his affair," answered the boatman, nodding in the direction of

the dog. "He seems to like you where you are. I don't know that I

ought to interfere. It might discourage him and make him careless in

the future. Did you visit my cabin?"

Rosalind remained silent.

The boatman whispered something to the dog, then arose lazily and walked

over to the shack. Rosalind saw him disappear within the door. She made

a second tentative move toward descent. The dog, which lay watching her

with his nose between his paws, sprang up and snarled.

A moment afterward Sam emerged from the cabin, staring ruefully at the

sheet of paper that was in his hand.

"You tore down my picture-gallery," he said reproachfully. "Why did you

do that?"

Rosalind flushed and compressed her lips.

"I thought quite a lot of that picture," he mused, seating himself

again. "It seemed like such a good likeness."

"You beast!"

"That's not the way to make friends with him," cautioned the boatman.

"I mean you!"

"Oh! Well, that's not the way to make friends with me, either. Didn't

you like my portrait of a lady?"

"I'm coming down!" she warned desperately.

"I wouldn't--yet. He can really bite, ma'am. Have you been there long?"

"An hour."

"Is it comfortable up there?"

She remained grimly silent. It was not comfortable. The limb was very

hard and its diameter was meager. Her feet were asleep.

The boatman returned to a study of the "portrait." He even began to

read aloud from it, when Rosalind stopped him with an imploring

exclamation.

"Please--please!" she cried.

"But it's such a good portrait," he protested, looking up at her mildly.

"It's a new kind of art. It's got the cubists beaten a mile. Statist,

I suppose you'd call it. It gives all the dope--just draws a picture in

facts and figures. I'm strong for it.

"Listen. Here's where it says you--"

"Stop!"

"You are the daughter of--"

"Oh, _will_ you stop?"

He paused in his reading and observed her attentively. What he saw

appeared to please him. Rosalind was never more charming. She was a

goddess, all in white save for the fiery tint in her cheeks and the

dangerous glint in her blue eyes.

"Say," he said with sudden interest, "how'd you get up there, anyhow?

It's some climb."

"I--I had to climb."

"Meaning he pushed you pretty hard," nodding at the dog.

"Of course!"

"I'd have given a lot to have seen you make it," he mused. "If I call

him off will you do it again?"

She flushed hotly and shot him a look of stinging contempt. He never

winced.

"You see," he explained, "there's no branch below the one you're sitting

on. And that's a good ten feet up. You must have jumped for it and

swung yourself up, or else you shinned the tree. In either case it was

a stunt that's a credit to you. I'm certainly sorry I missed

it--ma'am."

He drawled the last word with maddening emphasis.

Rosalind was in despair. It was not fear of the dog--now. She knew

that Sam would not dare to let the animal attack, even if she descended

from her refuge. It was fear of the boatman's mocking eyes. He was

smiling. What would he do when she, Rosalind, the dignified, began the

scramble that must precede her arrival at _terra firma_?

Dignity scarcely sat with her on the limb, even now; it would be a

thousand miles away when she made the first decisive move. It was a

sense of dignity wholly that restrained Rosalind. She did not care

particularly about her ankles; she was not ashamed of them and had no

reason to be. But she was bitterly resolved that she would cling to the

very end to whatever shred of haughty poise remained to her.

Temper loosed her tongue again.

"Thief! Smuggler!" she exclaimed. "They'll make short work of you when

I'm free from this."

"Well, we're all little pals together," he observed serenely.

"Spy!"

"Say, that was a funny one, wasn't it?" he said, brightening. "Me _und_

Schmidt--spies! That was one you never even thought of, ma'am."

"Will you stop calling me 'ma'am'?"

"Excuse me. I was only trying to be respectful. What do you want me to

call you--Rosie?"

Rosalind almost lost her balance. She recovered herself with a

desperate grab at a branch and made a choking noise in her throat. It

shamed her to know that tears were in her eyes, but she could not force

them back.

"About that spy business," he went on. "Did you believe that?"

"I see no reason to doubt it."

He mused over that for a while.

"It's hanging if it's true," he remarked presently.

"I hope so!"

"Hanging for me _und_ Schmidt. I hate to think about it."

Rosalind could contemplate it with pleasure.

"Poor old Schmidt! Fat old Schmidt--who never did anything worse than

buy and sell wheat on the Chicago Board of Trade! Think of hanging

Schmidt as a spy!"

Rosalind paid little attention to the uttered thoughts of the boatman.

She was trying to concentrate on her own case. Thus far conversation

had been futile while the dog and the man remained inexorable.

She blamed herself bitterly for the panic that had driven her to an

arboreal refuge. If only she had stopped and faced the beast all might

have been saved! As she looked down upon him now she did not believe he

would bite. But he had come upon her so suddenly, so clamorously, that

self-possession fled from her in a flash.

And now, even though she lacked faith in his ferocity and remembered how

insinuatingly he had nosed his muzzle into her hand back on the

Witherbee place, there were other reasons. Chief of course was the

sardonic boatman.

Yet she was frantically anxious to descend from her tree. To gain that

she was almost willing to sacrifice everything save dignity. She was

even content to sue for peace--to make terms, if need be to humiliate

herself before this common creature who calmly smoked and watched her

discomfiture.

"May I come down now?" she asked so sweetly that the alteration in her

voice startled him.

He stared at her and whistled.

"Please!"

Rosalind's tone was liquid in its smoothness. And--she smiled! The

boatman dropped his pipe.

"Do it again," he said incredulously.

"What?"

"Smile!"

She did it again, this time with less obvious effort. His complete

astonishment helped to lighten the task.

"Great heavens, you can do it!"

"And now may I come down?"

She suited a movement to the question, but the dog growled again. The

boatman recovered his composure.

"Well, I don't know about that," he said. "It depends. You see, you've

invaded my island and you've been prospecting around my cabin, and maybe

you're fixing to get me into trouble."

"I promise!" she exclaimed hastily.

"But you've got me for a thief, a smuggler, and a spy, and that's a

whole lot to have on anybody."

"I'm willing to ignore the matter, then. It's none of my business."

"Hum! That's sounds fair enough, of course. But how can I tell they

won't wheedle it out of you?"

"Do you think I'm a child?"

"I should say not!"

She did not relish the emphasis nor see the need for it.

"Well, am I to be released?" she asked after a pause.

"I'm thinking about it. Why did you tear down my picture-gallery?"

"It was an insult!"

"Not a bit, ma'am. It was just a portrait--a bully one. Anyhow, why

shouldn't I have one? Thousands of 'em have been printed."

Rosalind bit her lip.

"They're in common circulation, all over. Anybody with three dollars

can buy one."

"You stole it."

"That's a compliment to you, ma'am. See the risk I ran--for a picture."

"They--they are not for common people," she said frigidly.

Sam surveyed her leisurely.

"I suppose that means me," he remarked.

She answered with a gesture.

"And of course you're something better than common clay," he mused.

She did not stoop to answer him.

"Say!" he broke out suddenly. "Far be it from me to be impolite to a

lady, particularly a lady with her portrait written in a three-dollar

society book. But do you know that you make me good and tired?"

The lady in the tree gasped.

"Yes; dead weary. I've heard about you. I read the papers sometimes.

You're one of the exclusive bunch; you're in the 'it' class. Everybody

outside of it is plain common dirt--to you. You've got the coin and the

pedigree, which is supposed to make you something extra special. You're

supposed to be a shade higher up than human. They tell me you're a

heart-breaker, too."

Rosalind turned white.

"Just why you should be such a heart-breaker," he continued, examining

her with a critical eye, "is something I don't quite get. You're a

good-enough looker, so far as that goes, but--shucks! There are lots of

those. Never saw a man yet that was fit to marry you, I understand. A

sort of a man-hater, maybe.

"Yet you never try to head a man off if you see he's in a fair way to

get his heart cracked. That's your favorite sport, according to the

dope I get. You just take it as something that is naturally coming to

you. If it didn't happen you'd feel insulted. Oh, yes! I've heard

about you."

She was rigid as marble and almost as breathless.

"Let me tell you something--Rosie. You can't put that stuff over on me.

You can swing it across on some society guy, but it doesn't go here.

Why, I can tell things about your doings in the last forty-eight hours

that'll knock you clean out of the Blue Book.

"As I said before, I don't want to be rude to a lady, ma'am, and I don't

intend to say anything that would hurt her feelings--not for anything.

But you make me plain and plumb tired."

Rosalind was crying in sheer helpless rage. The boatman watched the

tears stonily. After a short pause he arose from his seat on the ground

and whistled to the dog.

"You can come down if you like," he informed her.

Torn with a storm of sobs and mortification, Rosalind made no move to

descend. He watched her for a minute, then went into the cabin and

returned, dragging the table. This he placed beneath the limb where she

still clung, quivering.

Mounting the table, he reached up and in a most impersonal way grasped

her about the waist and swung her clear of the tree. For an instant

Rosalind found herself poised in the air. Then she was deposited on the

ground. She walked a few steps and leaned weakly against the tree. The

dog barked in delight.

"Well, you've got to get home, I suppose," said Sam. "And your boat's

gone. It's up to me to take you. I don't mind earning a little money.

"You may as well quit crying, too. You're not hurt and you're not

down-hearted. You're just good and mad; that's all."

He turned to lead the way down the path, then stopped and stared through

an opening in the trees.

"Another visitor," he observed with a grin.

Rosalind followed the direction of his glance. Reginald Williams in a

motor-launch was just making the shore of the island. He glimpsed her

white-clad figure and waved his hand.

"Oh!" she gasped.

"Trouble?" inquired Sam.

"You mustn't tell him! How shall I explain? What shall I do? I can't

ever, ever--"

Her tears began to flow afresh.

"Needn't worry about me telling him anything, ma'am. I'm deaf and

dumb--to him."

"But--but--"

Rosalind Chalmers was deserted by her cloak of calm disdain. She was in

a panic.

A sudden change came over the boatman.

"Come on, buck up!" he said, cheerfully. "I'm sorry I made you cry. I

take it all back--honest. Just forget it. We'll get out of this easy.

Get your nerve now--quick! He'll be here in a couple of minutes. Be a

sport, Miss Chalmers! Be a pal; just make believe you're the master

mechanic again. Think hard now. We've got to hand him something."

"But he'll think that I--"

"No, he won't," declared Sam soothingly. "He won't have time to think

anything. That's it; brace hard, now. I knew you were game."

He actually patted her on the shoulder. Somehow Rosalind neglected to

resent the vulgar familiarity.

"Here! I've got the scheme!" he exclaimed. "Only _you'll_ have to spiel

it at him because I'm a dummy. Now, listen!"

*CHAPTER XII*

*TURNING THE TABLES*

Sam talked rapidly and with many gestures, the latter for the benefit of

Reggy Williams in case Reggy might be looking up from the landing-place,

where he was now making fast his boat.

"You went out rowing," explained Sam hurriedly. "You rowed up close to

my island."

"By why did I go rowing? I've got to know that. I told Mr. Williams I

was going up-stairs to take a nap."

"Oh, you changed your mind about napping, or you went rowing in your

sleep. Anything will do; what's the difference about why you went? The

point is, you went rowing. You're old enough. While you were close to

my island you were upset in a sudden squall."

"There hasn't been a breath of wind to-day!"

"Well, cut out the squall, then. You rocked the boat, or did something

silly, and fell overboard. You screamed and I--"

"You're deaf and dumb? How could you hear me scream?"

"That's right. Cut out the scream. I saw you; that'll do. I'm not

supposed to be blind. I rushed down, got into my boat, went out and

rescued you. Then I brought you to the island to recover. How's that?"

Rosalind looked doubtful.

"He'll be here in a minute," warned Sam. "Either take that or invent a

better one."

"But it makes me sound so foolish--so helpless!" she protested. "And he

knows I can swim."

"Tell him you forgot how--your skirts tangled you up--anything!"

Rosalind nodded her head reluctantly.

"All--right."

Reggy Williams was now hidden from view at a bend in the path, which he

was already ascending. Rosalind gasped abruptly.

"My clothes!" she exclaimed. "I fell overboard and--and I'm not even

wet!"

"Ouch!" cried the boatman. "I forgot. But wait!"

He dashed into the cabin, then reappeared carrying a large

galvanized-iron pail. It seemed to be heavy.

A second later and the contents of it--cold, pure water from the great

St. Lawrence--descended upon Rosalind like a cloud-burst.

"Now you're O.K. for the part," grinned the boatman as he tossed the

pail aside.

"You--you--"

"S-sh! It's a grand make-up. Had to be done, you know."

Rosalind, a beautiful, dripping statue of white, shot him a glance of

fury and hate. Her drenched costume clung clammily. Wet strands of

hair plastered her cheeks, while her eyes blinked painfully from the

effects of the deluge.

"Here he is," whispered the boatman as Williams entered the scene.

"Remember--I'm a dummy! Talk up now like a rescued lady."

Reginald Williams, momentarily halted by the spectacle of a moist and

miserable lady, sprang forward with an anxious cry.

"Rosalind!"

She waved him back and made a wild effort to smooth her hair.

"You're hurt!" cried Reginald. "What's happened?"

"I'm--I'm not hurt," she answered. "Don't be silly. I'm merely wet."

"Wet! You're saturated, child!"

"I'm not a child. Please don't get hysterical, Reggy."

"But how--why--"

"Naturally I've got to explain," she sighed.

The boatman, standing behind Reginald, winked enthusiastically and waved

his hand.

"You see, I didn't take a nap," said Rosalind. "I changed my mind about

that. I went out for a row. Why didn't I tell you? Why should I,

Reggy?"

"But you nearly drowned yourself!" blurted Reginald in a dismayed tone.

"On the contrary I did nothing of the kind. This--this fellow here is

the cause of everything."

Reginald whirled swiftly upon the boatman, who stood open-mouthed,

staring at Rosalind.

"What have you done?" roared Reginald, his great figure advancing

threateningly.

With a swift look of pained surprise at the dripping one, Sam made a

gesture of incomprehension and backed away a step.

"He is deaf and dumb, remember," interposed Rosalind. "Don't hurt him,

Reggy. Of course he didn't do it intentionally. But he is such a

clumsy fool!"

The boatman's mouth was still open. He seemed to be holding his breath.

"I don't care if he is deaf and dumb," declared Reginald savagely. "If

he's done anything to you, I'll break his neck. Tell me,

Rosalind--hurry!"

She smiled very faintly, and bestowed a sweeping and deliberate look of

malice upon Sam. As Reginald removed his glance from the object of his

threat the boatman shook a fist at Rosalind and went through a frantic

pantomime. It had no effect upon her.

"Why, you see, Reggy, as I said before, I went rowing. After a while I

came to this island. I was tired of rowing and I came ashore for a

rest."

Sam was glaring and shaking his head. He even pointed at the tree, then

at the dog. Reginald, who caught the gesture, was puzzled.

"What's the matter with him?" he demanded.

"Don't pay any attention to him," advised Rosalind. "He's a little

unbalanced, I think."

"I'll tie him up if you say."

"No, indeed; he's quite harmless."

The boatman, making sure again that Reginald was not looking, shook his

fist and pointed to the pail that had so recently played its part.

Rosalind ignored the implied exposure.

"Where was I?" she mused. "Oh, yes; I came ashore. While I was sitting

on the rocks, resting, I saw this man approaching in his launch. He had

the engine stopped and was leaning over the side of the boat, which was

drifting along slowly. He seemed to be engaged with something that was

in the water. It--it was a fish-net, I think."

"Against the law," observed Reginald, nodding.

"Of course. And then, while I watched him he fell overboard."

Sam, who had been listening with steadily widening eyes, broke into a

furious pantomime. He shook his head violently and pointed at his

clothing. Rosalind bit her lip and remembered. The boatman's clothes

were dry.

For an instant she paused, dismayed. The web of her fiction was

becoming tangled. From sheer stubbornness, hardened with a desire for

revenge, she had embarked upon a tale of her own. If there was lying to

be done Rosalind was resolved to be the architect of her own falsehoods.

She would not become a parrot for the lies of another.

Nor had she a mind to play the weak and conventional part of a maiden in

distress, rescued by masculine courage and brawn. Even though wet and

undignified she proposed to preserve some shred of superiority to the

sex that scattered hearts at her feet.

"As I said," she resumed suddenly with a swift flash of her eyes in the

direction of Sam, "the creature fell overboard. He began floundering

about in the water quite helplessly, and it was evident he could

scarcely swim a stroke. I couldn't see him drown, so I had to go to the

rescue."

"And you rowed out--"

"That was the trouble," continued Rosalind. "My boat had drifted loose

and had disappeared. So there was nothing else to do but swim--unless I

wanted to see him drown."

"Rosalind!"

Reginald's eyes were blazing with admiration.

"Oh, it wasn't much of a swim," she said carelessly. "Not over a hundred

yards, I should say."

"But you risked your life, child!"

"Not at all. I can really swim, Reggy; you know that. Well, I got to

him after a while, at any rate, and I found him in such a panic of fear

that it was difficult to do anything for him."

She paused long enough to allow her glance to wander again toward the

boatman. His symptoms were those of hysteria.

"Finally I managed to get him by the collar from behind," continued

Rosalind calmly. "I had to choke him a little, I think. It wasn't very

easy to get him to the launch, which had begun to drift, but we made it

after a while. Then--"

Another inspection of Sam seemed to afford her satisfaction, for she

smiled.

"Then it was a question of getting him aboard. He was in a complete

funk; did nothing but cling to the boat and roll his eyes. I had to

climb in myself and then drag him after me. And then--think of it,

Reggy--he began to weep. That great, grown man shed tears like a

child!"

Reginald surveyed the great, grown man with pity and contempt.

"That's all of it," added Rosalind. "It was just a question of running

the boat to the island."

The suitor from the city gazed upon Rosalind Chalmers in adoration.

"You wonder!" he exclaimed.

She made a careless gesture and turned a pair of triumphant eyes in the

direction of the boatman. He had ceased his pantomime and was regarding

her with an expression even more rapt than that of Reginald.

"Wait till they hear of this at the Witherbees'!" exclaimed Reginald.

"They mustn't!" she said hastily. "Not for anything!"

"But my dear girl, it's so--"

"Remember Mr. Morton!"

Reginald frowned. The boatman's manner became suddenly alert. The name

of Morton had a galvanizing effect. Then he remembered his role and

relapsed into vacant passivity.

"Hang Morton!" blurted Reginald. "If the man's insane, as you say he

is, I don't see why he isn't sent away. He's got everybody walking

around on tiptoe and whispering. They've got the habit so bad that they

even do it to me."

Sam's brow was furrowed, and the look he devoted to Rosalind contained a

perplexed inquiry. She did not meet his eyes for long.

"At any rate I don't care to have you mention the matter," she said

firmly. "It's nothing."

"Well, I think when a girl does a fine, brave thing like that she's

entitled to all the credit for it," Reginald grumbled. "And to think of

it being wasted on that boob, too!"

Once more he inspected the boatman. Then, as he studied the

loose-jointed figure, surprise came into Reginald's eyes. He looked

back to Rosalind.

"That's funny."

"What?"

"Why, his clothes are dry!"

The boatman was having a convulsion of some kind. His body twitched

violently and bent almost double.

"Oh, yes," said Rosalind. "You see, he was chattering so with cold or

fright, probably both, that I told him he'd better put on some dry

clothes. He had some in the cabin."

Sam managed to straighten himself.

"You told him?" repeated Reginald wonderingly.

"Yes; he seems to have no initiative whatever."

"You don't mean to say he heard you?"

Again the boatman had a seizure.

"Of course not," answered Rosalind easily. "I had to write it on a

piece of paper."

Sam turned abruptly and walked to the cabin. His shoulders were shaking.

"He isn't over it yet," commented Reginald.

"I don't imagine he will be over it for a good while," said Rosalind a

little savagely. "I think you may take me home now, Reggy."

The boatman stood in the doorway of his cabin, watching them descend the

path. He was grinning broadly.

Rosalind felt that she had in some measure achieved revenge for the

indignity of her bath. It was no more of a falsehood than the story Sam

had attempted to put into her mouth; certainly it was better to be a

heroine than a clinging creature.

And by all odds it was an improvement on the preposterous and

humiliating truth!

She and Reginald heard a clatter of footsteps behind them as they

stepped into the Witherbee launch and turned to see the boatman running

down the path. He was making gestures that were clearly intended to

delay their departure, so they waited.

As he reached the rock from which they embarked he dropped to his knees,

stretched his arms wide and looked up at Rosalind with eyes that

conveyed to her an expression of doglike devotion. If there was a hint

of something else in them, it was not Sam's fault. As an actor he was

but an amateur.

Before the lady in the wet gown could divine his purpose he seized her

hands in his own, bent his head over them and began kissing them.

Rosalind uttered a cry of disgust. His beard tickled! Also she

detested sentimentality.

"The poor fellow is trying to tell you how grateful he is," said

Reginald.

Rosalind struggled to release her hands, but the boatman clung to them.

"Reggy! Make him let go!" she called sharply.

Reginald laid a rough hand on the boatman's shoulder and shook him. The

man lifted his head and stared reproachfully. Then he dropped

Rosalind's hands and sighed deeply.

She found as she drew back with a little shudder of annoyance that in

the palm of one hand there was a folded bit of paper. Instinctively,

her fingers closed over it; there was no need of explaining more things

to Reginald.

Not until some time later, when the launch was far on the way to

Witherbee's Island, did Rosalind find an opportunity to examine it.

Then, her back turned to Reginald, she unfolded the crumpled sheet, and

read:

"PAL ROSIE:

"You put one over on me that time--but just wait."

*CHAPTER XIII*

*RINGING IN*

Why the fat Mr. Schmidt from Chicago wanted to go to a dance was a

problem that Sam made no serious effort to solve, for in a modern day

when neither fat nor age nor bodily infirmity checks the universal human

impulse it was of little avail to seek the motive in a given case. You

simply go and dance--or think you do--and that's an end of it, with no

questions asked.

The dancing-desires of the fat grain-broker from Chicago had taken him

from the American mainland to Wellesley Island, a passage safely

accomplished aboard the _Fifty-Fifty_. And when Schmidt had been set

ashore at the wharf-entrance to a hotel-property that blazed with light

Sam backed a little way into the river and made fast to a handy mooring.

Boats by the dozen, churning in from all directions passed close to the

dingy launch. They were freighted with people, much dressed and wholly

abandoned to laughter and chatter.

The boatman watched the procession with close attention. It had a

cheering effect upon his loneliness.

"No sense to it--but why should there be?" he reflected. "If it's not

dancing it's something else just as crazy. I don't blame 'em. I say,

go to it; yes, even Schmidt."

"Doll up and walk like a duck while the band plays. It's easy and

foolish, and if you do it wrong everybody tries to imitate the new step.

Far be it from me to complain. On with the dance!"

Besides, Schmidt paid in cash and paid well--and Sam was not a boatman

for his health.

A sharp, incisive voice, clear as a bell across the water, reached his

quick ears. He turned in the direction of the sound. Out of the gloom

came the shape of a large, white launch, passing close, and inbound for

the festivities.

"Of course," said the voice in a tone of bored protest, "it will not be

necessary to meet--persons in general."

"Not unless you wish to," the voice was answered by another. "We have

our own crowd."

"That's something, of course. I hope we shall be able to keep together;

I hate a mixture."

Sam smiled and wrinkled his nose.

"Same old master mechanic," he murmured. "Royalty going to watch the

peasants frolic."

He watched the Witherbee yacht make the landing, and saw, by the glow of

the colored lanterns that bespangled the wharf, a tall, slender figure

in white that was not unfamiliar. An instant later it was lost in the

crowd.

From the shore came the sounds of a band. The lips of the boatman

pursed; he whistled softly. Presently his feet were tapping on the floor

of the cock-pit. His shoulders swayed rhythmically to the beat of the

music.

"And Reggy--she calls him Reggy--is there," he murmured as the tune

faded away. "And the English gink, too. And the child with the

fishing-rod. And they'll all be dancing with the master mechanic. Huh!

Maybe even Schmidt will horn in, too."

By the feeble light of the lantern that stood on a seat he surveyed his

costume and frowned.

"Who said clothes don't make the man?" he demanded aloud. "They make

him dance at any rate. It's against the rules of the game to do it in

rags."

Through the trees he had brilliantly lighted vistas of a broad

hotel-porch, whereon a crowd surged ceaselessly in all directions with

but one common impulse--to keep in step with the band. Again Sam's feet

rattled on the flooring, and again his body rocked from side to side.

Then, abruptly, without waiting for the end of the music, he became

rigid.

"Why not?" he demanded.

There was nobody to explain.

"Once more, why not? Now is the time for any grain of sense that may

happen to be in my nut to speak up, or forever after do the oyster act.

I wait--I still wait. I hear no answer. Therefore I have no sense.

Therefore--why not?"

He went forward quickly, cast loose from the mooring-buoy, scrambled aft

to the engine, cranked it with a nervous jerk at the fly-wheel, and

headed out into the river.

For half an hour the launch ran down-stream, passing numerous craft that

were obviously bound for the place of the whirling feet.

Sam maintained a close watch upon the procession. He was looking for a

particular vessel, and eventually he believed he sighted it, for with a

nod of satisfaction he altered his course and bore in toward the cluster

of islands that included those of Mr. Witherbee, Mr. Davidson, and their

neighbor vigilantes.

Now he extinguished his lantern--he never bothered with port and

starboard lamps--and proceeded cautiously into the little archipelago

that stood aloof from the other islands in its exclusiveness.

Somewhere, probably in a dark shadow near a shore, lurked a patrol-boat.

It was nearly an hour later when the dimly marked hull of the boatman's

launch, still devoid of any light, made its reappearance in midstream

and laid a return course for the blaze of lights that beckoned

hospitably to the islanders of the St. Lawrence. Opposite the hotel, Sam

chose a new anchorage, farther from the shore and comfortably remote

from that occupied by any other craft.

He relighted his lantern and chuckled as his glance fell upon a roughly

wrapped bundle in the bottom of the boat. Seating himself beside it, he

ripped off the paper and brought to view a series of articles that

caused him fresh mirth.

First came a tiny mirror not much larger than a pocket-glass. This he

propped beside the lantern. Then came a brush and comb, and after them a

collar and a soft-bosomed, spotless white shirt. He handled the linen

gently with grimy fingers.

Next he produced those three unmistakable garments so persistently

demanded in the lower left-hand corner of certain cards of

invitation--"evening dress." And then a pair of shining pumps.

For a minute he studied his bearded visage in the mirror, a scrutiny

that ended in a grimace.

"If I took these chinchillas up to the hotel the bouncer would toss me

out on my neck," he muttered. "But I guess I can trim 'em up some. What

did I do with the scissors?"

Fumbling among the remnants of the paper wrapper, however, failed to

produce the weapon he sought. An exclamation of dismay escaped him as

he again inspected his beard.

"Some of it's simply got to come off," he told himself sternly. "We'll

try a knife."

The knife was dull and rusty, while the beard was tough and tenacious.

He groaned at the first stroke and barely suppressed a howl at the

second. It was a two-handed proceeding, one set of fingers being

employed in grasping a tuft of hair, while the other set, grimly

gripping the knife, essayed the function of severing the tuft at a point

half-way between the tip and the roots.

For several minutes he toiled in agony. Then nature weakly yielded to

the pangs of pain and he tossed the knife overboard with an anathema.

"And still people go to beauty-doctors!" he growled, as he surveyed with

disgust the meager results of his work.