On the strip of yellow sand in the curve of the wall which separates the
beach at Three Anchor Bay from the roadway above it two men sat playing
cards in the blaze of the morning sunshine, which beat with untempered
violence upon their uncovered heads, upon the hot sand that sloped
gently to the rocky shore, and upon the long blue waves rolling slowly
in from the Atlantic with the semblance of a succession of hooded
serpents, rearing themselves with languid grace and folding over
reluctantly, throwing off a stream of spray from their crests like the
tail of some gigantic comet. Far out the sea was aglitter, save where
it touched the horizon and lay mirror clear in the sensuous warmth,
reflecting the light and colour from the sky.
With the exception of the two card players the beach was deserted; they
were alone with the riot of colour and sunlight and the beauty of the
sea. Neither looked at the sea. The older man, sitting cross-legged on
the sand, had his back towards it; the younger, leaning, save when he
dealt the cards, on his elbow, only lifted his eyes from the cards to
fix them on his companion's face, which he did at infrequent intervals
with an odd half admiring resentment in their expression.
He was a well made, good-looking man of about twenty-seven. His fair
skin, caught by the strong salt air and daily exposure, was burnt to a
brilliant brick, the pink stain travelling down his long throat and
broad chest which, moist with perspiration, showed to the waist where
the grey flannel shirt was unbuttoned; the sleeves also were rolled up
above his elbows revealing a pair of muscular arms covered with fine
golden hairs. Strength, indolence and amazing recklessness showed in
this man's look and bearing. While giving the idea that physically he
was capable of any effort of endurance, his manner conveyed also the
impression that usually he would be discovered playing the passive part
while others strove, that only some powerful inducement would rouse him
to exert his strength: physical and mental qualities seemed here to be
at variance.
His companion was altogether less noticeable; a shrewd, light-eyed,
slightly built man in the thirties; a man marked early in life for
moderate success in most things. One of his successes was card playing,
as his adversary was discovering; perhaps he was more successful in that
than in anything. For days he had been steadily winning away from its
owner the recently acquired wealth which a stroke of luck had brought
him; and the loser, in the grip of the gambler's superstition, played on
in the hope of winning back.
Their solitude was invaded by the sudden appearance of a girl with a
collie dog. She approached unexpectedly from behind the wall within a
foot or two of the players, who, flushed and intent, disregarded her in
their silent concentration on the game. The girl surveyed their
grouping in surprise; and the younger man, looking up involuntarily from
the cards he held, paused in the act of taking one from his hand to
return her curious look. She averted her eyes and walked on; and the
man returned to the game, and forgot almost immediately in this greater
interest that just for a moment he had been quite curiously impressed by
the steady inquiring eyes which had looked into and held his with the
odd intimacy and interest of their gaze.
The owner of the inquiring eyes walked leisurely down to the shore,
where she paused to respond to the dog's excited invitation by throwing
a stick she carried for the purpose into the sea for him to retrieve.
Again and again, when the collie brought back the stick and laid it
before her and barked for a repetition of the game, the girl stooped
with swift grace, picked up the stick, and with a free side swing of the
arm flung it far into the waves.
"Damn that dog!" snapped the older man. "Why doesn't the fool of a girl
move farther on instead of making herself a nuisance?"
The younger man allowed his attention to stray from the cards and turn
his gaze seaward. He watched the collie swimming through the surf, and
the white figure of the girl poised against the blue, with the cool
waves running up the wet sand almost to her feet, and the shimmering
steamy heat vapour rising from the sands behind her, an atmospheric veil
quivering between herself and him. The joyous barking of the dog as,
emerging from the waves, it beshowered the girl plentifully in an
attempt to shake the salt drops from its coat, was the only sound to
disturb the harmony of the sea's lazy response to the whisper of the
breeze.
"I expect," he said, leisurely shuffling the cards, "she considers her
occupation more legitimate than ours. After all, I don't see what cause
you have to be nervy because a dog barks."
As though the complaint had travelled across the dividing space and
reached her ears, the girl started to walk, still throwing the stick
when it was brought to her, but no longer remaining stationary to pursue
this seemingly unending game. She disappeared with the dog round the
curve; and fitfully, and growing fainter, the barking of the collie was
borne back to their ears, till finally the sound died away in the
distance, and only the thud of breaking waves, the swish of their
advance, with the backward suck of their waters in retreat, broke the
surrounding quiet. A great silence and a great stillness reigned.
At last the younger man threw down the cards, and lay back on his elbow,
staring at the sea.
"That's the finish," he said presently, in controlled quiet tones.
"You've cleaned me out."
"There's always the chance," the other returned, rolling a cigarette and
lighting it, "of a change in the luck. Why not make use of paper and
pencil, and have another run on it?"
The loser shook his head.
"No; I'm done. You have the devil's luck."
There was a dazed look in his eyes, an unhappy lode. His companion,
while feigning not to observe him was aware of it, aware too of the grim
tightening of the lips, and the repressed passion underlying the
unnatural calm of his manner. Guy Matheson did not often betray
emotion. He had played and lost steadily for days, and had parted with
his money with an indifference that had misled the other as to the
resources at his command. The information that he was "cleaned out,"
with the corroborative evidence of his stunned expression, came with a
shock of surprise to his hearer. That which he had set himself to
effect had been accomplished sooner than he had hoped. Luck and
superior skill had both been in his favour. The run of luck had been
consistent; each day he had been apprehensive of its changing, but it
had held steadily; if it held only a little longer, all would be well.
The silence between them grew until it became difficult to break. To
venture a trivial remark in the teeth of that grim pause was impossible.
The man with the luck smoked reflectively, his eyes on the sand; the
man without the luck stared seaward, indifferent in the preoccupation of
his thoughts as to what construction his companion was likely to put
upon his taciturnity. He was angry with himself, not alone because he
had lost everything, but because he could not take his losses
philosophically. He had no feeling of splendid adventure, no desire to
flick his fingers in the face of fate and laugh. He felt much as he had
felt when, a small boy, he had dropped a penny in the slot of an
automatic sweet machine that was out of order, and had followed that
failure to get a return for his money by dropping another, and this his
last, penny in the same unresponsive receptacle. He had on that
occasion kicked the offending machine viciously; to have been able to
kick something now would have been a relief.
And then abruptly the noise of a bark snapped the silence. The collie
was returning along the sands. He turned over on his elbow and swept
the beach with his eyes, eyes in which a quickening interest vied with
the hard bitterness of resentful anger. He wanted to see the girl
again, the girl who had looked at him in wondering amaze that he could
find no better pastime than card playing in the sunlight. She had
disapproved of his occupation; he had read that in her look; he had also
seen the interest that flashed to the surface and drenched the wonder
and the disapproval in the dark eyes.
"Here's that brute of a dog again!" Holman said.
The complaint was allowed to pass without comment; the indolent figure
reclining on the sand remained motionless, waiting for the reappearance
of the girl. She came into sight presently, still stooping for, and
throwing, the stick at intervals; though her response to the dog's
insistence was not so ready as it had been, and her movements were
listless, conveying an impression of fatigue. As the girl showed
greater indifference for the game, the collie grew more eager. When by
its barking it failed to rouse her to greater activity, it pulled at her
dress, rushing in and snapping at her skirt excitedly. The man
sprawling on the sands looked on. The dog, he decided, was a nuisance.
It was boisterous in common with its breed. It scarcely surprised him
when from the water's edge he heard a girl's scream. In one of its wild
rushes the dog had caught her leg in its teeth. With amazing swiftness
he was on his feet.
"The brute's bitten her!" he exclaimed.
"Serve her right," the other responded, "for letting it make itself a
nuisance."
If he heard the callous remark, Guy Matheson paid no heed to it. In a
few rapid strides he reached the girl's side. Holman looked after him;
looked from him to the cards lying where they had been thrown down on
the sands; looked from the cards to the two figures by the sea shore;
and, reflecting on the unlikelihood of his friend's return, he slipped
the cards into his pocket and left the beach.