FOUND ON THE BEACH
The next morning dawned windy and wet. A heavy northeast gale had whipped
the sea into gray, mountainous waves. A fine drizzle beat in one's face
through the slightest opening of door or window. Leslie loved the soft,
salt tang of the air, and in spite of her aunt's rather horrified
protests, prepared for a long excursion out of doors.
"Don't worry about me, Auntie dear!" she laughed gaily. "One can't
possibly catch cold in this mild, beautiful air; and if I get wet, I can
always get dry again before any damage is done. Besides, we need some
more wood for the fires very, very badly and they say you can simply find
heaps of it on the beach after a storm like this. I want some nice fat
logs for our open fire, and I see at least a half dozen right down in
front of this house. And last but not least, Rags needs some exercise!"
She found a wealth of driftwood at the water's edge that surpassed her
wildest dreams. Again and again she filled her basket and hauled it up to
the bungalow, and three times she carried up a large, water-soaked log
balanced on her shoulder. But when the supply at last appeared ample, she
returned to the beach on another quest. Rather to her surprise, she found
that the stormy ocean had cast up many things beside driftwood--articles
that in size and variety suggested that there must have been a wreck in
the night.
Yet she knew that there had been no wreck, else the coast-guard station,
less than a mile away, would have been very busy, and she herself must
surely have heard some of the disturbance. No, there had been no wreck,
yet all about her lay the wave-sodden flotsam and jetsam of many past
disasters. A broken mast stump was imbedded upright in the sand at one
spot. In another, a ladder-like pair of stairs, suggesting a ship's
companionway, lay half out of the water. Sundry casks and barrels dotted
the beach, some empty, some still untouched. Rusty tins of canned goods,
oil, and paint, often intact, intermingled with the debris. Bottles,
either empty or full of every conceivable liquid, added to the list; and
sprinkled through and around all the rest were broken dishes,
shoe-brushes, combs, and other household and personal articles in
surprising quantities.
Leslie roamed about among this varied collection, the salt spray in her
face, the surging breakers sometimes unexpectedly curling around her
rubber boots. There was a new and wonderful fascination to her in
examining this ancient wreckage, speculating on the contents of unopened
tins, and searching ever farther and farther along the shore for possible
treasure-trove of even greater interest or value.
"Why _shouldn't_ I find a chest of jewels or a barrel full of golden
coins or a pocket-book crammed with bills, Rags?" she demanded
whimsically of the jubilant dog. "I'm sure something of that kind must go
down with every ship, as well as all the rest of this stuff, and why
shouldn't we be lucky enough to find it?"
But Rags was busy investigating the contents of some doubtful-looking
tin, and had neither time nor inclination to respond, his own particular
quests being quite in another line and far more interesting to him!
So Leslie continued on her own way, absorbed in her own investigations
and thoughts. The affair of the previous night was still occupying a
large place in her mind. Nothing further had occurred, though she had
watched at her window for nearly an hour. Even Rags at length ceased to
exhibit signs of uneasiness, and she had gone to bed at last, feeling
that she must have been mistaken in imagining anything unusual.
The first thing she had done this morning after leaving the house was to
walk around Curlew's Nest, examining it carefully for any sign of
occupation. It was closed and shuttered, as tight as a drum, and she
could discern no slightest sign of a human being having been near it for
days. But still she could not rid her mind of the impression that there
had been _something_ last night out of the ordinary, or Rags would not
have behaved as he did. He was not the kind of dog that unnecessarily
excited himself about nothing. It was a little bit strange.
"Oh, dear! I beg your pardon! I'm awfully sorry!" exclaimed Leslie,
reeling backward from the shock of collision with some one she had
unseeingly bumped into as she plowed her way along, her head bent to the
wind, her eyes only on the beach at her feet. The person with whom she
had collided also recovered a lost balance and turned to looked at her.
Leslie beheld a figure slightly taller than herself, clothed in yellow
"slickers" and long rubber boots, a "sou'wester" pulled closely over
plump, rosy cheeks and big, inquiring blue eyes. For a moment she could
not for the life of her tell whether the figure was man or woman, boy or
girl. Then a sudden gust of wind tore the sou'wester aside and a long
brown curl escaped and whipped into the blue eyes. It was a girl--very
little older than Leslie herself.
"Don't mention it!" laughed the girl. "I didn't know there was another
soul on the beach beside Father and Ted and myself."
And then, for the first time, Leslie noticed two other figures standing
just beyond, each clad similarly to the girl, and each with fishing-rod
in hand and a long line running out into the boiling surf. The girl too
held a rod in her hand.
"You just spoiled the loveliest bite I've had this morning," the girl
laughed again, "but I'll forgive you if you'll tell me who you are and
how you come to be out here in this bad weather. It's quite unusual to
see any one on the beach at this season."
"I'm Leslie Crane, and I'm staying at Rest Haven with my aunt, Miss
Crane, who is not well and is trying to recuperate here, according to the
doctor's orders," responded Leslie, feeling somewhat like an information
bureau as she said it.
"Oh, so you're staying here, are you? How jolly! I've never met any one
staying here at this season before. I'm Phyllis Kelvin and this is my
father and my brother Ted. Father--Miss Leslie Crane! Ted--"
She made the introductions at the top of her voice as the wind and roar
of the ocean almost drowned it, and each of the two figures responded
politely, keeping one eye all the while on his line.
"We always come down here for three weeks in October, Father and Ted and
I, for the fishing," Phyllis went on to explain. "Father adores fishing
and always takes his vacation late down here, so that he can have the
fishing in peace and at its best. And Ted and I come to keep him company
and keep house for him, incidentally. That's our bungalow right back
there,--'Fisherman's Luck.'"
"Oh, I'm so glad you're going to be here!" sighed Leslie, happily. "I've
been horribly lonesome! Aunt Marcia does not go out very often and sleeps
a great deal, and I absolutely _long_ to talk to some one at times. I
don't know anything much about fishing, but I hope you'll let me be with
you some, if I promise not to talk too much and spoil things!"
"You're not a bit happier to find some one than _I_ am!" echoed Phyllis.
"I love fishing, too, but I'm not so crazy about it as they are, and I've
often longed for some girl chum down here. We're going to be the best of
friends, I know, and I'll call on you and your aunt this very afternoon,
if you'll come up to our bungalow now with me and help carry this basket
of driftwood. Daddy and Ted won't move from the beach for the rest of the
morning, but I'd like to stop and talk with you. I get tired sooner than
they do."
Leslie agreed joyfully, and together they tugged a heavy basket of wood
up to the one other bungalow on the beach beside the one Leslie and her
aunt were stopping at--and Curlew's Nest. She found Fisherman's Luck a
delightful abode, full of the pleasant, intimate touches that could only
be imparted by owners who inhabited it themselves most of the time. A
roaring fire blazed invitingly in the big open fireplace in the
living-room.
"Come, take off your things and stay awhile!" urged Phyllis, and Leslie
removed her mackinaw and cap. The two girls sank down in big easy chairs
before the fire and laughingly agreeing to drop formality, proceeded as
"Phyllis" and "Leslie," to exchange confidences in true girl fashion.
"I mustn't stay long," remarked Leslie. "Aunt Marcia will be missing me
and I must go back to see about lunch. But what a delightful bungalow you
have! Are you here much of the time?"
"We're here a good deal in the off seasons--April to June, and September
through November. Father, Ted, and I,--but we don't care for it so much
in the summer season when the beach is more crowded with vacation folks
and that big hotel farther up the beach is full. We have some cousins who
usually take the bungalow for July and August."
"I never was at the ocean in October before," sighed Leslie, comfortably,
"and it's perfectly heavenly! We have that dear little bungalow, Rest
Haven, but the one right next to it is not occupied."
"No," said Phyllis, "and it's queer, too. I never knew either of them to
be occupied at this season before. They are both owned by the Danforths,
and they usually shut them both up on September 30 and refuse to open
them till the beginning of the next season. How did you come to get one
of them, may I ask?"
"Oh, I think Aunt Marcia's doctor managed it. He happened to know the
Danforths personally, and got them to break their rule, as a great favor
to him. We appreciate it very much. But do you know," and here Leslie
unconsciously sank her voice, "I saw such a queer thing about that other
bungalow late yesterday evening!" And she recounted to her new friend a
history of the previous night's experience.
"Oh, how perfectly gorgeous!" sighed Phyllis, thrilled beyond description
by the narrative. "Do you suppose it's _haunted?_ I've heard of haunted
houses, but never of a haunted _bungalow!_ Now don't laugh at me,--that's
what Ted and Father do when I speak of such things," for Leslie could not
repress a giggle at this suggestion.
"Phyllis, you _know_ there are no such things as haunted houses--really!"
she remonstrated.
"Well, I'm not so sure of it, and anyway, I've always _longed_ to come
across one! And what other explanation can there be for this thing,
anyway? But do me one favor, won't you, Leslie? Let's keep this thing to
ourselves and do a little investigating on our own account. If I tell
Father and Ted and let them know what I think, they'll simply hoot at me
and go and spoil it all by breaking the place open and tramping around it
themselves and scaring away any possible ghost there might be. Let's just
see if we can make anything out of it ourselves, will you?"
"Why of course I will," agreed Leslie heartily. "I wouldn't dare to let
Aunt Marcia know there was anything queer about the place. She'd be
scared to death and it would upset all the doctor's plans for her. I
don't believe in the ghost theory, but I _do_ think there may have been
something mysterious about it, and it will be no end of a lark to track
it down if we can. But I must be going now."
"I'm coming with you!" announced the impetuous Phyllis. "I want to go up
there right away and do a little looking about myself. I simply can't
wait."
So they set off together, trudging through the sand at the edge of the
ocean, where the walking was easiest. All the way, Leslie was wondering
what had become of Rags. It was not often that he deserted her even for
five minutes, but she had not seen him since her encounter with Phyllis.
It was not till their arrival at Curlew's Nest that she discovered his
whereabouts.
Directly in front of this bungalow's veranda, and about fifty feet away
from it, lay the remains of a huge old tree-trunk, half buried in the
sand. Almost under this trunk, only his rear quarters visible, was the
form of Rags, digging frantically at a great hole in the wet sand. So
deep now was the hole that the dog was more than half buried.
"There's Rags! He's after another hermit-crab!" cried Leslie. "I was
wondering where he could be." They both raced up to him and reached him
just as he had apparently attained the end of his quest and backed out of
the hole.
"Why, what has he got?" exclaimed Phyllis. "That's no hermit-crab!"
And in truth it was not. For out of the hole the dog was dragging a small
burlap sack which plainly contained some heavy article in its folds!