THE OWNER’S ORDERS.
I awoke to Saki’s knock next morning, shaved in the warm water he had
had the good sense to bring, and was first to reach the table.
I was quickly joined by Stevens, and I saw that his mood had bettered
little since the evening. He acknowledged my presence with a dry nod;
but, as we were finishing the simple meal, he assured himself that we
were alone in the saloon by a hasty glance around, then asked low, but
sharply:
“I suppose you know what will be your best course?”
“I believe you gave me that countersign even as far back as the dock end
at College Point when you left me: ‘A closed mouth spills no mush.’”
“Exactly!” And he quitted the room for the deck immediately, while I
whirled at the opening of a door and rose as Miss Stella entered.
“Why, are you all finished?” she cried. “I certainly must be a
sleepyhead!”
She was as fresh and clear as the summer morning sifting through the
open ports.
“Well, scarcely a sleepyhead,” I replied. “Your father hasn’t shown up
yet, so you’re not the last.”
“Oh, yes, I guess I am the last, for all that,” she returned, digging
away in dainty defiance at an iced grapefruit.
“Because, you see,” she added, “there goes Saki now with daddy’s toast
and coffee.” She nodded toward the Jap, who was just entering the
owner’s stateroom. “You see”--and she laughed lightly--“yesterday was
picturetaking day. Now it’s dark room, and Heaven knows when we’ll see
him next--that is, if he’s like he used to be, dear old dad!”
“Used to be?” I couldn’t check the question in spite of me.
“Why, yes. Didn’t you know? I haven’t even been aboard this _Ruby Light_
in over three years. I suppose, even when daddy made the bet then, he
didn’t explain that I’d been in a convent in France ‘most three years,
and needed some excitement? No?”
“Made the bet?” I echoed, mystified beyond measure.
Then she laughed heartily.
“Oh, come, come now, Mr. Grey! Just because you lost the wager, you
mustn’t play possum about it all. You know as well as I do that even
before dad came to France to get me, he made this bet with Captain
Pawlinson that, for all he’d made such a hit as a detective at
Washington, he couldn’t catch us before we sailed for Savannah. Just for
a lark, of course. And wasn’t it fun, though? Daddy always was a
wonderful hand when it came to anything in the adventure line, and I
come honestly enough by it.”
Thank the Lord, she was bubbling away, and taking little notice of how
her words were affecting me; and I got all out of the interval I could
in controlling my amazement. So this absurd yarn was what had been
cooked up for her benefit! I wondered that, even convent bred as she
was, she was unsophisticated enough to believe it.
But her next words came as almost reply:
“You see, Mr. Grey, my father is a man of--well, shall I say
eccentricities? And he certainly does do some of the oddest things! It’s
just possible,” she added naïvely, “that it’s because we Stroths have
always had plenty of money. Don’t you think so?”
“Ye-es, yes. Of course, that must be it.” I was groping for an avenue of
temporary escape, so seized upon the commonplace: “And now, Miss Stroth,
how about a walk on deck?”
She laid down her napkin, and rose buoyantly. “Splendid! Oh, this is
better than France, I tell you, Mr. Grey! I’ll be with you in just a
minute, for unless I wear a hat on deck for the first day or two I burn
like the dickens in the sun.”
There was something rather delicious in the way she said this that made
us both laugh, and I was still chuckling when I mounted the steps to the
deck.
Once more the sun shone clear, but I noted an unsettled haziness to
westward that might bring a change before night.
Once more the smart schooner was undergoing its daily grooming. Old
Steve was distributing polishing kits to four of the men, though he
stopped long enough to take a tug at his forelock in salute. Evidently
my reception aft had made a great impression upon him, as well it
might.
But I returned the greeting as democratically as I could, and turned to
a question that came sharply from behind me.
It was Stevens.
“Did Mr. Stroth come to breakfast?” said he, without preliminary.
“No,” I replied, as directly. “The Jap took it in to him.”
Not another word passed, but he looked his chagrin, which bordered upon
anger. Then he paced back to his position on the quarter-deck.
The few minutes that were left me alone I gave to thinking over the
revelations just made me by this girl.
I watched the waters swirling past the beam, though they let in no light
upon the mystery. But I did glow with delight at the thought that,
whatever shady guilt hung over that low-lying vessel, it was not shared
by her.
My feeling toward her hadn’t changed a whit; I loved her even more
intensely, but certainly it was a strange situation. There was a
quietness about it all, an inevitableness that bore the irrevocable
stamp of fate itself. Predetermined it was--my love for her--and, as
such, to be greeted quietly, mildly. It was decided, and I was happy.
I know how absurd this sounds as I thus word it, but it’s as near as I
can come to the actual fact.
She joined me within ten minutes, and began chatting happily about
everything around us.
I noticed that the course had been shifted westward during the night,
which brought us closer by the wind, and our leeward rail was gurgling
to a smart angle of heel. It was fine sailing.
“Oh, look!” cried the girl. “The mist is lifting.” She pointed to
starboard, a bit forward of our beam. “Captain Stevens,” and she trotted
over to him, “what lighthouse is that?”
“You’ve a quick eye, Miss Stella,” replied Stevens. “It’s Montauk
Point.”
She clapped her hands delightedly.
“And haven’t they wireless there?”
“To be sure they have. If the fog lifts a little more you’ll be able to
see the apparatus.”
“Then let’s communicate with them! Won’t that be fun? You’re the
operator yourself, aren’t you, captain?”
“Yes,” the little man answered slowly, “but I’m afraid we can’t do much
talking with our own instrument, Miss Stella. You see, we broke it on
the way to Portland.”
“Oh, well, then we can’t, of course,” she said, in disappointment.
It was a lie on Stevens’ part, but it was a lie that I rather rejoiced
in, for it certainly would not do to have the shore wireless suspect who
we were. I knew Pawlinson well enough by now not to want that.
And so, with the whimsicality of her temperament, she offered to
compromise for her disappointment if she could have a “trick” at the
wheel.
“Oh, that’ll be easy enough,” agreed Stevens, glad to shift the topic as
he motioned the fellow at the helm to one side.
And the next two minutes proved that she knew that game well. I can see
her now, braced to the roll--her little hands clutching the spokes
sturdily--her eyes with the upward minding of the mainsail’s quivering
luff, for we were sailing a taut full-and-by.
There was a girl for you!
I have never witnessed a more violent shift of weather in such latitude,
or a more sudden.
Perhaps it was because the fog bank had kept it from us longer than we
supposed, and only lifted just in time to give us our slight warning.
For that fog did suddenly clear, though it cleared but for another and
greater blackness.
As lowering and menacing a thunderhead as ever whipped out of the
northwest was all but upon us.
Now, all this rot in books about even the very seconds being precious
makes me tired, for you usually have plenty of time to snug down for a
blow.
But this time it really was a question of minutes before that squall
would strike us.
And Stevens saw it as soon or sooner than I did, though he certainly
went about his preparation in a way that was decidedly not of the usual
practice.
I could see that he was distinctly excited, but I could swear it was not
nervousness at the approaching blow, however it might be connected with
it.
Without a single word, he nodded to the fellow to resume the helm, while
he simply smiled the girl into relinquishing it. Then he stepped quietly
forward, and up to old Steve, who had never taken his eyes from his
chief since the second the storm had been sighted.
The command was given in an actual whisper, and the men virtually
tiptoed at the nimble work of shortening sail.
The main tops’l had been clewed, the flying jib doused, and five fellows
were about to man the main halyards to lower--all in a dead silence,
broken only by the grumble of the thunder which would soon be upon
us--when a sudden yell fairly froze us by its virulence.
And up through the companionway bounded Carl Stroth!
I’ll not soon forget the light in those eyes of his as he bellowed:
“Here, you lily-livered hounds! What? Douse sail for a puny summer
shower? What d’ye think we are? Children? Come now, you lame duck!” and
he swung Stevens around. “I’ll give an order or two myself--somethin’
worthy of the _Ruby Light_! Up with that mainsail again! Now the jib!
Topsail! All of ’em, I say!”
As well try to cork Vesuvius.
The sails reset, he elbowed the fellow from the wheel, and took it
himself just as the first fury descended upon us.
She was a noble vessel in a blow, as I could see, but she had lost some
way, and had no time to recover. Expert at the wheel as he was, it was
too much to expect of timber.
She quivered an instant to the first flaw, then followed the deadlier,
heavier wind.
There was a minute of sharp list as cordage groaned. Then we shot back
suddenly to an absolutely even keel, while a thumping started against
the leeward planking.
Both masts had been carried away clean and true to the deck line!