A BATTLE IN THE NIGHT
"Oh, brace up!" exclaimed Florence, a note of impatience creeping into
her voice. "We'll get out of this place some way. Perhaps the boat wasn't
taken. Perhaps it has--"
She stopped to stare away across the water.
"I believe it's out there away down the beach. Look, Lucile. Look sharp."
The moon had gone behind a small cloud. As it came out they could see
clearly the dark bulk of the boat dancing on the water, which was by now
roughening up before the rising storm.
"It's out there," exclaimed Florence. "We failed to pull it ashore far
enough. There is a side sweep to the waves that carried it out. We must
get it."
"Yes, oh, yes, we must!" the child exclaimed. "It wasn't mine; it was
borrowed."
"You borrow a lot of things," exclaimed Florence.
"Oh, no, indeed. Not many, not hardly any at all."
"But, Florence, how can we get it?" protested Lucile.
"I'm a strong swimmer. I swam a mile once. The boat's out only a few
hundred yards. It will be easy."
"Not with your clothes on."
Florence did not answer. She threw a glance toward the millionaire's
cottage. All was dark there.
"Here!" Lucile felt a garment thrust into her hands, then another and
another.
"Florence, you mustn't."
"It's the only way."
A moment later Florence's white body gleamed in the moonlight as she
raced away down the beach to gain the point nearest the boat.
To the listening ears of Lucile and the child there came the sound of a
splash, then the slow plash, plash, plash of a swimmer's strokes.
Florence was away and swimming strong. But the wind from off a point had
caught the boat and was carrying it out from shore, driving it on faster
than she knew.
Confident of her ability to reach the goal in a mere breath of time, she
struck out at once with the splendid swing of the Australian crawl.
Trained to the pink of perfection, her every muscle in condition, she
laughed at the wavelets that lifted her up only to drop her down again
and now and again to dash a saucy handful of spray in her face. She
laughed and even hummed a snatch of an old sea song. She was as much at
home in the water as in her room at the university.
But now, as she got farther from the shore, the waves grew in size and
force. They impeded her progress. The shore was protected by a rocky
point farther up the beach. She was rapidly leaving that protection.
Throwing herself high out of the water, she looked for the boat. A little
cry of consternation escaped her lips. She had expected to find it close
at hand. It seemed as far away as when she had first seen it.
"It's the wind off the point," she breathed. "It's taking it out to sea.
It--it's going to be a battle, a real scrap."
Once more she struck out with the powerful stroke which carries one far
but draws heavily upon his emergency fund of energy.
For three full moments she battled the waves; then, all but breathless,
she slipped over on her back to do the dead man's float.
"Just for a few seconds. Got to save my strength, but I can't waste
time."
Now for the first time she realized that there was a possibility that she
would lose this fight. The realization of what it meant if she did lose,
swept over her and left her cold and numb. To go back was impossible; the
wind and waves were too strong for that. To fail to reach the boat meant
death.
Turning back again into swimming position, she struck out once more. But
this time it was not the crawl. That cost too much. With an easy,
hand-over-hand swing which taxed the reserve forces little more than
floating, she set her teeth hard, resolved slowly but surely to win her
way to the boat and to safety.
Moments passed. Long, agonizing moments.
Lucile on the shore, by the gleam of a flare of lightning, caught now and
then a glimpse of the swimmer. Little by little she became conscious of
the real situation. When it dawned upon her that Florence was in real
peril, she thought of rushing to the cottage and calling to her
assistance any who might be there. Then she looked at the bundle of
clothing in her arms and flushed.
"She'd never forgive me," she whispered.
Florence, still battling, felt the spray break over her, but still kept
on the even swing. Now and again, high on the crest of a wave, she saw
the boat. She was cheered by the fact that each time it appeared to loom
a little larger.
"Gaining," she whispered. "Fifty yards to go!"
Again moments passed and again she whispered, "Gaining. Thirty yards."
A third time she whispered, "Twenty yards."
After that it was a quiet, muscle-straining, heart-breaking, silent
battle, which caused her very senses to reel. Indeed at times she
appeared conscious of only one thing, the mechanical swing of her arms,
the kick, kick of her feet. They seemed but mechanical attachments run by
some electrical power.
When at last the boat loomed black and large on the crest of a wave just
above her she had barely enough brain energy left to order her arms into
a new motion.
Striking upward with her right hand, she gripped the craft's side. The
next instant, with a superhuman effort, without overturning it she threw
herself into the boat, there to fall panting across a seat.
"Wha--what a battle!" she gasped. "But I won! I won!"
For two minutes she lay there motionless. Then, drawing herself stiffly
up to a sitting position, she adjusted the oars to their oarlocks and,
bending forward, threw all her magnificent strength into the business of
battling the waves and bringing the boat safely ashore.
There are few crafts more capable of riding a stormy sea than is a
clinker-built rowboat. Light as a cork, it rides the waves like a
seagull. Florence was not long in finding this out. Her trip ashore was
one of joyous triumph. She had fought a hard physical battle and won.
This was her hour of triumph. Her lips thrilled a "Hi-le-hi-le-hi-lo"
which was heard with delight by her friends on land. Her bare arms worked
like twin levers to a powerful engine, as she brought the boat around and
shot it toward shore.
A moment for rejoicing, two for dressing, then they all three tumbled
into the boat to make the tossing trip round the wall to shore on the
other side.
For the moment the book tightly pressed under the child's arm was
forgotten. Florence talked of swimming and rowing. She talked of plans
for a possible summer's outing which included days upon the water and
weeks within the forest primeval.
As they left the boat on the beach, they could see that the storm was
passing to the north of them. It had, however, hidden the moon. The path
through the forest and across the river was engulfed in darkness.
Once more the child prattled of haunts, spooks, and goblins, but for once
Lucile's nerves were not disturbed. Her mind had gone back to the old
problems, the mystery of the gargoyle and all the knotty questions which
had come to be associated with it.
This night a new mystery had thrust its head up out of the dark and an
old theory had been exploded. She had thought that the young
millionaire's son might be in league with the old man and the child in
carrying away and disposing of old and valuable books, but here was the
child coming out to this all but deserted cottage at night to take a book
from the young man's library.
"He hasn't a thing in the world to do with it," she told herself. "He--"
She paused in her perplexing problem to grip her companion's arm and
whisper, "What was that?"
They were nearing the plank bridge. She felt certain that she heard a
footstep upon it. But now as she listened she heard nothing but the
onrush of distant waters.
"Just your nerves," answered Florence.
"It was not. I was not thinking of the child's foolish chatter. I was
thinking of our problem, of the gargoyle's secret. Someone is crossing
the bridge."
Even as she spoke, as if in proof of her declaration, there came a faint
pat-pat-pat, as of someone moving on the bridge on tiptoe.
"Someone is shadowing us," Lucile whispered.
"Looks that way."
"Who is it?"
"Someone from the cottage perhaps. Watching to see what the child does
with the book. She must take it back."
"Yes, she must."
"It might be," and here even stout-hearted Florence shuddered, "it might
be that someone had shadowed us all the way from the city."
"The one who followed me the night I got caught in that wretched woman's
house, and other times?"
"Yes."
"But he couldn't have gone all the way, not up to the cottage. He
couldn't get through the fence and there was no other boat."
"Well, anyway, whoever it is, we must go on. Won't do any good standing
here shivering."
Once more they pressed into the dark and once more Lucile resumed her
attempt to disentangle the many problems which lay before her.