BILLY TO THE RESCUE
Nature had crooked a wooded arm about Rond Eau Bay so that her
tranquillity seldom was disturbed by the fall gales which piled the
waters of Lake Erie high and made her a veritable death-trap for
late-sailing ships. To the thunder of heavy waves upon the pine-clad
beach the little bay slept sweetly, while half a league beyond the
bar a tempest-torn, dismasted schooner might be battered to pieces,
or a heavy freighter, her back broken by the twisting seas, might
sink to final rest. But there were times when Rond Eau awoke from
her dreaming to gnash her white teeth and throw her hissing challenge
to man to dare ride her banked-up seas in open boat. At such times
only the foolish or venturesome listened. When the gale swept in
from the East it transformed the upper waters into a seething
cauldron, while, plunging in the nine-mile sweep from the West, it
swept water at the foot, frothing and turbulent, across the rushlands.
At such times expert indeed must be the hand that guides the frail
skiff through those treacherous seas. But the slim punt which
rounded Mud Point betwixt the darkness and the dawn, in the teeth of
an all night gale, was propelled by one who knew every whimsical mood
of Rond Eau. Now high on frothy comber, now lost to view between the
waves, the little craft beat onward, a speck of driftwood on the
angry waves. Sullen daylight was revealing a world of wind-whipped,
spray-drenched desolation when the punt at last rounded the point and
swept into the comparative calm of the lee shore. Then the rower
shipped his oars and glanced at his companion who sat huddled low in
the bow of the boat, the collar of his shooting coat turned high
about his ears.
"Phew! teacher, some pull, that! Must'a been half an hour beatin' up
from Levee."
"It seemed longer than that to me, Billy," laughed Stanhope. "Once
or twice I thought we were goners, but you pulled the old girl
through nobly."
"I don't know as I ever put her through a rougher sea," said Billy as
he began placing the decoys. "We'll get set, then we'll push into
the rushes, hide our boat, an' settle down comfortable in our blind.
You'll find it warm, an' snug, an' wind-proof as a rat house, soon's
I get a fire started in the little stove. Hello!" as a brown shaggy
head poked itself from beneath the seat and a cold nose touched his
wrist, "did you think I didn't know you was there, Moll?"
Moll whined and wagged her stub of a tail, undoubtedly sensing from
her master's words and manner that her offense, in "sneakin' in," had
been pardoned. Five minutes later they were seated snugly inside
four walls of tightly woven rushes, the blind man's face alive and
glowing with the joy of once more feeling the moist kiss of open
water, his ears atuned for the first whistle of incoming wings.
Billy crouched by his side, gun in hand, eyes sweeping the lighting
bay.
Suddenly the spaniel's tail commenced beating a soft tattoo on the
rush floor and Billy's grip tightened on the walnut stock.
"How many?" whispered Stanhope.
"Five, bluebill. Comin' right to us."
A moment later the "swowee" of the cutting wings sounded, close in,
and the old gun spoke twice.
"Two down," cried Stanhope. "Good work, Billy!"
Billy took his eyes from the pair of dead ducks, floating shoreward
and turned wonderingly to his companion.
"Teacher," he said in awed tones, "sometimes I'm sure you kin see.
If you can't see how do you find out things like you do? How did you
know I killed jest two ducks?"
"Listened for the splash," Stanhope answered. "Are you loaded,
Billy? There's another flock coming."
"All ready but cappin'. Now, where's the flock?"
"Coming up from behind, so Moll says."
"Gosh!" whispered Billy. "I should say so; they're right onto us,"
and almost with the words the old gun roared again and again.
"Good!" exulted Stanhope. "Three down, Billy!"
"Yep, but one dived an' is gettin' away. After him, Moll." The
spaniel, with a joyful whine, cleared the rush wall and splashed into
the water. "Fine!" cried Billy, as he reloaded, "Moll's goin' to
bring him in."
"Wounded whistlers aren't as hard to retrieve as redhead or
bluebill," said Stanhope.
"How did you know they was whistlers?" cried Billy.
"By the sound of their wings, of course," laughed the man. "There,"
as a small duck flashed past the blind, "that's a green-winged teal,
and he's flying at the rate of about ninety miles an hour."
Eastward the leaden clouds opened to let an arrow of orange light
pierce the damp mists of dawn; then the fissure closed again and
tardy daylight disclosed only a dun-colored waste of cowering rushes
and tossing water. Far out in the bay a great flock of ducks arose,
the beat of their wings growing up above the boom of the wind, stood
black against the lowering skies an instant, then swept like a
gigantic shadow close down above the curling water. Here and there
detached fragments of the flock grew up and drifted shoreward. A
flock of widgeon, gleaming snow-white against the clouds as they
swerved in toward the decoys, were joined by a pair of kingly
canvasbacks. Swiftly they approached, twisted aside just out of
range, and then turned and came in with wings set against the wind.
Stanhope heard the splash of their bodies, as they lit among the
decoys. He wondered why Billy did not shoot. A tense moment passed
and still the old gun gave no voice. Moll was whining low and
eagerly. Then, suddenly, there arose the sound of webbed feet
slapping water, strong wings lifted to the wind, and Stanhope knew
that the ducks had gone.
"Billy!" he cried, "why didn't you shoot?"
"I guess I didn't think about it," said the boy. "There's a boat out
yonder, an' she's havin' trouble. I was watchin' her."
"A boat in trouble? Where is she?"
"Out in the middle of the bay. There's two men in her; she must be
shippin' water, 'cause she's low down. She's one of Swanson's boats.
He ought'a know better than let a couple of greenies out on that sea."
Billy had thrown off his shooting-coat and was climbing out of the
blind.
"What are you going to do?" asked Stanhope.
"Goin' out to give a hand," shouted Billy. "No, teacher, you best
stay right here; you can't help me any an' I may have to bring them
two shooters ashore in the punt."
His last words were drowned in the wind. Already he was dragging the
punt from the reeds. A moment later Stanhope heard the dip of his
oars as he rounded the point and put the tiny craft into the seas and
his cheerful hail, "I'll be back soon, teacher."
With broadening day the gale had strengthened. Stanhope felt a few
stinging snow-pellets on his face, as he gazed, unseeing, outward and
waited with tense nerves for the hail of his young friend. Half an
hour passed--it seemed like hours to the man waiting, hoping,
fearing--and still Billy did not come. He replenished the fire and,
his hand coming in contact with the coat which Billy had discarded,
he held it on his knees, close to the little stove. Slowly the
minutes dragged past and a cold dread of what might have happened
grew in the blind man's heart. Billy had likely reached the boat
only in time to see it founder and in striving to save its exhausted
occupants----.
Unable to endure the thought Stanhope sprang to his feet and lifting
his arms high shouted with all his strength, "Billy, Billy boy!"
"Ho, teacher!" came an answering voice. "We're comin' straight in
with the wind. I've got 'em both."
Stanhope sank back on his box, his relaxed nerves throbbing and his
lips forming the words: "Thank God!"
A few minutes later Billy tumbled into the blind. "Quick," he cried,
as he drew on his coat. "They're nigh done fer. We've gotta keep
'em movin'. Good! I see you've heated the tea; I'll jest take it
along. We'll leave gun an' decoys right here with Moll to watch 'em,
'cause we're likely to have our hands full. Are you ready, teacher?"
"All set," cried Stanhope. "Leave your belt loose so I can hang to
it and I'm with you. That's right. Who were they, Billy?"
"Couple of shooters from Cleveland. One of 'em's a big, strong
feller, an' he ain't as near done up as the other. I started 'em to
shore along the rush-track. They'll be all hunky so long as they
keep goin'. We best get 'em to the nearest house."
"Well, that's my place," answered Stanhope. "How am I navigating,
Billy?"
"Fine; keepin' up as well as though you saw right where you're goin'.
They're only a little ahead now."
As the wooded shore was reached they came up with the rescued men.
Billy passed the chilled and wretched two the hot tea and after they
had drunk he and Stanhope took the lead through the stumpy fields.
Half an hour later, seated about the roaring fire in Stanhope's
cottage, huge cups of hot coffee on their knees, the venturesome
strangers seemed none the worse for their trying experience. The
larger of the two, a powerfully-built man with pleasant clean shaven
face and keen blue eyes, turned now to Stanhope.
"Where did the boy go?" he asked. "He must have been wet to the
skin."
"He went back to take up the decoys and bring in the boats," answered
Stanhope. "Oh, Billy's used to roughing it. He'll be back directly."
"By George!" cried the big man, slapping his friend's knee. "There's
a boy for you, Doctor. Why, sir," addressing Stanhope, "not one
youngster in a thousand could have done what he did. When he came to
us our boat was all but swamped. We had given up. My friend here
was utterly helpless with the cold and I was little better. And then
he came riding close in like a mere straw on the waves and something
flashed past me and fell with a bump against our boat-seat. 'Bale,'
he screeched, and I picked up the can he had thrown us and bale I did
for all I was worth. Then he came shooting back. 'You got to get
out of that trough,' he shouted. 'Throw your painter loose, so's I
can grab it as I pass, and I'll straighten your bow to take the
seas.'"
The speaker paused, his face aglow. "I managed to cast that painter
loose and the boy caught it as he shot past us. Then I felt the
skiff straighten and I heard him shout again, 'Bale! bale like fury!'
So I baled and baled and by and by we shipped less water than I
managed to throw out. All this time that youngster was hauling us in
to safety. I don't know who the boy is, but let me tell you this, my
friend, if I was his daddy I'd be the proudest man on the face of the
earth."
His companion, a slight, stooped man, the sallowness of whose face
was accentuated by a short black moustache, who had remained almost
silent from the time he had entered the house, looked up at these
words and smiled. "We owe that boy and this gentleman our lives," he
said briefly.
The big man laid a hand on Stanhope's arm. "My good friend," he
said, "will you allow me to introduce you to the grateful chaps you
have helped save. This gentleman with me is the famous specialist,
Doctor Cavinalt of Cleveland; and yours truly is plain Bill Maddoc of
the same city, lawyer by profession."
"My friend has forgotten to mention that he is state's attorney and a
noted bugbear to all evil-doers," smiled the doctor. "In other words
he's known as Trail Down Maddoc and--if he will permit of my so
stating--is far more famous in his own particular line than am I in
mine."
"Tut, tut," cried Maddoc, "what matter such trifles as these at this
time? And now," turning to their host, "if you will honor us?"
"My name is Stanhope; Frank Stanhope."
"What?" The lawyer was on his feet and had his hands on Frank's
shoulders.
"You say Stanhope? Why, man alive! I've been looking high and low
for you. What do you think of that, Doctor, I've found him at last!"
"Young man," said Maddoc, turning again to Frank, "will you please
answer a few questions? Did you ever know a queer old man by the
name of Scroggie?"
"Why, yes," Frank answered, somewhat puzzled. "He lived next farm to
me."
"And," Maddoc resumed, "do you happen to know that he made a will,
leaving all he possessed to you?"
"Yes, sir, so he said; but the will was never found."
"And for a very good reason, by George," cried Maddoc. "How could it
be found when it lay safely locked in a deposit box in my vault?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand--" commenced the amazed Stanhope.
"Of course not, how could you?" cried the lawyer. "But there now,
I'll explain.
"One morning something over a year ago a queer little man came to my
office. He told me his name, Scroggie, but refused to give me any
address. He said he wished to make his will and insisted that I draw
it up. It was a simple will, as I remember it, merely stating that
'I something-or-other, Scroggie, hereby bequeath all my belongings,
including land and money, to Frank Stanhope.' I made it out exactly
as he worded it, had it sealed and witnessed and handed it to him.
But the old fellow refused to take it. I asked him why, and he said:
'You keep it safe until I send for it. I'm willin' to pay for your
trouble.'
"'But listen, old man,' I said, 'supposing you should die suddenly.
Life is very uncertain, you know. This will should be left where it
can be easily found, don't you see?"
"'That's just where I don't want it left,' he says. 'I want it kept
safe. I'll take a chance on dying suddenly.' And by George! the old
fellow got up and shambled out, leaving a twenty-dollar gold piece on
the table."
"Then," said Frank, moistening his dry lips, "you have the will, Mr.
Maddoc?"
"I have!" cried the delighted lawyer, "and whether he left you much
or little nobody can dispute your claim. Young man, shake hands
again!"
But Stanhope had sunk on a chair, his face in his hands. Doctor
Cavinalt went softly over and stood beside him. "My friend," he said
gently, "good news often bowls us over, but perhaps there's even
better news in store for you. Fortune is a good thing, but with
fortune and your eye-sight restored----"
Frank lifted a wan face. "You mean----?" his dry lips formed the
words.
The slender sensitive fingers of the specialist lifted the lids of
the unseeing eyes. Intently he examined them, then with a quick
smile that transformed his grave face to almost boyish gladness, he
spoke.
"It is as I thought, Mr. Stanhope. Your sight is quite unimpaired
and can be restored to you by a simple operation. Your blindness was
caused either from a blow or a fall, was it not?"
Frank nodded. "A beam struck me," he whispered, "I thought--I
thought--"
"Tomorrow," said the doctor, retiring once more into his professional
shell, "I shall remove the pressure that obstructs your vision. The
operation, which will be most simple, can be performed here. We have
but to remove all pressure on the nerve centres that refuse their
function now--and you will see."
He motioned to his friend, and the two went over to the window and
talked together in low tones.
Stanhope, hands clasped together, sat staring into a vista of shadows
that were all but dissolved. Above them lifted a face that
smiled--and down across sleeping, darkening waters a long ray of
light swept to touch his unseeing eyes and whisper her message of
hope.
* * * * *
It was nearly noon when Billy, bending beneath a load of wild ducks,
came up the path to the cottage. Stanhope, reading his step, groped
his way out to meet him. "Ho, Billy Boy," he cried, holding out his
hands.
Billy placed his wet, cold ones in Stanhope's. "I simply had to stay
an' shoot," he explained. "The ducks were fair poundin' into the
decoys. How are the Cleveland fellers?"
"Good as ever, Billy, dried out--and gone. Come into the house.
I've got great news."
Billy turned puzzled eyes on his friend, reading a wonderful
happiness in the glowing face. He dropped his ducks and followed
Stanhope inside. The table was set for dinner and Billy sniffed
hungrily.
"Now teacher," he said, dropping into a seat by the fire, "give us
the news."
But Stanhope shook his head. "Not yet, Billy. Wait until you've
eaten. You're hungry--as all hunters are bound to be. There now,"
as his housekeeper brought in the meat and potatoes, "sit down and
eat--and eat fast, because I can't keep my good news back much
longer."
Billy sat down at the table and without a word fell to. Stanhope
stood beside the window, humming a tune, a smile on his face. He
roused himself from his musing, as Billy scraped back his chair.
"Full up?" he asked.
"Full up, teacher. Now let's have the good news."
Stanhope told him, his voice not always steady, and Billy sat silent,
his grey eyes growing bigger and bigger. And at the conclusion he
did a very boyish thing. He lowered his head to the table and cried.
Stanhope groped his way to him, placed his hands gently on the
heaving shoulders, and there they remained until Billy, with a long
sigh, raised his swimming eyes.
"Teacher," he said. "_She's_ gotta be told about this. You know how
she always hoped----"
"Yes."
Billy stood up and reached for his cap. "If Anse comes over, you kin
tell him where I've gone. I'll be back long afore dark."
"But, Billy, the wind! You'd better not go."
"The wind's gone down," said the boy. "Jest a fair sailin' breeze
now."
"She'll come, you think?"
"She'll come," said Billy, and went out, closing the door softly
behind him.