Within the cabin, so zealously watched by the detective prior to the
journey of Thorpe and Sam across the island, were the occupants--Jack
Shore and his little captive, Dorothy Thorpe. The child was carefully
and secretly guarded, and at the same time made as comfortable as the
limited quarters of her captor would permit.
Jack Shore was kind to the child, and though fully conscious of the
severe penalty of his desperate undertaking should he be discovered,
he nevertheless allowed her a certain freedom of the abode in which he
had placed her, of course always providing for securely bolted outer
doors.
During the preceding night she had been secretly and quietly removed
from her first hiding place to the cabin. Her silence was obtained by
the promise of being taken home should she be a good little girl, and
not make a disturbance. But as a precaution she had been wrapped up in
a manner so as completely to blindfold her, and in her childish
confidence was conveyed without any trouble, in the dead hour of
night, to the cabin.
The interior of the cabin was divided into two rooms. The small one
was used as a sleeping apartment, having two roughly-constructed
bunks, one above the other. On one wall was a small four-paned window
that gave light to the room. A small mirror, and a man's clothing hung
on the wall, and a short, well-worn strip of carpet covered the floor.
The large room served the purpose of a kitchen, dining room, pantry,
laundry and general utility combined. There was a small cook stove in
the corner near the dividing partition. One dishcloth and a couple of
towels hung on a line across the corner of the room over the stove. A
shallow box about three feet square, and nailed to the wall beside the
window, served as a cupboard for provisions. A table, an old chair, a
three-legged stool and a box constituted the remaining furniture.
At night a lighted lamp rested on a bracket above the table, and on
this particular night Jack's coat hung beside the lamp.
The main entrance door of the cabin was at the kitchen end, and opened
inward. There was also a door at the bedroom end of the cabin,
securely locked and bolted. The door in the partition between the two
rooms was in line with the other doors, and had a small pane of glass,
six by six inches, in the upper panel.
On this eventful night Dorothy was seated on the chair, her head
resting on her arms on the end of the table, indifferently watching
Jack. He, with a cigar in his mouth and in his gray shirtsleeves, was
standing in front of the table wiping a dishpan, the last of the
evening cleanup. Putting the pan away under the shelf, he hung the
dishcloth beside its mate on the line, and carefully stretched it out
to dry. Then, as he sat down on the stool at the end of the table
opposite Dorothy, a smile of satisfaction stole over his dark, swarthy
face when he surveyed the result of his work--a clean and tidy
appearing room.
"Eesa be so nice-a da clean. So bute-a da corner. Eesa like-a da
fine-a house. Tar-rah-rah! Tink-a eesa get-a da fote-da-graph of eet a
made. Put eem in-a Sunny da paper. Eh-a da Daize! What a use-a da
tink? Eh!"
Dorothy raised her head and looked at him in offended, childish
dignity.
"My name is not A da Daize; it is Dorothy!"
"Eesa like-a da Daize a bet! What youse-a tink? Eesa nicey da room, eh
Daize?"
Then the child indifferently looked at the corner with its stove and
adjuncts. She had been detained in his company now--for four days, and,
childlike, was intuitively quick in interpreting the broken, stumbling
Dago utterances of Jack.
"It is not so nice as our kitchen," she naively replied. "But maybe
the photo will make people think you are a good cook!"
"A da cook-a!--naw, eesa be damn! Turnoppsis! Carrotsis! Cababbages!
Black-a da boots"--
"Well, then," interrupted the child, pouting, "a rich man if you like;
I don't care."
"Eesa mores-a da bet," and he smiled approvingly. "And a Sunny-a da
paper print under da fote-da-graph some-a ting like-a deeze--A da
corner ova-a da dining room--maybees-a da den wud look-a da bet," he
muttered reflectively. "In deeze-a home ova-a a Signor George-a da
Golda--house-a dat, eh, a Daize?"
"Is that your name?" she inquired.
"Eesa good-a da name? A Daize."
"May I stay in here when the photo man comes?"
"Sure-a Daize!"
"Oh, good!" and the child clapped her little hands and laughed
gleefully.
Jack looked at her quizzically, and then, seating himself on the
stool, took the child between his knees.
"Tell-a me, da Daize, what-a da for youse-a like-a da picture take-a
here, eh?"
"Cause!" she answered shyly.
"Cause-a da what? Speak-a Daize."
"I don't like to."
"A Daize! Youse a know I bees-a da friend, speak-a."
"Well, then my papa would know where to find me."
"I deez-a thought so. Daize, youse-a tink I beez a da bad-a man. Eh,
why?"
"'Cause you promised to take me home and you have not."
"Well-a Daize, your-a good-a da girl, and--eef-a da papa donn-a da come
bees-a da morn, we'll-a go for-a da fine him, eh! Now youse-a da
like-a me now? Eh, a Daize?"
"Oh, I like you ever so much for that, and we'll go home tomorrow?
"Sure-a Daize! Now tell-a me some-a ting about a da Virginia."
"If I do you'll sure take me home tomorrow?"
"Sure-a Daize! Eesa beez a da good a da woman, eh? Much a da like a
you. Eh, a da Daize?"
"Oh, yes; she would do anything for me, and I love my aunt, too."
"Eesa look a da nicey. Mose a beez a da rich, eh-a Daize?"
"My aunt does oil paintings, too."
"Eesa got a much a da mon, eh a Daize?"
"Oh, yes; a pocket full," replied the unsuspecting child.
"Everybody says that she is rich, and I guess that it must be true,"
muttered Jack, and he could not suppress a smile of satisfaction the
child's information gave him.
"Eesa time to go a da bed, a Daize. Kiss a me good a da night."
"If I do, you won't forget your promise?"
"What a da promise?"
"To take me home tomorrow."
"Sure a Daize. I donna forget."
Then the child kissed him, and at the contact of her soft, warm lips
with his--like a stream of sunshine, the child innocence of purest
lips, pierced his heart with a shaft of kindly sympathy.
"Good a da night, a Daize," he said in a voice soft and gentle. Then
he released the child and arose to his feet. It drew from her a look
of steady admiration, and then she replied:
"Good night!" On the threshold of the sleeping apartment she turned
and said:
"I shall pray for you tonight, Mister Golda. I shall pray for you not
to forget tomorrow." And she softly closed the door.
As Jack mildly stared at the child, the light in his eyes changed to a
look far off, and there gradually stole over his face an aspect of
infinite sadness, reminiscent of the days of his childhood.
On resuming his presence of mind, he went to the cupboard and took
from there a bottle. After removing the stopper he took a straight
draught of liquor, turned low the light and tip-toed to the bedroom
door, listened, and heard Dorothy say:
"Oh, dear Jesus, make George Golda good; help him remember his promise
to take me home tomorrow."
Jack was deeply moved by the child's sweet disposition, and he turned
away disgusted at the despicable role he was enacting, and muttered
reflectively: "Good God, that I should come to this! From
secretary-treasurer of the Securities Investment Association to be a
kidnapper of babes!
"Jack Shore, the kidnapper! What a fall is here! Yes, I have sunk so
low as to abduct from a fond, suffering mother one of the purest gems
of flesh and blood that ever blest a home. And for what? The almighty
dollar! Only that, and nothing more! Curse the damned dollar that
drives men to crime!
"Curse it for cramming hell with lost souls. I'll wash my hands of
this whole business; I'll have no more of it; I'll take the child
home!"
The resolution was so cheering, so fruitful of kindly intent, and
urged on by the "still, small voice" within him to do right, that he
decided to fortify himself with a second drink of liquor. Then a
contra train of reflection seized him, and he whispered, as one
suddenly confronted with an appalling calamity:
"Ah, ah! What am I saying? And I have scarcely a dollar in the world!
Have gone hungry for the want of it--and here is twenty thousand of the
beautiful golden things actually in sight--almost at my finger tips!"
and with the thought blank concern spread over his face, and the
kindly purpose, the human compassion for his fellow being in its
transient passage to his heart, again took flight and the "still,
small voice" within him shrank abashed to silence.
"Out with this sentimental nonsense! The Thorpes can stand the loss of
a few thousand without a twitch of an eyelash."
The sound of a couple of gentle taps on the starboard side of the
cabin broke his train of audible thoughts and claimed his quick
attention.
The taps were repeated distinctly. He answered them with three light
taps on the wall, given by the joint of his finger. Then he quietly
opened the door, and Philip Rutley, with the collar of his coat turned
up closely about his face, stood in the opening.
"All skookum, Jack?" he questioned, in low tones, on entering.
"All skookum, Phil," answered Jack, as he locked and bolted the door.
"Good! I love to look at the little darling. Jack, she is a gold
mine." And, so saying, Rutley took the lamp from over the shelf and
cautiously opening the door, peered within.
"Isn't she pretty?" Then he quietly closed the door, replaced the lamp
on the shelf, turned down his coat collar and said in a low, pleased
voice: "Well, old boy, our troubles are nearly over. Virginia will
come tonight."
"Alone?" queried Jack, in low tones, and he looked significantly at
his colleague.
"Yes, and with the ducats! I caused her to be secretly informed that
she must meet you here by twelve o'clock this night, and prepared to
pay the ransom. Any liquor handy, Jack? I'm feeling a bit nervous
after that pull. The boat sogged along as heavy as though a bunch of
weeds trailed across her prow."
Jack smiled, but proceeded to the cupboard and produced a bottle,
together with a glass. Removing the cork, he offered both bottle and
glass to Rutley with the remark: "Old Kaintuck--dead shot! The best
ever. Help yourself!"
"That's an affectionate beauty spot about your right eye, Jack,"
remarked Rutley, taking the bottle and tumbler from him.
"You haven't told me how it happened."
"I was out on Corbett street when that damned Irish coachman of
Thorpe's sauntered along as though he had a chip on his shoulder, and
he had the nerve to ask me if I had seen the child."
"Do you think he suspected you?" queried Rutley, pausing with the
glass and bottle in his hands.
"No; it was a random shot. But it made me hot, and--well, the long and
the short of it was the doctor worked over me an hour before I was
able to walk."
"I see," commented Rutley, pouring some liquor into the glass and
setting the bottle on the table. "A sudden and unexpected attack, eh!
May the fickle jade smile on us tonight," and so saying, he drank the
liquor with evident relish, and handed the glass to Jack.
Jack, misunderstanding his quotation of the "fickle jade,"
interpreting it as meant for Virginia, at once replied:
"The jade may smile and smile, and be a villain, but she must 'pungle'
up the 'dough.'" And pouring some liquor in the glass he drained it.
Jack's misapplication of the popular quotation caused Phil to smile,
then to chuckle. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, the jade!"
Then he produced a couple of cigars from his vest pocket, and offering
one to Jack, continued: "She deserves no mercy."
"None whatever," replied Jack, as he took the cigar.
"If she had not weakened, we should never have selected her to pay the
ransom," resumed Rutley.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed Jack, as he put a match to the cigar. "Her
penitent mood makes her an easy mark. The price of her atonement'll be
twenty thousand dollars."
Again Rutley chuckled, chuckled convivially, for evidently the
softening influence of the liquor relaxed his tensely attuned nerves.
"Ha, my boy, she shall not enjoy the bliss of restoring the child to
her mother. I shall be the hero in this case," and he lowered his
voice. "After Virginia has paid the ransom, I shall take the child to
her father." Then he looked at Jack significantly and laughed--laughed
in a singularly sinister, yet highly pitched suppressed key.
Jack penetrated Rutley's purpose at once and the prodigious nerve of
the fellow caused him likewise to laugh. But Jack's laugh was
different from Rutley's, in so much that it conveyed, though
suppressed and soft, an air of rollicking abandon.
"And get the reward of ten thousand dollars offered for the child's
recovery."
"Precisely," laughed Rutley.
His laugh seemed infectious, for Jack joined him with a "Ha, ha, ha,
ha. And borrow ten thousand more from old Harris for being a Good
Samaritan to his nephew, Sam, eh! Have another, Phil," and again he
laughed as he offered the glass.
Rutley took the glass and filled it. "A forty thousand cleanup, Jack,
just for a bit of judicious nerve! He, he, he, he," and then his
laughter ceased, for the simple reason that his lips could not perform
the act of drinking and laughing at the same time.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed Jack, in response. "A damned good thing, eh,
Phil?" and he took the glass, filled it, and drank. "Has anybody heard
from Corway?"
"Shanghaied," laconically replied Rutley.
"He's off on the British bark Lochlobin. No fear of any trouble from
him for several months."
"How, in the name of God, did you do it?" asked Jack, fairly
enthralled with Rutley's nerve.
"Oh, it was easy. Fixed it up with some sailor boarding-house toughs,
but I only got $50 out of it all told, including his watch. But, my
dear boy, that is not all I have planned in this plunge. You know I am
desperately in love with the orphan?"
"Hazel!" exclaimed Jack. "Ho, that was plain long ago," and he laughed
again.
"She's the sweetest little girl in the world, Jack, and the best part
of it is, she has a cool hundred thousand in her own right."
"Marry her," promptly advised Jack.
"That is my intention, Jack, and the day after tomorrow I visit
Rosemont to persuade her to elope with me. Quite a society
thrill--don't you know?"
"Thrill!" replied Jack, astonished. "You mean sensation. Hazel eloped
with me Lord Beauchamp, Knight of the Garter. Have one on that, Phil."
"Oh, she's a darling, Jack, and now that Corway is out of the way--I
think she'd like--to wear the garter," and he grinned jovially.
"A garter is fetching, Phil."
"Success to the garter! May Lady Hazel never let it fall; ha, ha," and
Jack laughed merrily as he filled the glass.
"Evil be to him who evil thinks. My garter, Jack! He, he, he, he."
There was no mistaking the fact that the two men were verging on the
hilarious, and though fully aware of the importance of conversing in
low tones, they continued, because they felt satisfied the critical
period of their operations had passed and success was assured.
Again Rutley laughed. "Jack, I've had an itching palm today."
"So have I. See how red it is with scratching, and the sole of my left
foot has been tickled to fits."
"The signs are right, Jack. I congratulate you on your luck, and if it
is as good as your judgment of liquor--it is a damned good thing." He
laughed as he seized the glass. "This is the proof," and he forthwith
tossed it off, and handed the glass to Jack.
Jack's convivial spirits were quite willing. He took the glass, filled
it, and laughingly said: "What is good for the devil, applies to his
imp." Then he drained the glass and again laughed.
Rutley joined in. "You make me blush! Did you say your left foot
tickled?"
"Yes!"
"You will change domiciles. What do you say to secretary-treasurer of
the Securities Investment Association?"
"What? Resurrect the old S. I. A.?" Jack replied, and he stared at
Rutley with amazement.
"Yes! Thorpe and Harris put us out of business. Why not use their
'simoleons' to start up again?" And he chuckled with evident
satisfaction.
"Agreed, Phil! Start her up with a full page ad in a Sunday paper, eh?
Ha, ha, ha, ha--a damned good thing."
"Precisely! Ahem," coughed Rutley. "We are pleased to announce that
our former fellow townsmen, Mr. Philip Rutley and Mr. Jack Shore have
returned very wealthy."
"And were received with open arms," added Jack, and he laughed.
"Damned good joke, Phil; damned good joke. Have one on that!" And he
turned and picked up bottle and glass from the table and offered them
to his colleague.
Rutley always maintained a dignified bearing, yet his manners were
quite unconventional, and suave, and easy, and it must be understood
that neither of them on this occasion became boisterous. He took the
proffered bottle and glass, poured liquor in the glass, and after
setting the bottle on the table, said: "Thirty days later, a-hem! We
congratulate the stockholders of the reorganized Securities Investment
Association on the able and efficient management of your officers,
Manager Philip Rutley and Secretary-Treasurer Jack Shore." He then
drained the glass and handed it to Jack.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed Jack, as he took the glass and poured the
liquor in it, and pointedly added: "Addenda! It affords us much
pleasure to apologize for our former charge of wilful dishonesty
against the gentlemen above mentioned. Signed: John Thorpe, James
Harris, committee." And Jack drained the glass.
"He, he, he, he," softly laughed Rutley. "Very proper, my boy; quite
so!"
"It only needs the measly 'yellow goods' to make it practical,"
suggested Jack.
"My dear, ahem, Mr. Secretary, don't let that trifle worry you. The
'yellow goods' are coming as sure as day follows night."
"I hope the day will not again plunge us into night," laughed Jack.
"Oh, don't put it that way," testily rejoined Rutley. "Disagreeably
suggestive, you know--damned bad taste."
Rutley's supersensitiveness, in their present situation, was greeted
by Jack with a burst of suppressed laughter. "When Eve tempted and
Adam bit, he took his medicine without a fit. Have another, Phil."
Without accepting the bottle, and seemingly without heeding the
remark, Rutley inquired, a bit seriously: "Is the dog on guard?"
"Yes," replied Jack, standing stock still, with the bottle in one hand
and the tumbler in the other. "Tied to a stick of driftwood on shore.
No interlopers while Snooks is on watch. Why?" The question was asked
rather soberly.
"I received a tip that you are shadowed and trouble may come before
dawn. When it comes the little one must not be here."
"I agree with you," responded Jack. "I've lost that medal somewhere,
too."
"Ye Gods!" gravely replied Rutley, with an alarmed look. "If it falls
into the hands of a detective, it may serve as a clue. Curious, too. I
recall now that the dog didn't bark or growl when I approached the
cabin."
"I wonder!" exclaimed Jack. "Maybe Snooks has got loose and is
wandering about the island. We had better make sure."
Setting the bottle and tumbler on the table, he opened the cabin door
and stepped somewhat unsteadily on the platform. Closing the door, he
peered shoreward, then softly whistled. After listening intently, and
hearing nothing, he called, in a low voice:
"Snooks! Snooks!" Receiving no response, and being unable to identify
shapeless objects on the shore, through the darkness, he re-entered
the cabin, quietly as possible, and with a concerned look on his face.
"I believe the dog has got away. I'll go ashore and investigate."
"I'll go with you," assured Rutley. "Jack, better see that the child's
asleep."
Jack took the lamp from the bracket, opened the partition door, looked
in at the sleeping child, and closed the door as gently as he had
opened it. "Sound asleep," he whispered. Then he replaced the lamp,
blew out the light, and made his way out onto the platform,
accompanied by Rutley.
Quietly they stepped into a small boat, fastened to the logs, and
pushed off towards the shore.
It was then Jack remembered that he had not locked the door, and
wanted to return for that purpose, but Rutley demurred.
"Time is precious," he murmured, rather thickly. "Besides we shall be
gone only a few minutes, and it is unlikely that the child will stir
in the darkness."