"Your patient has been in a bad way, Dr. Trendon," he said.
"What's wrong?" asked Trendon, frowning.
"He came up on deck, wild-eyed and staggering. There was a sheet of paper
in his hand which seemed to have some bearing on his trouble. When he
found you had gone to the island without him he began to rage like a
maniac. I had to have him carried down by force. In the rumpus the paper
disappeared. I assumed the responsibility of giving him an opiate."
"Quite right," approved Trendon. "I'll go down. Will you come with me,
sir?" he said to the captain.
They found Slade in profound slumber.
"Won't do to wake him now," growled Trendon. "Hello, what's here?"
Lying in the hollow of the sick man's right hand, where it had been
crushed to a ball, was a crumpled mass of tracing paper. Trendon smoothed
it out, peered at it and passed it to the captain.
"It's a sketch of an Indian arrow-head," he exclaimed in surprise, at the
first glance. "What are all these marks?"
"Map of the island," barked Trendon. "Look here."
The drawing was a fairly careful one, showing such geographical points as
had been of concern to the two-year inhabitants. There was the large
cavern, indicated as they had found it, and at a point between it and the
headland the legend, "Seal Cave."
"But it's wrong," cried Captain Parkinson, setting finger to the spot. "We
passed there twice. There's no opening."
"No guarantee that there may not have been," returned the other. "This
island has been considerably shaken up lately. Entrance may have been
closed by a landslide down the cliff. Noticed signs myself, but didn't
think of it in connection with the cave."
"That's work for Barnett, then," said the captain, brightening. "We'll
blow up the whole face of the cliff, if necessary, but we'll get at that
cave."
He hurried out. Order followed order, and soon the gig, with the captain,
Trendon, and the torpedo expert, was driving for the point marked "Seal
Cave" on the map over which they were bent.
VI
MR. DARROW RECEIVES
"You say the last entry is June 7th?" asked Barnett, as the boat entered
the light surf.
Trendon nodded.
"That was the night we saw the last glow, and the big burst from the
volcano, wasn't it?"
"Right."
"The island would have been badly shaken up."
"Not so violently but that the flag-pole stood," said the captain.
"That's true, sir. But there's been a good deal of volcanic gas going. The
man's been penned up for four days."
"Give the fellow a chance," growled Trendon. "Air may be all right in the
cave. Good water there, too. Says so himself. By Slade's account he's a
pretty capable citizen when it comes to looking after himself. Wouldn't
wonder if we'd find him fit as a fiddle."
"There was no clue to Ives and McGuire?" asked Barnett presently.
"None." It was the captain who answered.
The gig grated, and the tide being high, they waded to the base of the
cliff, Barnett carrying his precious explosives aloft in his arms.
"Here's the spot," said the captain. "See where the water goes in through
those crevices."
"Opening at the top, too," said Trendon.
He let out his bellow, roaring Darrow's name.
"I doubt if you could project your voice far into a cave thus blocked,"
said Captain Parkinson. "We'll try this."
He drew his revolver and fired. The men listened at the crevices of the
rock. No sound came from within.
"Your enterprise, Mr. Barnett," said the commander, with a gesture which
turned over the conduct of the affair to the torpedo expert.
Barnett examined the rocks with enthusiasm.
"Looks like moderately easy stuff," he observed. "See how the veins run.
You could almost blow a design to order in that."
"Yes; but how about bringing down the whole cave?"
"Oh, of course there's always an element of uncertainty when you're
dealing with high explosives," admitted the expert. "But unless I'm
mistaken, we can chop this out as neat as with an axe."
Dropping his load of cartridges carelessly upon a flat rock which
projected from the water, he busied himself in a search along the face of
the cliff. Presently, with an "Ah," of satisfaction, he climbed toward a
hand's breadth of platform where grew a patch of purple flowers.
"Throw me up a knife, somebody," he called.
"Take notice," said Trendon, good-naturedly, "that I'm the botanist of
this expedition."
"Oh, you can have the flowers. All I want is what they grow in."
Loosening a handful of the dry soil, he brought it down and laid it with
the explosives. Next he called one of the sailors to "boost" him, and was
soon perched on the flat slant of a huge rock which formed, as it were,
the keystone to the blockade.
"Let's see," he ruminated. "We want a slow charge for this. One that will
exert a widespread pressure without much shattering force. The No. 3, I
think."
"How is that, Mr. Barnett?" asked the captain, with lively interest.
"You see, sir," returned the demonstrator, perched high, like a sculptor
at work on some heroic masterpiece, "what we want is to split off this
rock." He patted the flank of the huge slab. "There's a lovely vein
running at an angle inward from where I sit. Split that through, and the
rock should roll, of its own weight, away from the entrance. It's held
only by the upper projection that runs under the arch here."
"Neat programme," commented Trendon, with a tinge of sardonic scepticism.
"Wait and see," retorted Barnett blithely, for he was in his element now.
"I'll appoint you my assistant. Just toss me up that cartridge: the third
one on the left."
The surgeon recoiled.
"Supposing you don't catch it?"
"Well, supposing I don't."
"It's dynamite, isn't it?"
"Something of the same nature. Joveite, it's called."
Still the surgeon stared at him. Barnett laughed.
"Oh, you've got the high explosives superstition," he said lightly.
"Dynamite don't go off as easy as people think. You could drop that stuff
from the cliffhead without danger. Have I got to come down for it?"
With a wry face Trendon tossed up the package. It was deftly caught.
"Now wet that dirt well. Put it in the canvas bag yonder, and send one of
the men up with it. I'm going to make a mud pie."
Breaking the package open, he spread the yellow powder in a slightly
curving line along the rock. With the mud he capped this over, forming a
little arched roof.
"To keep it from blowing away," surmised Trendon.
"No; to make it blow down instead of blowing up."
"Oh, rot!" returned the downright surgeon. "That pound of dirt won't make
the shadow of a feather's difference."
"Won't it!" retorted the other. "Curious thing about high explosives. A
mud-cap will hold down the force as well as a ton of rock. Wait and see
what happens to the rock beneath."
He slid off his perch into the ankle-deep water and waded out to the boat.
Here he burrowed for a moment, presently emerging with a box. This he
carried gingerly to a convenient rock and opened. First he lifted out some
soft padding. A small tin box honey-combed inside came to light. With
infinite precaution Barnett picked out an object that looked like a 22-
calibre short cartridge, wadded some cotton batten in his hand, set the
thing in the wadding, laid it on the rock, carefully returned the small
box to the large box and the large box to the boat, took up the cartridge
again and waded back to the cliff. They watched him in silence.
"This is the little devil," he said, indicating his delicate burden.
"Fulminate of mercury. This is the stuff that'll remove your hand with
neatness and despatch. It's the quickest tempered little article in the
business. Just give it one hard look and it's off."
"Here," said Trendon, "I resign. From now on I'm a spectator."
Barnett swung the fulminate in his handkerchief and gave it to a sailor to
hold. The man dandled it like a new-born infant. Back to his rock went
Barnett. Producing some cord, he let down an end.
"Tie the handkerchief on, and get out of the way," he directed.
With painful slowness the man carried out the first part of the order; the
latter half he obeyed with sprightly alacrity. Very slowly, very
delicately, the expert drew in his dangerous burden. Once a current of air
puffed it against the face of the rock, and the operator's head was
hastily withdrawn. Nothing happened. Another minute and he had the tiny
shell in hand. A fuse was fixed in it and it was shoved under the mud-cap.
Barnett stood up.
"Will you kindly order the boat ready, Captain Parkinson?" he called.
The order was given.
"As soon as I light the fuse I will come down and we'll pull out fifty
yards. Leave the rest of the Joveite where it is. All ready? Here goes."
He touched a match to the fuse. It caught. For a moment he watched it.
"Going all right," he reported, as he struck the water. "Plenty of time."
Some seventy yards out they rested on their oars. They waited. And waited.
And waited.
"It's out," grunted Trendon.
From the face of the cliff puffed a cloud of dust. A thudding report
boomed over the water. Just a wisp of whitish-grey smoke arose, and
beneath it the great rock, with a gapping seam across its top, rolled
majestically outward, sending a shower of spray on all sides, and opening
to their eager view a black chasm into the heart of the headland. The
experiment had worked out with the accuracy of a geometric problem.
"That's all, sir," Barnett reported officially.
"Magic! Modern magic!" said the captain. He stared at the open door. For
the moment the object of the undertaking was forgotten in the wonder of
its exact accomplishment.
"Darrow'll think an earthquake's come after him," remarked Trendon.
"Give way," ordered the captain.
The boat grated on the sand. Captain Parkinson would have entered, but
Barnett restrained him.
"It's best to wait a minute or two," he advised. "Occasionally slides
follow an explosion tardily, and the gases don't always dissipate
quickly."
Where they stood they could see but a short way into the cave. Trendon
squatted and funnelled his hands to one eye.
[Illustration: "Sorry not to have met you at the door," he said
courteously.]
"There's fire inside," he said.
In a moment they all saw it, a single, pin-point glow, far back in the
blackness, a Cyclopean eye, that swayed as it approached. Alternately it
waned and brightened. Suddenly it illuminated the dim lineaments of a
face. The face neared them. It joined itself to reality by a very solid
pair of shoulders, and a man sauntered into the twilit mouth of the
cavern, removed a cigarette from his lips, and gave them greeting.
"Sorry not to have met you at the door," he said, courteously. "It was you
that knocked, was it not? Yes? It roused me from my siesta."
They stared at him in silence. He blinked in the light, with unaccustomed
eyes.
"You will pardon me for not asking you in at once. Past circumstances have
rendered me--well--perhaps suspicious is not too strong a word."
They noticed that he held a revolver in his hand.
Captain Parkinson came forward a step. The host half raised his weapon.
Then he dropped it abruptly.
"Navy men!" he said, in an altered voice. "I beg your pardon. I could not
see at first. My name is Percy Darrow."
"I am Captain Parkinson of the United States cruiser _Wolverine_," said
the commander. "This is Mr. Barnett, Mr. Darrow. Dr. Trendon, Mr. Darrow."
They shook hands all around.
"Like some damned silly afternoon tea," Trendon said later, in retailing
it to the mess. A pause followed.
"Won't you step in, gentlemen?" said Darrow, "May I offer you the makings
of a cigarette?"
"Wouldn't you be robbing yourself?" inquired the captain, with a twinkle.
"Oh, you found the diary, then," said Darrow easily. "Rather silly of me
to complain so. But really, in conditions like these, tobacco becomes a
serious problem."
"So one might imagine," said Trendon drily. He looked closely at Darrow.
The man's eyes were light and dancing. From the nostrils two livid lines
ran diagonally. Such lines one might make with a hard blue pencil pressed
strongly into the flesh. The surgeon moved a little nearer.
"Can you give me any news of my friend Thrackles?" asked Darrow lightly.
"Or the esteemed Pulz? Or the scholarly and urbane Robinson of Ethiopian
extraction?"
"Dead," said the captain.
"Ah, a pity," said the other. He put his hand to his forehead. "I had
thought it probable." His face twitched. "Dead? Very good. In fact ...
really ... er ... amusing."
He began to laugh, quite to himself. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear.
Trendon caught and shook him by the shoulder.
"Drop it," he said.
Darrow seemed not to hear him. "Dead, all dead!" he repeated. "And I've
outlasted 'em! God damn 'em, I've outlasted 'em!" And his mirth broke
forth in a strangely shocking spasm.
Trendon lifted a hand and struck him so powerfully between the shoulder
blades that he all but plunged forward on his face.
"Quit it!" he ordered again. "Get hold of yourself!"
Darrow turned and gripped him. The surgeon winced with the pain of his
grasp. "I can't," gasped the maroon, between paroxysms. "I've been living
in hell. A black, shaking, shivering hell, for God knows how long.... What
do you know? Have you ever been buried alive?" And again the agony of
laughter shook him.
"This, then," muttered the doctor, and the hypodermic needle shot home.
During the return Darrow lay like a log in the bottom of the gig. The
opiate had done its work. Consciousness was mercifully dead within him.
VII
THE SURVIVORS
Rest and good food quickly brought Percy Darrow back to his normal poise.
One inspection satisfied Dr. Trendon that all was well with him. He asked
to see the captain, and that gentleman came to Ives's room, which had been
assigned to the rescued man.
"I hope you've been able to make yourself comfortable," said the
commander, courteously.
"It would be strange indeed if I could not," returned Darrow, smiling.
"You forget that you have set a savage down in the midst of luxury."
"Make yourself free of Ives's things," invited Captain Parkinson. "Poor
fellow; he will not use them again, I fear."
"One of your men lost?" asked Darrow. "Ah, the young officer whose body I
found on the beach, perhaps?"
"No; but we have to thank you for that burial," said the captain.
Darrow made a swift gesture. "Oh, if thanks are going," he cried, and
paused in hopelessness of adequate expression.
"This has been a bitter cruise for us," continued the captain. He sighed
and was silent for a moment. "There is much to tell and to be told," he
resumed.
"Much," agreed the other, gravely.
"You will want to see Slade first, I presume," said the captain.
"One of your officers whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting?"
The captain stared. "Slade," he said. "Ralph Slade."
"Apparently there's a missing link. Or--I fear I was not wholly myself
yesterday for a time. Possibly something occurred that I did not quite
take in."
"Perhaps we'd better wait," said Captain Parkinson, with obvious
misgiving. "You're not quite rested. You will feel more like--"
"If you don't mind," said Darrow composedly, "I'd like to get at this
thing now. I'm in excellent understanding, I assure you."
"Very well. I am speaking of the man who acted as mate in the _Laughing
Lass_. The journalist who--good heavens! What arrant stupidity! I have to
beg your pardon, Mr. Darrow. It has just occurred to me. He called himself
Eagen with you."
"Eagen! What is this? Is Eagen alive?"
"And on this ship. We picked him up in an open boat."
"And you say he calls himself Slade?"
"He is Ralph Slade, adventurer and journalist. Mr. Barnett knows him and
vouches for him."
"And he was on our island under an assumed name," said Darrow in tones
that had the smoothness and the rasp of silk. "Rather annoying. Not good
form, quite, even for a pirate."
"Yet, I believe he saved your life," suggested the captain.
Darrow looked up sharply. "Why, yes," he admitted. "So he did. I had
hoped--" He checked himself. "I had thought that all of the crew went the
same way. You didn't find any of the others?"
"None."
Darrow got to his feet. "I think I'd like to see Eagen--Slade--whatever he
calls himself."
"I don't know," began the captain. "It might not be--" He hesitated and
stopped.
Darrow drew back a little, misinterpreting the other's attitude. "Do I
understand that I am under restraint?" he asked stiffly.
"Certainly not. Why should you be?"
"Well," returned the other contemplatively, "it really might be regarded
as a subject for investigation. Of course I know only a small part of it.
But there have certainly been suspicious circumstances. Piracy there has
been: no doubt of that. Murder, too, if my intuitions are not at fault. Or
at least, a disappearance to be accounted for. Robbery can't be denied.
And there's a dead body or two to be properly accredited." He looked the
captain in the eye.
"Well?"
"You'll find my story highly unsatisfactory in detail, I fancy. I merely
want to know whether I'm to present it as a defence, or only an
explanation."
"We shall be glad to hear your story when you are ready to tell it--after
you have seen Mr. Slade."
"Thank you," said Darrow simply. "You have heard his?"
"Yes. It needs filling in."
"When may I see him?"
"That's for Dr. Trendon to say. He came to us almost dead. I'll find out."
The surgeon reported Slade much better, but all a-quiver with excitement.
"Hate to put the strain on him," said he. "But he'll be in a fever till he
gets this thing off his mind. Send Mr. Darrow to him."
After a moment's consideration Darrow said: "I should like to have you and
Dr. Trendon present, Captain Parkinson, while I ask Eagen one or two
questions."
"Understand one thing, Mr. Darrow," said Trendon briefly. "This is not to
be an inquisition."
"Ah," said Darrow, unmoved. "I'm to be neither defendant nor prosecutor."
"You are to respect the condition of Dr. Trendon's patient, sir," said
Captain Parkinson, with emphasis. "Outside of that, your attitude toward a
man who has twice thought of your life before his own is for you to
determine."
No little cynicism lurked in Darrow's tones as he said:
"You have confidence in Mr. Slade, alias Eagen."
"Yes," replied Captain Parkinson, in a tone that closed that topic.
"Still, I should be glad to have you gentlemen present, if only for a
moment," insisted Darrow, presently.
"Perhaps it would be as well--on account of the patient," said the surgeon
significantly.
"Very well," assented the captain.
The three went to Slade's cabin. He was lying propped up in his bunk.
Trendon entered first, followed by the captain, then Darrow.
"Here's your prize, Slade," said the surgeon.
Darrow halted, just inside the door. With an eager light in his face Slade
leaned forward and stretched out his hand.
"I couldn't believe it until I saw you, old man," he cried.
Darrow's eyebrows went up. Before Slade had time to note that there was no
response to his outstretched hand, the surgeon had jumped in and pushed
him roughly back upon his pillow.
"What did you promise?" he growled. "You were to lie still, weren't you?
And you'll do it, or out we go."
"How are you, Eagen?" drawled Darrow.
"Not Eagen. I'm done with that. They've told you, haven't they?"
Darrow nodded. "Are you the only survivor?" he inquired.
"Except yourself."
"The Nigger? Pulz? Thrackles? The captain? All drowned?"
"Not the captain. They murdered him."
"Ah," said Darrow softly. "And you--I beg your pardon--your--er--friends
disposed of the doctor in the same way?"
"Handy Solomon," replied Slade with shaking lips. "Hell's got that fiend,
if there's a hell for human fiends. They threw the doctor's body in the
surf."
"You didn't notice whether there were any papers?"
"If there were they must have been destroyed with the body when the lava
poured down the valley into the sea."
"The lava: of course," assented Darrow, with elaborate nonchalance. "Well,
he was a kind old boy. A cheerful, simple, wise old child."
"I would have given my right hand to save him," cried Slade. "It was so
sudden--so damnable--"
"Better to have saved him than me," said Darrow. He spoke with the first
touch of feeling that he exhibited. "I have to thank you for my life,
Eagen--I beg your pardon: Slade. It's hard to remember."
Dr. Trendon arose, and Captain Parkinson with him.
"Give you two hours, Mr. Darrow," said the surgeon. "No more. If he seems
exhausted, give him one of these powders. I'll look in in an hour."
At the end of an hour he returned. Slade was lying back on his pillow.
Darrow was talking, eagerly, confidentially. In another hour he came out.
"The whole thing is clear," he said to Captain Parkinson. "I am ready to
report to you."
"This evening," said the captain. "The mess will want to hear."
"Yes, they will want to hear," assented Darrow. "You've had Slade's story.
I'll take it up where he left off, and he'll check me. Mine's as
incredible as--as Slade's was. And it's as true."
VIII
THE MAKER OF MARVELS
As they had gathered to hear Ralph Slade's tale, so now the depleted mess
of the _Wolverine_ grouped themselves for Percy Darrow's sequel. Slade
himself sat directly across from the doctor's assistant. Before him lay a
paper covered with jotted notes. Trendon slouched low in the chair on
Slade's right. Captain Parkinson had the other side. Convenient to
Darrow's hand lay the material for cigarettes. As he talked he rolled
cylinder after cylinder, and between sentences consumed them in long,
satisfying puffs.
"First you will want to learn of the fate of your friends and shipmates,"
he began. "They are dead. One of them, Mr. Edwards, fell to my hands to
bury, as you know. He lies beside Handy Solomon. The others we shall
probably not see: any one of a score of ocean currents may have swept them
far away. The last great glow that you saw was the signal of their
destruction. So the work of a great scientist, a potent benefactor of the
race, a gentle and kindly old heart, has brought about the death of your
friends and of my enemies. The innocent and the guilty ... the murderer
with his plunder, the officer following his duty ... one and the same
end ... a paltry thing our vaunted science is in the face of such tangled
fates." He spoke low and bitterly. Then he squared his shoulders and his
manner became businesslike.
"Interrupt me when any point needs clearing up," he said. "It's a blind
trail at best. You've the right to see it as plain as I can make it--with
Slade's help. Cut right in with your questions: There'll be plenty to
answer and some never will be answered....
"Now let me get this thing laid out clearly in my own mind. You first saw
the glow--let me see--"
"Night of June 2d," said Barnett.
"June 2d," agreed Darrow. "That was the end of Solomon, Thrackles & Co. A
very surprising end to them, if they had time to think," he added grimly.
"Surprising enough, from the survivor's viewpoint," said Slade.
"Doubtless. They've had that story from you; I needn't go over it. This
ship picked up the _Laughing Lass_, deserted, and put your first crew
aboard. That night, was it not, you saw the second pillar of fire?"
Barnett nodded.
"So your men met their death. Then came the second finding of the empty
schooner.... Captain Parkinson, they must have been brave men who faced
the unknown terrors of that prodigy."
"They volunteered, sir," said the Captain, with simple pride.