which had looked threatening all the morning, was overcast with dark
angry clouds. A big storm was brewing, and we decided not to start for
Shipmates’ Rest until it was over. There was a high off-shore wind.
The waves were rising rapidly out on the lake, but the protected water
along the bluffs was still comparatively calm. As the wind increased we
went down to the pier, intending to tie the boat up in a more sheltered
place, and remain at the village all night. We found to our dismay that
the _Crawfish_ was adrift far out on the water. Under the strain of the
wind and the river current, the line had parted that had held it to the
pier.
Bascom was gesticulating wildly for help, but there was no means of
getting to him. There happened to be no boats around the mouth of the
river large enough to be of use in the waves that were now breaking
over the _Crawfish_. There was no gasoline on the boat, and if there
had been oars Bascom could not have got the boat back with them after
he got into the current. Evidently he had not realized his danger until
it was too late to jump overboard and swim ashore, or it may not have
occurred to him.
“That poor feller ain’t got no more chance ’an a fish worm on a red-hot
stove,” shouted Sipes above the roar of the wind, as we watched the
helpless craft being tossed and borne away. To do the old man justice,
he forgot the boat, and our belongings on it, in the face of Bascom’s
peril, as we all did.
There was a faint hope that some steamer on the lake might rescue him,
but there was none in sight, and we doubted if the boat would stay
afloat more than a few minutes more in such a wind and sea. Rain began
to come in torrents, and the distant object, that we had watched so
anxiously, was obliterated by the storm.
We made our way back to the village store with difficulty, and
telephoned to the lifesaving station about thirty miles away on the
coast, but there was no possible hope of help from there. There was
much excitement among a few villagers who came out into the storm, but
nobody could suggest any means of relief.
We spent a gloomy and sleepless night in the little town, where we were
hospitably provided for.
Somewhere far out on the wind-lashed lake the turbulent seas and the
storm played with a thing that had become a part of the waste and
débris of the wide waters. Bascom’s god was in his leather wallet, but
it was powerless, except with men. The winds and the waves knew it not.
Greed, that dominates the greater part of mankind, becomes ghastly
illusion, as the frail creature it disfigures blends into the elements
when finality comes.
Mother Nature, with her invincible forces, sometimes chastens her
erring children who do not understand. She had guarded her treasures in
Duneland through the countless years, and now, with a breath from the
skies, a destroyer had been wafted from its portals.
Poor Bascom had indeed received the “third degree” and had been
“exported” in a way that was not contemplated by the sorrowful old
sailors.
The storm subsided the next day and we made the journey along the beach
on foot to Shipmates’ Rest, where we found everything in good order.
We related our doleful experience to John, and there was a cloud over
our little party for several days. Like most of the troubles in this
world, particularly when they are those of others, the sadness of
Bascom’s fate soon lost its poignancy.
“I’m sorry fer Bascom,” remarked Sipes, “an’ I hate to lose the boat
an’ all the stuff wot’s on it, but Gosh, I wish I had that wad! He
made a lot o’ money in ’is business, an’ money’s all ’e ever wanted to
git, an’ ’e’s got plenty of it right with ’im, so he ain’t got no kick
comin’. He was a hard citizen. All they was that was good about ’im was
’is cash-money, an’ it’s like that with a lot o’ people. I don’t s’pose
’e’ll ever git anywheres near the New Jerus’lum that Zeke tells about,
but if ’e does, I bet ’e’ll want to skin some o’ them pearls wot’s on
the gate.”
I arranged to leave for home, and promised to write to Sipes if I ever
saw anything in the newspapers relating to the finding of Bascom’s body.
“By the way, Sipes, I never knew your first name. What is it?”
“My fust name? It’s Willie, but don’t you never put that on no letter.
Me an’ you an’ Bill’s the only ones wot knows it.”
I departed out of Duneland, and one cold afternoon during the winter I
opened the door of my city studio, after a short absence, and under it
was a card that had been left during the past hour. On it was engraved,
HORATIUS T. BASCOM
REAL ESTATE
FARM LANDS AND MANUFACTURING
SITES A SPECIALTY
I mailed it to “Mr. W. Sipes” with a trite allusion to bad pennies, and
such other comment as seemed befitting.
[Transcriber’s Note:
Obvious printer errors corrected silently.
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]
End of Project Gutenberg's Sketches in Duneland, by Earl Howell Reed