CHAPTER XXVIII

_In Which the "Spot Cash" is Caught By a Gale In the Night

and Skipper Bill Gives Her Up For Lost_

It was blowing up when Archie returned to the _Spot Cash_. There was a

fine rain in the wind, too; and a mist--hardly yet a fog--was growing

denser on the face of a whitening sea. Nothing to bother about yet, of

course: only a smart breeze and a little tumble, with thick weather to

make a skipper keep his eyes open. But there was the threat of heavy

wind and a big sea in gray sky overhead and far out upon the water.

Tilt Cove was no place for the _Spot Cash_ to lie very long; she must

look for shelter in Sop's Arm before night.

"Archie, b'y," said Bill o' Burnt Bay, in the cozy forecastle with the

boys, "there's something queer about this here _Black Eagle_."

"I should say so!" Archie sneered. "It's the first time I ever knew my

father not to play fair."

"Bosh!" Skipper Bill ejaculated.

Archie started up in a rage.

"'Ear the wind!" said Bagg, with a little shiver.

It had begun to blow in earnest. The wind, falling over the cliff,

played mournfully in the rigging. A gust of rain lashed the skylight.

Swells from the open rocked the schooner.

"Blowin' up," said Billy Topsail.

"How long have you knowed Sir Archibald?" the skipper asked.

Archie laughed.

"Off an' on for about sixteen years, I 'low?" said the skipper.

Archie nodded shortly.

"'Ark t' the wind!" Bagg whispered.

"'Twill be all in a tumble off the cape," said Jimmie Grimm.

"Know Sir Archibald _well_?" the skipper pursued.

Archie sat down in disgust.

"Pretty intimate, eh?" asked the skipper.

The boy laughed again; and then all at once--all in a flash--his

ill-humour and suspicion vanished. His father not play fair? How

preposterous the fancy had been! Of _course_, he was playing fair!

But somebody wasn't. And _who_ wasn't?

"It is queer," said he. "What do you make of it, Bill?"

"I been thinkin'," the skipper replied heavily.

"Have you fathomed it?"

"Well," the skipper drawled, "I've thunk along far enough t' want t'

look into it farder. I'd say," he added, "t' put back t' Conch."

"It's going to blow, Skipper Bill."

It had already begun to blow. The wind was moaning aloft. The

long-drawn melancholy penetrated to the cozy cabin. In the shelter of

the cliff though she was, the schooner tossed in the spent seas that

came swishing in from the open.

"Well," the skipper drawled, "I guess the wind won't take the hair off

a body; an' I 'low we can make Conch afore the worst of it."

"I'm with the skipper," said Billy Topsail.

"Me, too," said Jimmie Grimm.

Bagg had nothing to say; he seldom had, poor fellow! in a gale of

wind.

"I've a telegram to send," said Archie.

It was a message of apology. Archie went ashore with a lighter heart

to file it. What an unkindly suspicious fool he had been! he

reflected, heartily ashamed of himself.

"Something for you, sir," said the agent.

Sir Archibald's telegram was put in the boy's hand; and when this had

been read aboard the _Spot Cash_--and when the schooner had rounded

Cape John and was taking full advantage of a sudden change of wind to

the southwest--Archie and the skipper and the crew felt very well

indeed, thank you!

* * * * *

It blew hard in the afternoon--harder than Bill o' Burnt Bay had

surmised. The wind had a slap to it that troubled the little _Spot

Cash_. Crested seas broke over her bows and swept her deck. She was

smothered in white water half the time. The wind was rising, too. It

was to be a big gale from the southeast. It was already half a gale.

There was wind enough for the _Spot Cash_. Much more would shake and

drown her like a chip. Bill o' Burnt Bay, at the wheel, and the crew,

forward and amidships, kept watch for the coast and the friendly

landmarks of harbour. But what with wind and fog and rain it was a

disheartening business.

When night gathered, the coast was not in sight. The _Spot Cash_ was

tossing somewhere offshore in a rising gale and dared not venture in.

The wind continued in the southeast. The coast was a lee shore--all

rocks and islands and cliffs. The _Spot Cash_ must beat out again to

sea and wait for the morning. Any attempt to make a harbour of that

harsh shore in the dark would spell destruction. But the sea was

hardly more hospitable. The _Spot Cash_, reefed down almost to bare

poles, and standing out as best she could, tossed and plunged in the

big black seas, with good heart, to be sure, but, presently, with

small hope. It seemed to Bill o' Burnt Bay that the little craft would

be broken and swamped.

The boys came aft from forward and amidships. All at once Archie, who

had been staring into the night ahead, started, turned and uttered an

ejaculation of dismay, which a gust of wind drove into the skipper's

ear.

"What is it, b'y?" Skipper Bill roared.

"I forgot to insure her," shouted Archie.

Skipper Bill grinned.

"It's ruin if we wreck, Bill," Archie shouted again.

It looked to Bill o' Burnt Bay like wreck and death. If so, the ruin

might take care of itself. It pleased him to know that Archie was

still unconcerned about his life. He reflected that if the _Spot Cash_

should by any chance survive he would tell Sir Archibald that story.

But a great sea and a smothering blast of wind distracted him. The sea

came clear over the bow and broke amidships; the wind fairly drove the

breath back into the skipper's throat. There would be two more seas he

knew: there were always three seas. The second would break in a

moment; the third would swamp the schooner. He roared a warning to the

boys and turned the wheel to meet the sea bow on. The big wave fell

with a crash amidships; the schooner stopped and shivered while a

torrent of water drove clear over the stern. Bill o' Burnt Bay saw the

crest of the third sea grow white and tower in the night.

"Hang to her!" screamed Archie.

Skipper Bill smiled grimly as the sea came aboard. It broke and swept

past. He expected no more; but more came--more and still more. The

schooner was now tossing in a boiling pot from which the spray

rose like steam. Bill caught the deep boom of breakers. The _Spot

Cash_ was somewhere inshore. The water was shallowing. She was

fairly on the rocks. Again Bill shouted a warning to the boys to

save themselves when she struck. He caught sight of a low cliff--a

black shadow above a mass of moving, ghostly white. The schooner was

lifted by a great sea and carried forward. Skipper Bill waited for

the shock and thud of her striking. He glanced up at the spars--again

screamed a warning--and stood rigid. On swept the schooner. She was

a long time in the grip of that great wave.

Then she slipped softly out of the rough water into some placid place

where the wind fluttered gently down from above.

* * * * *

There was a moment of silence and uttermost amazement. The wind had

vanished; the roar of the sea was muffled. The schooner advanced

gently into the dark.

"The anchor!" the skipper gasped.

He sprang forward, stumbling; but it was too late: the bowsprit

crumpled against a rock, there was a soft thud, a little shock, a

scraping, and the _Spot Cash_ stopped dead.

"We're aground," said Bill.

"I wonders where?" said Jimmie Grimm.

"In harbour, anyhow," said Billy Topsail.

"And no insurance!" Archie added.

There was no levity in this. The boys were overawed. They had been

afraid, every one of them; and the mystery of their escape and

whereabouts oppressed them. But they got the anchor over the bow; and

presently they had the cabin stove going and were drying off. Nobody

turned in; they waited anxiously for the first light of day to

disclose their surroundings.

CHAPTER XXVIX

_In Which Opportunity is Afforded the Skipper of the

"Black Eagle" to Practice Villainy in the Fog and He

Quiets His Scruples. In Which, also, the Pony Islands and

the Tenth of the Month Come Into Significant Conjunction_

Aboard the _Black Eagle_, Skipper George Rumm and Tommy Bull, with the

cook and three hands, all of Tom Tulk's careful selection, were

engaged, frankly among themselves, in a conspiracy to wreck the

schooner for their own profit. It was a simple plan; and with fortune

to favour rascality, it could not go awry. Old Tom Tulk of Twillingate

had conceived and directed it. The _Black Eagle_ was to be loaded with

salt-cod from the French Shore stages in haste and at any cost. She

was then to be quietly taken off one of the out-of-the-way rocky

little islands of the remote northern coast. Her fish and the

remainder of her cargo were to be taken ashore and stowed under

tarpaulin: whereupon--with thick weather to corroborate a tale of

wreck--the schooner was to be scuttled in deep water.

"'Tis but a matter o' clever management," Tom Tulk had said. "Choose

your weather--that's all."

Presently the castaways were to appear in Conch in the schooner's

quarter boat with a circumstantial account of the disaster. The _Black

Eagle_ was gone, they would say; she had struck in a fog, ripped out

her keel (it seemed), driven over the rock, filled and sunk. At Conch,

by this time, the mail-boat would be due on the southward trip.

Skipper George and the clerk would proceed in grief and humiliation to

St. John's to report the sad news to Armstrong & Company; but the cook

and the three hands would join Tom Tulk at Twillingate, whence with

the old reprobate's schooner they would rescue fish and cargo from

beneath the tarpaulins on the out-of-the-way rocky little island in

the north. To exchange crews at Twillingate and run the cargo to St.

John's for quick sale was a small matter.

"Barrin' accident," Tom Tulk had said, "it can't fail."

There, indeed, was a cold, logical plan. "Barrin' accident," as Tom

Tulk was aware, and as he by and by persuaded Skipper George, it

could not fail. Let the weather be well chosen, the story consistent:

that was all. Was not Skipper George forever in danger of losing his

schooner? Had not Sir Archibald already given him his last warning?

They would say in St. John's merely that Skipper George had "done it

at last." Nobody would be surprised; everybody would say, "I told you

so." And when old Tom Tulk came into harbour with a mysterious load of

fish who would suspect him? Was not Tom Tulk known to be an eccentric?

Was there any accounting for what Tom Tulk would do? Tom Tulk would

say, "Mind your business!" and that would make an end of the

questioning.

"Choose your weather, Skipper George," said Tom Tulk. "Let it be windy

and thick."

With fog to hide the deed--with a gale to bear out the story and keep

prying craft away--there would be small danger of detection. And what

if folk did suspect? Let 'em prove it! _That's_ what the law demanded.

Let 'em _prove_ it!

* * * * *

When the _Black Eagle_ put back to Conch from following the little

_Spot Cash_, it was evident that the opportunity had come. The

weather was thick; there was a promise of wind in the air. Moreover,

with Archie Armstrong on the coast in a temper, it was the part of

wisdom to beware. Skipper George went gloomily to the cabin when the

schooner rode once more at anchor. It was time, now; he knew it, the

clerk knew it, the crew knew it. But Skipper George had no liking for

the job; nor had the clerk, to tell the truth, nor had the cook, nor

had the crew. Rascals are not made in a day; and it takes a long time

to innure them against fear and self-reproach. But skipper and crew of

the _Black Eagle_ were already committed. Their dealing for fish on

the coast had been unpardonable. The skipper could not explain it in

St. John's; nor could the clerk excuse it.

"We got t' go through with this, Tommy," said the gloomy skipper.

"Have a dram," the clerk replied. "I'm in sore need o' one meself."

It seemed the skipper was, too.

"With that little shaver on the coast," said the clerk, "'tis best

done quickly."

"I've no heart for it," the skipper growled.

The clerk's thin face was white and drawn. His hand trembled, now, as

he lifted his glass. Nor had _he_ any heart for it. It had been all

very well, at first; it had seemed something like a lark--just a wild

lark. The crew, too, had taken it in the spirit of larking--at first.

But now that the time was come both forecastle and cabin had turned

uneasy and timid.

In the forecastle, the cook said to the first hand:

"Wisht I was out o' this."

"Wisht I'd never come in it," the first hand sighed.

Their words were in whispers.

"I 'low," said the second hand, with a scared glance about, "that the

ol' man will--will _do_ it--the morrow."

The three averted their eyes--each from the other's.

"I 'low," the cook gasped.

Meantime, in the cabin, the clerk, rum now giving him a saucy outlook,

said: "'Twill blow half a gale the morrow."

"Ay," said the skipper, uneasily; "an' there's like t' be more than

half a gale by the glass."

"There'll be few craft out o' harbour."

"Few craft, Tommy," said the skipper, drawing a timid hand over his

bristling red beard. "I'm not likin' t' take the _Black Eagle_ t'

sea."

"'Tis like there'll be fog," the clerk continued.

"Ay; 'tis like there'll be a bit o' fog."

Skipper and clerk helped themselves to another dram of rum. Why was it

that Tom Tulk had made them a parting gift? Perhaps Tom Tulk

understood the hearts of new-made rascals. At any rate, skipper and

clerk, both simple fellows, after all, were presently heartened.

Tommy Bull laughed.

"Skipper," said he, "do you go ashore an' say you'll take the _Black

Eagle_ t' sea the morrow, blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul."

The skipper looked up in bewilderment.

"Orders," the clerk explained, grinning. "Tell 'em you've been wigged

lively enough by Sir Archibald for lyin' in harbour."

Skipper George laughed in his turn.

"For'ard, there!" the clerk roared, putting his head out of the cabin.

"One o' you t' take the skipper ashore!"

Three fishing-schooners, bound down from the Labrador, had put in

for safe berth through a threatening night. And with the skippers

of these craft, and with the idle folk ashore, Skipper George

foregathered. Dirty weather? (the skipper declared); sure, 'twas dirty

weather. But there was no wind on that coast could keep the _Black

Eagle_ in harbour. No, sir: no wind that blowed. Skipper George was

sick an' tired o' bein' wigged by Sir Archibald Armstrong for lyin' in

harbour. No more wiggin' for _him_. No, sir! He'd take the _Black

Eagle_ t' sea in the mornin'? Let it blow high or blow low, fair

wind or foul, 'twould be up anchor an' t' sea for the _Black Eagle_

at dawn. Wreck her? Well, let her _go_ t' wreck. Orders was orders. If

the _Black Eagle_ happened t' be picked up by a rock in the fog

'twould be Sir Archibald Armstrong's business to explain it. As

for Skipper George, no man would be able t' tell _him_ again that

he was afraid t' take his schooner t' sea. An' orders was orders,

sir. Yes, sir; orders was orders.

"I'm not likin' the job o' takin' my schooner t' sea in wind an' fog,"

Skipper George concluded, with a great assumption of indignant

courage; "but when I'm told t' drive her, _I'll drive_, an' let the

owner take the consequences."

This impressed the Labrador skippers.

"Small blame t' you, Skipper George," one declared, "if you do lose

her."

Well satisfied with the evidence he had manufactured to sustain the

story of wreck, Skipper George returned to the schooner.

"Well," he drawled to the clerk, "I got my witnesses. They isn't a man

ashore would put t' sea the morrow if the weather comes as it

promises."

The clerk sighed and anxiously frowned. Skipper George, infected by

this melancholy and regret--for the skipper loved the trim,

fleet-footed, well-found _Black Eagle_--Skipper George sighed, too.

"Time t' turn in, Tommy," said he.

The skipper had done a good stroke of business ashore. Sir Archibald

had indeed ordered him to "drive" the _Black Eagle_.

* * * * *

And in the rising wind of the next day while the _Spot Cash_ lay at

anchor in Tilt Cove and Archie's messages were fleeting over the wire

to St. John's--the _Black Eagle_ was taken to sea. Ashore they advised

her skipper to stick to shelter; but the skipper would have none of

their warnings. Out went the _Black Eagle_ under shortened sail. The

wind rose; a misty rain gathered; fog came in from the far, wide open.

But the _Black Eagle_ sped straight out to sea. Beyond the Pony

Islands--a barren, out-of-the-way little group of rocks--she beat

aimlessly to and fro: now darting away, now approaching. But there was

no eye to observe her peculiar behaviour. Before night fell--driven by

the gale--she found poor shelter in a seaward cove. Here she hung

grimly to her anchorage through the night. Skipper and crew, as

morning approached, felt the wind fall and the sea subside.

Dawn came in a thick fog.

"What do you make of it, Tommy?" the skipper asked.

The clerk stared into the mist. "Pony Islands, skipper, sure enough,"

said he.

"Little Pony or Big?"

In a rift of the mist a stretch of rocky coast lay exposed.

"Little Pony," said the clerk.

"Ay," the skipper agreed: "an' 'twas Little Pony, easterly shore," he

added, his voice dwindling away, "that Tom Tulk advised."

"An' about the tenth o' the month," Tommy Bull added.

CHAPTER XXX

_In Which the Fog Thins and the Crew of the "Spot Cash"

Fall Foul of a Dark Plot_

Morning came to the _Spot Cash_, too--morning with a thick mist:

morning with a slow-heaving sea and a vanished wind. Bill o' Burnt Bay

looked about--stared in every direction from the listed little

schooner--but could find no familiar landmark. They were in some snug

harbour, however, of a desolate and uninhabited coast. There were no

cottages on the hills; there were no fish-flakes and stages by the

waterside. Beyond the tickle--that wide passage through which the

schooner had driven in the dark--the sea was heaving darkly under the

gray mist. Barren, rugged rock fell to the harbour water; and rocky

hills, stripped of verdure by the winds of a thousand years, hid their

bald heads in the fog.

"I don't know what it _is_," said Bill o' Burnt Bay to the boys; "but

I know well enough what it _ought_ t' be."

"'Tis never the Shore," Billy Topsail declared.

"I'm 'lowin'," said Skipper Bill, but yet doubtfully, "that 'tis one

o' the Pony Islands. They lies hereabouts," he continued, scratching

his head, "long about thirty mile off the mainland. We're on a

westerly shore, and that means Islands, for we've never come t' the

westerly coast o' Newfoundland. If I could get a peep at the Bald-head

I could tell for certain."

The grim landmark called the Bald-head, however,--if this were indeed

one of the Pony Islands--was in the mist.

"I'll lay 'tis the Pony Islands," Billy Topsail declared again.

"It may be," said the skipper.

"An' Little Pony, too," Billy went on. "I mind me now that we

sheltered in this harbour in the _Fish Killer_ afore she was lost on

Feather's Folly."[6]

"I 'low _'tis_," Skipper Bill agreed.

Whether the Pony Islands or not--and whether Big Pony or Little

Pony--clearing weather would disclose. Meantime, as Archie Armstrong

somewhat tartly pointed out, the _Spot Cash_ was to be looked to. She

had gone aground at low tide, it seemed; and she was now floating at

anchor, free of the bottom. The butt of her bowsprit had been driven

into the forecastle; and the bowsprit itself had gone permanently out

of commission. Otherwise she was tight and ready. The practical-minded

Archie Armstrong determined, with a laugh, that notwithstanding the

loss of a bowsprit the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company

would not have to go out of business for lack of insurance. And after

an amazingly hearty and hilarious breakfast, which Bagg, the

cook--Bagg _was_ the cook--presently announced, the folk of the _Spot

Cash_ went ashore to take observations.

"We'll rig a bowsprit o' some sort," Bill o' Burnt Bay remarked,

"afore the fog lifts."

The fog was already thinning.

* * * * *

Meantime, on the easterly coast of the Little Pony, the _Black Eagle_

was being warped in towards shore and moored with lines to a low,

sheer rock, which served admirably as a landing wharf. The gangplank

was run out, the hatches were lifted, the barrows were fetched from

below; and all these significant operations were directed in a

half-whisper by the rat-eyed little Tommy Bull. Ashore went the

fish--ashore by the barrow-load--and into a convenient little gully

where the tarpaulins would keep it snug against the weather. Fortune

favoured the plan: fog hid the island from the sight of all men. But

the faces of the crew grew longer as the work advanced; and the voice

of the rat-eyed little clerk fell lower, and his manner turned still

more furtive, and his hand began to shake.

In the cabin the skipper sat, with an inspiring dram, engaged in

melancholy and apprehensive brooding. Armstrong & Company had not

served him ill, after all (thought he); but, pshaw! the _Black Eagle_

was insured to the hilt and would be small loss to the firm. Well,

well! she was a tight little schooner and had many a time taken the

evil fall weather with a stout heart. 'Twas a pity to scuttle her.

Scuttle her? The skipper had much rather scuttle Tom Tulk! But pshaw!

after all 'twould but make more work for Newfoundland ship-builders.

Would it never be known? Would the murder never out? Could Tommy Bull

and the crew be trusted? The skipper had already begun to fear Tommy

Bull and the crew. He had caught himself deferring to the cook.

To the cook!

"Pah!" thought the skipper, as he tipped his bottle, "George Rumm

knucklin' down to a cook! A pretty pass t' come to!"

Tommy Bull came down the ladder. "Skipper, sir," said he, "you'd best

be on deck."

Skipper George went above with the clerk.

"She's gettin' light," said Tommy Bull.

At that moment the skipper started. With a hoarse ejaculation leaping

from his throat he stared with bulging eyes towards the hills upon

which a shaft of sunlight had fallen. Then he gripped Tommy Bull by

the arm.

"Who's that?" he whispered.

"What?" the terrified clerk exclaimed. "Who's what, man? Where--where?

What you talkin' about?"

The skipper pointed to the patch of sunlight on the hills. "That!" he

gasped.

"'Tis a man!" said the clerk.

"We're cotched!" the skipper groaned.

The rat-like little clerk bared his teeth.

* * * * *

Bill o' Burnt Bay and the boys of the _Spot Cash_ had seen what the

lifting fog disclosed--the _Black Eagle_ moored to the rocks of the

Little Pony and unloading. But they had not fathomed the mystery. A

mystery it was, however, and a deep one. To solve it they came down

the hill towards the schooner in a body and were presently face to

face with skipper and clerk on the deck. The crew went on with the

unloading; there was never a hint of hesitation or embarrassment. And

the skipper of the _Spot Cash_ was serenely made welcome. Whatever

rat-like impulse to bite may have been in the heart of the little

clerk, when Bill o' Burnt Bay came over the crest of the hill, it had

now vanished in discreet politeness. There was no occasion for biting.

Had there been--had the crew of the _Black Eagle_ been caught in the

very act of scuttling the ship--Tommy Bull would no doubt have driven

his teeth in deep. Even amateur scoundrels at bay may be highly

dangerous antagonists. These were amateur scoundrels, to be sure, and

good-hearted in the main; but they were not yet by any means at bay.

"Jus' a little leak, Skipper Bill," Skipper George explained, when

Bill o' Burnt Bay had accounted for his presence in Little Pony.

"Sprung it in the gale."

"Did you, now?" said Skipper Bill, suspiciously; "'tis lucky we

happened along. I'm a bit of a carpenter, meself, an' I'd----"

"Not at all!" Skipper George protested, with a large wave of the hand.

"_Not_ at all!"

"'Twould be no trouble----"

"Not at all!" Skipper George repeated. "Here's Tommy just found the

spot, an' we'll plug it in short order."

Skipper Bill could ill conceal his suspicion.

"You're in trouble yourself with the _Spot Cash_, says you," said

Skipper George. "We'll lend you a spar an' a couple o' hands t' set

it."

"We'll buy the spar," Archie put in.

Skipper George laughed heartily. "Well, well," said he. "Have it your

own way. You make your repairs, an' I'll make mine; an' then we'll see

who's back t' the Shore ports first."

Archie bethought himself.

"I'll lay you," Skipper George went on, clapping Archie on the back,

"that you'll not find a fish in the harbours where the _Black Eagle_

goes."

"You're ordered home, Skipper George," said Archie. "I've this message

from Tilt Cove."

Skipper George glanced at the telegram. "Well, well!" said he,

blandly; "we're nigh loaded, anyhow."

Archie wondered afterwards why Skipper George had caught his breath

and lost some of his colour.

* * * * *

Presently the crew of the _Spot Cash_, with two stout hands from the

_Black Eagle_, went over the hills with the spare spar. Skipper George

and Tommy Bull made haste to the cabin.

"Ordered home," said the skipper, slapping the message on the

counter.

"Forthwith," Tommy Bull added.

"There's more here than appears," the anxious skipper went on.

"Tommy," said he, gravely, "there's something back o' this."

The clerk beat a devil's tattoo in perturbation.

"There's more suspected than these words tell," the skipper declared.

"'Tis by sheer good luck, Skipper George," said the clerk, "that we've

a vessel t' take home. I tell you, b'y," said he, flushing with

suspicion and rage, "I don't trust Tom Tulk. He'd sell his mother for

a slave for a thousand dollars."

"Tom Tulk!" Skipper George exclaimed. "By thunder!" he roared, "Tom

Tulk has blowed!"

For the second time that day the rat-like little clerk of the _Black

Eagle_ bared his teeth--now with a little snarl.

"They've no proof," said the skipper.

"True," the clerk agreed; "but they's as many as two lost jobs aboard

this vessel. They'll be two able-bodied seamen lookin' for a berth

when the _Black Eagle_ makes St. John's."

"Well, Tommy Bull," said the skipper, with a shrug, "'tis the clerk

that makes prices aboard a tradin' schooner; and 'twill be the clerk

that will explain in this particular case."

"Huh!" Tommy Bull sneered.

Next day the _Black Eagle_, with her fish again aboard, put to sea and

sped off on a straight course for St. John's. Notwithstanding the

difficulties in store, clerk and skipper were in good humour with all

the world (except Tom Tulk); and the crew was never so light-hearted

since the voyage began. But as the day drew along--and as day by day

passed--and as the home port and Sir Archibald's level eyes came ever

nearer--the skipper grew troubled. Why should the _Black Eagle_ have

been ordered home? Why had Sir Archibald used that mysterious and

unusual word "forthwith" with such emphasis? What lay behind the

brusque order? Had Tom Tulk played false? Would there be a constable

on the wharf? With what would Sir Archibald charge the skipper?

Altogether, the skipper of the _Black Eagle_ had never sailed a more

disquieting voyage. And when the _Black Eagle_ slipped through the

narrows to St. John's harbour he was like a dog come home for a

thrashing.

-----

[6] As related in "The Adventures of Billy Topsail."

CHAPTER XXXI

_In Which the "Spot Cash" is Picked up by Blow-Me-Down

Rock In Jolly Harbour, Wreckers Threaten Extinction and

the Honour of the Firm Passes into the Keeping of Billy

Topsail_

The _Spot Cash_ made for the French Shore with all the speed her heels

could command. The seventh of August! How near it was to the first of

September! The firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, with the

skipper and cook, shivered to think of it. Ten more trading days! Not

another hour could they afford if the _Spot Cash_ would surely make

St. John's harbour on the specified day. And she would--she

must--Archie declared. His honour was involved--the honour of them

all--of the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. Had not Sir

Archibald said so?

So in the harbours of the Shore Bill o' Burnt Bay once more tussled

valiantly with "The Lost Pirate," and the flags flew, and the

phonograph ground out inviting music, and Bobby North shook the

hornpipe out of his active toes, and Bagg double-shuffled, and the

torches flared, and "Kandy for Kids" and "Don't be Foolish and Fully

Fooled" persuaded the populace, and Signor Fakerino created

mystification, and Billy Topsail employed his sweet little pipe most

wistfully in the old ballad of the coast:

"Sure, the chain 'e parted,

An' the schooner drove ashore,

An' the wives of the 'ands

Never saw un any more,

No more!

Never saw un any mo-o-o-re!"

It was all to good purpose. Trade was even brisker than in White Bay.

Out went the merchandise and in came the fish. Nor did the _Spot Cash_

once leave harbour without a hearty, even wistful, invitation to

return. Within seven days, so fast did the fish come aboard, the hold

had an appearance of plethora. Jimmie Grimm and Bagg protested that

not another quintal of fish could be stowed away. It was fairly time

to think of a deck-load. There was still something in the cabin:

something to be disposed of--something to turn into fish. And it was

Archie who proposed the scheme of riddance.

"A bargain sale," said he. "The very thing."

"An' Jolly Harbour's the place," said the skipper.

"Then homeward bound!" shouted Archie.

They ran into Jolly Harbour on the wings of a brisk southerly

wind--and unfortunately in the dusk brought up hard and fast on

Blow-Me-Down Rock.

* * * * *

Aground! They were hard and fast aground on Blow-Me-Down Rock in Jolly

Harbour at high tide. A malignant sea made a certainty of it. It

lifted the _Spot Cash_--drove her on--and gently deposited her with a

horrifying list to starboard. Archie Armstrong wrung his hands and

stamped the deck. Where was the first of September now? How was the

firm to--to--what was it Sir Archibald had said?--yes; how was the

firm to "liquidate its obligations" on the appointed day and preserve

its honour?

"By gettin' the _Spot Cash_ afloat," said Skipper Bill, tersely.

"And a pretty time we'll have," groaned Archie.

"I 'low," Bill drawled, "that we may be in for a prettier time

still."

"Sure, it couldn't be worse," Billy Topsail declared.

"This here," Bill explained, "is Jolly Harbour; an' the folk o' Jolly

Harbour isn't got no reputations t' speak of."

This was hardly enlightening.

"What I means," Skipper Bill went on, "is that the Jolly Harbour folk

is called wreckers. They's been a good deal o' talk about wreckers on

this coast; an' they's more lies than truth in it. But Jolly Harbour,"

he added, "is Jolly Harbour; an' the folk will sure come swarmin' in

punts and skiffs an' rodneys when they hear they's a vessel gone

ashore."

"Sure, they'll give us help," said Billy Topsail.

"Help!" Skipper Bill scornfully exclaimed. "'Tis little help _they'll_

give us. Why, b'y, when they've got her cargo, they'll chop off her

standing rigging and draw the nails from her deck planks."

"'Tis a mean, sinful thing to do!" cried Billy.

"They live up to their lights, b'y," the skipper said. "They're an

honest, good-hearted, God-fearin' folk on this coast in the main; but

they believe that what the sea casts up belongs to men who can get it,

and neither judge nor preacher can teach them any better. Here lies

the _Spot Cash_, stranded, with a wonderful list t' starboard. They'll

think it no sin to wreck her. I know them well. 'Twill be hard to keep

them off once they see that she's high and dry."

Archie began to stamp the deck again.

* * * * *

When the dawn broke it disclosed the situation of the schooner. She

was aground on a submerged rock, some distance offshore, in a wide

harbour. It was a wild, isolated spot, with spruce-clad hills, which

here and there showed their rocky ribs rising from the edge of the

water. There was a cluster of cottages in a ravine at the head of the

harbour; but there was no other sign of habitation.

Evidently the schooner's deep list betrayed her distress; for when the

day had fully broken, a boat was pushed off from the landing-place and

rowed rapidly towards her.

"Here's the first!" muttered Skipper Bill. "I'll warn him well."

He hailed the occupant, a fisherman with a simple, good-humoured face,

who hung on his oars and surveyed the ship.

"Keep off, there!" shouted the skipper. "We need no man's help. I

warn you an' your mates fair not to come aboard. You've no right here

under the law so long as there's a man o' the crew left on the ship,

and I'll use force to keep you off."

"You're not able to get her off, sir," said the fisherman, rowing on,

as if bent on boarding. "She's a wreck."

"Billy," the skipper ordered, "get forward with a gaff and keep him

off."

With that the fisherman turned his punt about and made off for the

shore.

"Aye, aye, Billy!" he called, good-naturedly. "I'll give you no call

to strike me."

"He'll come back with others," the skipper remarked, gloomily. "'Tis a

bad lookout."

"We'll try to haul her off with the punt," suggested Archie.

"With the punt!" the skipper laughed. "'Twould be as easy to haul

Blow-Me-Down out by the roots. But if we can keep the wreckers off, by

trick or by force, we'll not lose her. The _Grand Lake_ passed up the

coast on Monday. She'll be steamin' into Hook-and-Line again on

Thursday. As she doesn't call at Jolly Harbour we'll have t' go fetch

her. We can run over in the punt an' fetch her. 'Tis a matter o'

gettin' there and back before the schooner's torn t' pieces."

At dawn of the next day Skipper Bill determined to set out for

Hook-and-Line to intercept the steamer. In the meantime there had been

no sign of life ashore. Doubtless, the crew of the _Spot Cash_

thought, the news of the wreck was on its way to neighbouring

settlements. The wind had blown itself out; but the sea was still

running high, and five hands (three of them boys) were needed to row

the heavy schooner's punt through the lop and distance. Muscle was

needed for the punt; nothing but wit could save the schooner. Who

should stay behind?

"Let Archie stay behind," said Billy Topsail.

"No," Skipper Bill replied; "he'll be needed t' bargain with the

captain o' the _Grand Lake_."

There was a moment of silence.

"Billy," said the skipper, "you'll stay."

Billy nodded shortly.

"Now, Billy Topsail," Skipper Bill went on, "I fear you've never read

the chapter on' Wreck an' Salvage' in the 'Consolidated Statutes o'

Newfoundland.' So I'm going t' tell you some things you don't know.

Now, listen careful! By law, b'y," tapping the boy on the breast with

a thick, tarry finger, "if they's nobody aboard a stranded vessel--if

she's abandoned, as they say in court--the men who find her can have

her and all that's in her. That's pretty near the law o' the

land--near enough for you, anyway. Contrary, by law, b'y," with

another impressive tap, "if they is one o' the crew aboard, he's a

right to shoot down any man who comes over the side against his will.

That's _exactly_ the law. Do you follow?"

"But I've no mind for shootin' at so good-natured a man," said Billy,

recalling the fisherman's broad grin.

"An' I hope you won't have to," said the skipper. "But they's no harm

in aiming an empty gun anywhere you've a mind to. So far as I know,

they's no harm in firin' away a blast or two o' powder if you forget

t' put in the shot."

Billy laughed.

"Billy, boy," said Archie, tremulously, "it's up to you to save the

firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company."

"All right, Archie," said Billy.

"I _know_ it's all right," Archie declared.

"They's just two things to remember," said the skipper, from the bow

of the punt, before casting off. "The first is to stay aboard; the

second is to let nobody else come aboard if you can help it. 'Tis all

very simple."

"All right, skipper," said Billy.

"Topsail--Armstrong--Grimm--_and_--Company," were the last words Billy

Topsail heard; and they came from Archie Armstrong.

CHAPTER XXXII

_In Which the "Grand Lake" Conducts Herself In a Most

Peculiar Fashion to the Chagrin of the Crew of the "Spot

Cash"_

Skipper Bill and the punt of the stranded _Spot Cash_ made the harbour

at Hook-and-Line in good season to intercept the _Grand Lake_. She was

due--she would surely steam in--that very day, said the men of

Hook-and-Line. And it seemed to Archie Armstrong that everything now

depended on the _Grand Lake_. It would be hopeless--Skipper Bill had

said so and the boys needed no telling--it would be hopeless to

attempt to get the _Spot Cash_ off Blow-Me-Down Rock in an unfriendly

harbour without the steamer's help.

"'Tis fair hard t' believe that the Jolly Harbour folk would give us

no aid," said Jimmie Grimm.

Skipper Bill laughed. "You've no knowledge o' Jolly Harbour," said

he.

"'Tis a big expense these robbers are putting us to," Archie growled.

"Robbers?" Bill drawled. "Well, they're a decent, God-fearin' folk,

with their own ideas about a wreck."

Archie sniffed.

"I've no doubt," the skipper returned, "that they're thankin' God for

the windfall of a tradin' schooner at family worship in Jolly Harbour

at this very minute."

This view expressed small faith in the wits of Billy Topsail.

"Oh, Billy Topsail will stand un off," Jimmie Grimm stoutly declared.

"I'm doubtin' it," said the frank skipper.

"Wh-wh-_what_!" Archie exclaimed in horror.

"I'm just doubtin' it," the skipper repeated.

This was a horrifying confession; and Archie Armstrong knew that

Skipper Bill was not only wise in the ways of the French Shore but was

neither a man to take a hopeless view nor one needlessly to excite

anxiety. When Bill o' Burnt Bay admitted his fear that Billy Topsail

had neither the strength nor the wit to save the _Spot Cash_ from the

God-fearing folk of Jolly Harbour, he meant more than he said. The

affairs of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company seemed to be in a bad

way. It was now more than a mere matter of liquidating an obligation

on the first of September; the problem was of liquidating it at all.

"Wisht the _Grand Lake_ would 'urry up," said Bagg.

"I'd like t' save some splinters o' the schooner, anyway," the skipper

chuckled, in a ghastly way, "even if we _do_ lose the cargo."

It occurred all at once to Archie Armstrong that Topsail, Armstrong,

Grimm & Company were not only in obligation for the debt to Armstrong

& Company but were responsible for a chartered craft which was not

insured.

"A thousand dollars--a cold thousand dollars--_and_ the _Spot Cash_!"

he exclaimed, aghast.

"Wisht she'd 'urry up," Bagg repeated.

Archie, pacing the wharf, his hands deep in his pockets, his face

haggard and white, recalled that his father had once told him that

many a man had been ruined by having too large a credit. And Archie

had had credit--much credit. A mere boy with a thousand dollars of

credit! With a thousand dollars of credit in merchandise and coin and

the unquestioned credit of chartering a schooner! He realized that it

had been much--too much. Somehow or other, as he feverishly paced the

wharf at Hook-and-Line, the trading venture seemed infinitely larger

and more precarious than it had in his father's office on the rainy

day when the lad had so blithely proposed it. He understood, now, why

it was that other boys could not stalk confidently into the offices of

Armstrong & Company and be outfitted for a trading voyage.

His father's faith--his father's indulgent fatherhood--had provided

the all-too-large credit for his ruin.

"Wisht she'd 'urry up," Bagg sighed.

"Just now," Archie declared, looking Skipper Bill in the eye, "it's up

to Billy Topsail."

"Billy's a good boy," said the skipper.

Little Donald North--who had all along been a thoroughly serviceable

but inconspicuous member of the crew--began to shed unwilling tears.

"Wisht she'd 'urry up," Bagg whimpered.

"_There she is!_" Skipper Bill roared.

It was true. There she was. Far off at sea--away beyond Grief Head at

the entrance to Hook-and-Line--the smoke of a steamer surely appeared,

a black cloud in the misty, glowering day. It was the _Grand Lake_.

There was no other steamer on the coast. Cap'n Hand--Archie's friend,

Cap'n Hand, with whom he had sailed on the sealing voyage of the

stout old _Dictator_--was in command. She would soon make harbour.

Archie's load vanished; from despair he was lifted suddenly into a

wild hilarity which nothing would satisfy but a roaring wrestle with

Skipper Bill. The _Grand Lake_ would presently be in; she would

proceed full steam to Jolly Harbour, she would pass a line to the

_Spot Cash_, she would jerk the little schooner from her rocky berth

on Blow-Me-Down, and presently that selfsame wilful little craft would

be legging it for St. John's.

But was it the _Grand Lake_?

"Lads," the skipper declared, when the steamer was in view, "it sure

is the _Grand Lake_."

They watched her.

"Queer!" Skipper Bill muttered, at last.

"What's queer?" asked Archie.

"She should be turnin' in," the skipper replied. "What's Cap'n Hand

thinkin' about?"

"Wisht she'd 'urry up," said Bagg.

The boys were bewildered. The steamer should by this time have had her

nose turned towards Hook-and-Line. To round Grief Head she was keeping

amazingly far out to sea.

"Wonderful queer!" said the anxious skipper.

The _Grand Lake_ steamed past Hook-and-Line and disappeared in the

mist. Evidently she was in haste. Presently there was not so much as a

trail of smoke to be descried at sea.

CHAPTER XXXIII

_In Which Billy Topsail, Besieged by Wreckers, Sleeps on

Duty and Thereafter Finds Exercise For His Wits. In Which,

also, a Lighted Candle is Suspended Over a Keg of Powder

and Precipitates a Critical Moment While Billy Topsail

Turns Pale With Anxiety_

At Jolly Harbour, meantime, where Billy Topsail kept watch, except

for the flutter of an apron or skirt when the women went to the well

for water, there was no sign of life at the cottages the livelong day.

No boats ran out to the fishing-grounds; no men were on the flakes;

the salmon nets and lobster-traps were not hauled. Billy prepared a

spirited defense with the guns, which he charged heavily with powder,

omitting the bullets. This done, he awaited the attack, meaning to

let his wits or his arms deal with the situation, according to

developments.

The responsibility was heavy, the duty anxious; and Billy could not

forget what Archie had said about the firm of Topsail, Armstrong,

Grimm & Company.

"I 'low there was nothing for it but t' leave me in charge," he

thought, as he paced the deck that night. "But 'twill be a job now to

save her if they come."

Billy fancied, from time to time, that he heard the splash of oars;

but the night was dark, and although he peered long and listened

intently, he could discover no boat in the shadows. And when the day

came, with the comparative security of light, he was inclined to think

that his fancy had been tricking him.

"But it might have been the punts slippin' in from the harbours above

and below," he thought, suddenly. "I wonder if 'twas."

He spent most of that day lying on a coil of rope on the deck of the

cabin--dozing and delighting himself with long day-dreams. When the

night fell, it fell dark and foggy. An easterly wind overcast the sky

and blew a thick mist from the open sea. Lights twinkled in the

cottages ashore, somewhat blurred by the mist; but elsewhere it was

dark; the nearer rocks were outlined by their deeper black.

"'Twill be now," Billy thought, "or 'twill be never. Skipper Bill will

sure be back with the _Grand Lake_ to-morrow."

Some time after midnight, while Billy was pacing the deck to keep

himself warm and awake, he was hailed from the shore.

"'Tis from the point at the narrows," he thought. "Sure, 'tis Skipper

Bill come back."

Again he heard the hail--his own name, coming from that point at the

narrows.

"Billy, b'y! Billy!"

"Aye, sir! Who are you?"

"Skipper Bill, b'y!" came the answer. "Fetch the quarter-boat. We're

aground and leakin'."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"Quick, lad! I wants t' get aboard."

Billy leaped from the rail to the quarter-boat. He was ready to cast

off when he heard a splash in the darkness behind him. That splash

gave him pause. Were the wreckers trying to decoy him from the ship?

They had a legal right to salve an abandoned vessel. He clambered

aboard, determined, until he had better assurance of the safety of his

charge, to let Skipper Bill and his crew, if it were indeed they, make

a shift for comfort on the rocks until morning. "Skipper Bill, sir!"

he called. "Can you swim?"

"Aye, b'y! But make haste."

"I'll show a light for you, sir, if you want t' swim out, but I'll not

leave the schooner."

At that there was a laugh--an unmistakable chuckle--sounding whence

the boy had heard the splash of an oar. It was echoed to right and

left. Then a splash or two, a creak or two and a whisper. After that

all was still again.

"'Tis lucky, now, I didn't go," Billy thought. "'Twas a trick, for

sure. But how did they know my name?"

That was simple enough, when he came to think about it. When the

skipper had warned the first fisherman off, he had ordered Billy

forward by name. Wreckers they were, then--simple, good-hearted folk,

believing in their right to what the sea cast up--and now bent on

"salving" what they could, but evidently seeking to avoid a violent

seizure of the cargo.

Billy appreciated this feeling. He had himself no wish to meet an

assault in force, whether in the persons of such good-natured fellows

as the man who had grinned at him on the morning of the wreck, or in

those of a more villainous cast. He hoped it was to be a game of wits;

and now the lad smiled.

"'Tis likely," he thought, "that I'll keep it safe."

For an hour or more there was no return of the alarm. The harbour

water rippled under the winds; the rigging softly rattled and sang

aloft; the swish of breakers drifted in from the narrows.

Billy sat full in the light of the deck lamps, with a gun in his

hands, that all the eyes, which he felt sure were peering at him from

the darkness roundabout, might see that he was alive to duty.

As his weariness increased, he began to think that the wreckers had

drawn off, discouraged. Once he nodded; again he nodded, and awoke

with a start; but he was all alone on the deck, as he had been.

Then, to occupy himself, he went below to light the cabin candle. For

a moment, before making ready to go on deck again, he sat on the

counter, lost in thought. He did not hear the prow of a punt strike

the _Spot Cash_ amidships, did not hear the whispers and soft laughter

of men coming over the side by stealth, did not hear the tramp of feet

coming aft. What startled him was a rough voice and a burst of

laughter.

"Come aboard, skipper, sir!"

The companionway framed six weather-beaten, bearded faces. There was a

grin on each, from the first, which was clear to its smallest wrinkle

in the candle-light, to those which were vanishing and reappearing in

the shadows behind. Billy seemed to be incapable of word or action.

"Come to report, sir," said the nearest wrecker. "We seed you was

aground, young skipper, and we thought we'd help you ashore with the

cargo."

Billy rested his left hand on the head of a powder keg, which

stood on end on the counter beside him. His right stole towards the

candlestick. There was a light in his blue eyes--a glitter or a

twinkle--which might have warned the wreckers, had they known him

better.

"I order you ashore!" he said, slowly. "I order you _all_ ashore.

You've no right aboard this ship. If I had my gun----"

"Sure, you left it on deck."

"If I had my gun," Billy pursued, "I'd have the right t' shoot you

down."

The manner of the speech--the fierce intensity of it--impressed the

wreckers. They perceived that the boy's face had turned pale, that his

eyes were flashing strangely. They were unused to such a depth of

passion. It may be that they were reminded of a bear at bay.

"I believe he'd do it," said one.

An uneasy quiet followed; and in that silence Billy heard the prow of

another punt strike the ship. More footfalls came shuffling aft--other

faces peered down the companionway. One man pushed his way through the

group and made as if to come down the ladder.

"Stand back!" Billy cried.

The threat in that shrill cry brought the man to a stop. He turned;

and that which he saw caused him to fall back upon his fellows. There

was an outcry and a general falling away from the cabin door. Some men

ran forward to the punts.

"The lad's gone mad!" said one. "Leave us get ashore!"

Billy had whipped the stopper out of the hole in the head of the

powder keg, had snatched the candle from the socket, carefully

guarding its flame, and now sat, triumphantly gazing up, with the butt

of the candle through the hole in the keg and the flame flickering

above its depths.

"Men," said he, when they had gathered again at the door, "if I let

that candle slip through my fingers, you know what'll happen." He

paused; then he went on, speaking in a quivering voice: "My friends

left me in charge o' this here schooner, and I've been caught nappin'.

If I'd been on deck, you wouldn't have got aboard. But now you are

aboard, and 'tis all because I didn't do my duty. Do you think I care

what becomes o' me now? Do you think I don't care whether I do my duty

or not? I tell you fair that if you don't go ashore I'll drop the

candle in the keg. If one o' you dares come down that ladder, I'll

drop it. If I hear you lift the hatches off the hold, I'll drop it. If

I hear you strike a blow at the ship, I'll drop it. Hear me?" he

cried. "If you don't go, I'll drop it!"

The candle trembled between Billy's fingers. It slipped, fell an inch

or more, but his fingers gripped it again before he lost it. The

wreckers recoiled, now convinced that the lad meant no less than he

said.

"I guess you'd do it, b'y," said the man who had attempted to descend.

"Sure," he repeated, with a glance of admiration for the boy's pluck,

"I guess you would."

"'Tis not comfortable here," said another. "Sure, he might drop it by

accident. Make haste, b'ys! Let's get ashore."

"Good-night, skipper, sir!" said the first.

"Good-night, sir!" said Billy, grimly.

With that they went over the side. Billy heard them leap into the

punts, push off, and row away. Then silence fell--broken only by the

ripple of the water, the noise of the wind in the rigging, the swish

of breakers drifting in. The boy waited a long time, not daring to

venture on deck, lest they should be lying in wait for him at the head

of the ladder. He listened for a footfall, a noise in the hold, the

shifting of the deck cargo; but he heard nothing.

When the candle had burned low, he lighted another, put the butt

through the hole, and jammed it. At last he fell asleep, with his head

resting on a pile of dress-goods; and the candle was burning

unattended. He was awakened by a hail from the deck.

"Billy, b'y, where is you?"

It was Skipper Bill's hearty voice; and before Billy could tumble up

the ladder, the skipper's bulky body closed the exit.

"She's all safe, sir!" said the boy.

Skipper Bill at that moment caught sight of the lighted candle. He

snatched it from its place, dropped it on the floor and stamped on it.

He was a-tremble from head to foot.

"What's this foolery?" he demanded, angrily.

Billy explained.

"It was plucky, b'y," said the skipper, "but 'twas wonderful risky."

"Sure, there was no call to be afraid."

"No call to be afraid!" cried the skipper.

"No, sir--no," said Billy. "There's not a grain of powder in the

keg."

"Empty--an empty keg?" the skipper roared.

"Do you think," said Billy, indignantly, "that I'd have risked the

schooner that way if 'twas a full keg?"

Skipper Bill stared; and for a long time afterwards he could not look

at Billy without staring.

CHAPTER XXXIV

_In Which Skipper Bill, as a Desperate Expedient,

Contemplates the Use of His Teeth, and Archie Armstrong,

to Save His Honour, Sets Sail in a Basket, But Seems to

Have Come a Cropper_

Billy Topsail suddenly demanded:

"Where's the _Grand Lake_?"

"The _Grand Lake_," Skipper Bill drawled, with a sigh, "is somewheres

t' the s'uth'ard footin' it for St. John's."

"You missed her!" Billy accused.

"Didn't neither," said the indignant skipper. "She steamed right past

Hook-an'-Line without a wink in that direction."

This was shocking news.

"Anyhow," said little Donald North, as though it mattered importantly,

"we seed her smoke."

Billy looked from Donald to Jimmie, from Jimmie to Bagg, from Bagg to

the skipper; and then he stared about.

"Where's Archie?" he asked.

"Archie," the skipper replied, "is footin' it for St. John's, too.

'Skipper Bill,' says Archie, 'Billy Topsail has kep' that schooner

safe. I knows he has. It was up t' Billy Topsail t' save the firm from

wreckers an' I'll lay you that Billy Topsail has saved the firm. Now,

Skipper Bill,' says Archie, 'you go back t' Jolly Harbour an' get that

schooner off. You get her off somehow. Get her off jus' as soon as you

can,' says he, 'an' fetch her to St. John's.'

"'I _can't_ get her off,' says I.

"'Yes, you can, too, Skipper Bill,' says he. 'I'll lay you can get her

off. I don't know how you'll do it,' says he; 'but _I'll lay you

can_!'

"'I'll get her off, Archie,' says I, 'if I got t' jump in the sea an'

haul her off with a line in my teeth.'

"'I knowed you would,' says he; 'an' you got the best teeth, Skipper

Bill,' says he, 't' be found on this here coast. As for me,

skipper,' says he, 'I'm goin' down t' St. John's if I got t' walk

on water. I told my father that I'd be in his office on the first

o' September--an' I'm goin' t' be there. If I can't be there with the

fish I can be there with the promise o' fish; an' I can back that

promise up with a motor boat, a sloop yacht an' a pony an' cart. I

don't know how I'm goin' t' get t' St. John's,' says he, 'an' I don't

want t' walk on a wet sea like this; but I'm goin' t' get there

somehow by the first o' September, an' I'm goin' to assoom'--yes,

sir, '_assoom_, Skipper Bill,' says Archie--'I'm goin' to assoom

that you'll fetch down the _Spot Cash_ an' the tail an' fins of every

last tom-cod aboard that there craft.'

"An' I'm goin' t' _do_ it!" Skipper Bill roared in conclusion, with a

slap of the counter with his hairy fist that made the depleted stock

rattle on the shelves.

"Does you t-t-think you c-c-_can_ haul her off with your teeth?"

Donald North asked with staring eyes.

Bill o' Burnt Bay burst into a shout of laughter.

"We'll have no help from the Jolly Harbour folk," said Billy Topsail,

gravely. "They're good-humoured men," he added, "but they means t'

have this here schooner if they can."

"Never mind," said Skipper Bill, with an assumption of far more hope

than was in his honest, willing heart. "We'll get her off afore they

comes again."

"Wisht you'd 'urry up," said Bagg.

With the _Spot Cash_ high and dry--with a small crew aboard--with a

numerous folk, clever and unfriendly (however good-humoured they

were), bent on possessing that which they were fully persuaded it was

their right to have--with no help near at hand and small prospect of

the appearance of aid--the task which Archie Armstrong had set Bill o'

Burnt Bay was the most difficult one the old sea-dog had ever

encountered in a long career of hard work, self-dependence and tight

places. The Jolly Harbour folk might laugh and joke, they might even

offer sympathy, they might be the most hospitable, tender-hearted,

God-fearing folk in the world; but tradition had taught them that what

the sea cast up belonged righteously to the men who could take it, and

they would with good consciences and the best humour in the world

stand upon that doctrine. And Bill o' Burnt Bay would do no murder to

prevent them: it was not the custom of the coast to do murder in such

cases; and Archie Armstrong's last injunction had been to take no

lives.

Bill o' Burnt Bay declared in growing wrath to the boys that he would

come next door to murder.

"I'll pink 'em, anyhow," said he, as he loaded his long gun. "_I'll_

makes holes for earrings, ecod!"

Yes, sir; the skipper would show the Jolly Harbour folk how near a

venturesome man could come to letting daylight into a Jolly Harbour

hull without making a hopeless leak. Jus' t' keep 'em busy calking,

ecod! How much of this was mere loud and saucy words--with how much

real meaning the skipper spoke--even the skipper himself did not know.

But, yes, sir; he'd show 'em in the morning. It was night, now,

however--though near morning. Nobody would put out from shore before

daybreak. They had been frightened off once. Skipper Bill's wrath

could simmer to the boiling point. But a watch must be kept. No

chances must be taken with the _Spot Cash_, and--

"Ahoy, Billy!" a pleasant voice called from the water.

The crew of the _Spot Cash_ rushed on deck.

"Oh, ho!" another voice laughed. "Skipper's back, too, eh?"

"_With_ a long--perfeckly trustworthy--loaded--gun," Skipper Bill

solemnly replied.

The men in the punts laughed heartily.

"Sheer off!" Skipper Bill roared.

But in the protecting shadows of the night the punts came closer. And

there was another laugh.

* * * * *

It chanced at Hook-and-Line Harbour before night--Skipper Bill had

then for hours been gone towards Jolly Harbour--that a Labrador

fishing craft put in for water. She was loaded deep; her decks were

fairly awash with her load of fish, and at best she was squat and old

and rotten--a basket to put to sea in. Here was no fleet craft; but

she was south-bound, at any rate, and Archie Armstrong determined to

board her. To get to St. John's--to open the door of his father's

office on the first of September as he had promised--to explain and to

reassure and even to present in hard cash the value of a sloop yacht

and a pony and a motor boat--was the boy's feverish determination. He

could not forget his father's grave words: "Your honour is involved."

Perhaps he exaggerated the importance of them. His honour? The boy had

no wish to be excused--had no liking for fatherly indulgence. He was

wholly intent upon justifying his father's faith and satisfying his

own sense of honourable obligation. It must be fish or cash--fish or

cash--and as it seemed it could not be fish it must therefore be

cash.

It must be hard cash--cash down--paid on the first of September over

his father's desk in the little office overlooking the wharves.

"Green Bay bound," the skipper of the Labrador craft replied to

Archie's question.

That signified a landing at Ruddy Cove.

"I'll go along," said Archie.

"Ye'll not," the skipper snapped. "Ye'll not go along until ye mend

your manners."

Archie started in amazement.

"_You'll_ go along, will ye?" the skipper continued. "Is you the owner

o' this here craft? Ye may _ask_ t' go along; but whether ye go or not

is for me--for _me_, ye cub!--t' say."

Archie straightened in his father's way. "My name," said he, shortly,

"is Archibald Armstrong."

The skipper instantly touched his cap.

"I'm sorry, skipper," Archie went on, with a dignity of which his

manner of life had long ago made him unconsciously master, "for having

taken too much for granted. I want passage with you to Ruddy Cove,

skipper, for which I'll pay."

"You're welcome, sir," said the skipper.

The _Wind and Tide_ lay at Hook-and-Line that night in fear of the sea

that was running. She rode so deep in the water, and her planks and

rigging and sticks were at best so untrustworthy, that her skipper

would not take her to sea. Next morning, however--and Archie

subsequently recalled it--next morning the wind blew fair for the

southern ports. Out put the old craft into a rising breeze and was

presently wallowing her way towards Green Bay and Ruddy Cove. But

there was no reckless sailing. Nothing that Archie could say with any

appearance of propriety moved the skipper to urge her on. She was

deep, she was old; she must be humoured along. Again, when night fell,

she was taken into harbour for shelter. The wind still blew fair in

the morning; she made a better day of it, but was once more safely

berthed for the night. Day after day she crept down the coast,

lurching along in the light, with unearthly shrieks of pain and

complaint, and lying silent in harbour in the dark.

"'Wisht she'd 'urry up,'" thought Archie, with a dubious laugh,

remembering Bagg.

It was the twenty-ninth of August and coming on dark when the boy

first caught sight of the cottages of Ruddy Cove.

"Mail-boat day," he thought, jubilantly. "The _Wind and Tide_ will

make it. I'll be in St. John's the day after to-morrow."

"Journey's end," said the skipper, coming up at that moment.

"I'm wanting to make the mail-boat," said Archie. "She's due at Ruddy

Cove soon after dark."

"She'll be on time," said the skipper. "Hark!"

Archie heard the faint blast of a steamer's whistle.

"Is it she?" asked the skipper.

"Ay," Archie exclaimed; "and she's just leaving Fortune Harbour.

She'll be at Ruddy Cove within the hour."

"I'm doubtin' that _we_ will," said the skipper.

"Will you not run up a topsail?" the boy pleaded.

"Not for the queen o' England," the skipper replied, moving forward.

"I've got my load--an' I've got the lives o' my crew--t' care for."

Archie could not gainsay it. The _Wind and Tide_ had all the sail she

could carry with unquestionable safety. The boy watched the

mail-boat's lights round the Head and pass through the tickle into the

harbour of Ruddy Cove. Presently he heard the second blast of her

deep-toned whistle and saw her emerge and go on her way. She looked

cozy in the dusk, he thought: she was brilliant with many lights. In

the morning she would connect with the east-bound cross-country

express at Burnt Bay. And meantime he--this selfsame boastful Archie

Armstrong--would lie stranded at Ruddy Cove. At that moment St. John's

seemed infinitely far away.

CHAPTER XXXV

_In Which Many Things Happen: Old Tom Topsail Declares

Himself the Bully to Do It, Mrs. Skipper William

Bounds Down the Path With a Boiled Lobster, the Mixed

Accommodation Sways, Rattles, Roars, Puffs and Quits on a

Grade in the Wilderness, Tom Topsail Loses His Way in the

Fog and Archie Armstrong Gets Despairing Ear of a

Whistle_

At Ruddy Cove, that night, when Archie was landed from the _Wind and

Tide_, a turmoil of amazement instantly gave way to the very briskest

consultation the wits of the place had ever known.

"There's no punt can make Burnt Bay the night," Billy Topsail's father

declared.

"Nor the morrow night if the wind changes," old Jim Grimm added.

"Nor the next in a southerly gale," Job North put in.

"There's the _Wind an' Tide_," Tom Topsail suggested.

"She's a basket," said Archie; "and she's slower than a paddle

punt."

"What's the weather?"

"Fair wind for Burnt Bay an' a starlit night."

"I've lost the express," said Archie, excitedly. "I must--I _must_, I

tell you!--I must catch the mixed."

The Ruddy Cove faces grew long.

"I must," Archie repeated between his teeth.

The east-bound cross-country express would go through the little

settlement of Burnt Bay in the morning. The mixed accommodation would

crawl by at an uncertain hour of the following day. It was now the

night of the twenty-ninth of August. One day--two days. The mixed

accommodation would leave Burnt Bay for St. John's on the thirty-first

of August.

"If she doesn't forget," said Job North, dryly.

"Or get tired an' rest too often," Jim Grimm added.

Archie caught an impatient breath.

"Look you, lad!" Tom Topsail declared, jumping up. "I'm the bully that

will put you aboard!"

Archie flung open the door of Mrs. Skipper William's kitchen and made

for the Topsail wharf with old Tom puffing and lumbering at his heels.

Billy Topsail's mother was hailed with the news. Before Tom had well

made the punt shipshape for a driving cruise up the Bay she was on the

wharf with a bucket of hardtack and a kettle of water. A frantic

scream--perhaps, a shout--announced the coming of Mrs. Skipper William

with a ham-bone and a greatcoat. These tossed inboard, she roared a

command to delay, gathered up her skirts and fled into the night,

whence she emerged, bounding, with a package of tea and a boiled

lobster. She had no breath left to bid them Godspeed when Tom Topsail

cast off; but she waved her great soft arms, and her portly person

shook with the violence of her good wishes. And up went the sail--and

out fluttered the little jib--and the punt heeled to the harbour

breeze--and Tom Topsail and Archie Armstrong darted away from the

lights of Ruddy Cove towards the open sea.

* * * * *

The mixed accommodation, somewhere far back in the Newfoundland

wilderness, came to the foot of a long grade. She puffed and valiantly

choo-chooed. It was desperately hard work to climb that hill. A man

might have walked beside her while she tried it. But she surmounted

the crest, at last, and, as though immensely proud of herself, rattled

down towards the boulder-strewn level at an amazing rate of speed. On

she went, swaying, puffing, roaring, rattling, as though she had no

intention whatever of coming to a stop before she had brought her five

hundred mile run to a triumphant conclusion in the station at St.

John's.

Even the engineer was astonished.

"Doin' fine," thought the fireman, proud of his head of steam.

"She'll make up them three hours afore mornin'," the engineer hoped.

On the next grade the mixed accommodation lagged. It was a steep

grade. She seemed to lose enthusiasm with every yard of puffing

progress. She began to pant--to groan--to gasp with horrible fatigue.

Evidently she fancied it a cruel task to be put to. And the grade was

long--and it was outrageously steep--and they had overloaded the

little engine with freight cars--and she wasn't yet half-way up. It

would take the heart out of any engine. But she buckled to, once more,

and trembled and panted and gained a yard or two. It was hard work; it

was killing work. It was a ghastly outrage to demand such effort of

_any_ engine, most of all of a rat-trap attached to a mixed

accommodation on an ill-graded road. The Rat-Trap snorted her

indignation. She howled with agony and despair.

And then she quit.

"What's the matter now?" a passenger asked the conductor, in a coach

far in the rear.

"Looks to me as if we'd have to uncouple and run on to the next siding

with half the train," the conductor replied. "But it _may_ be the

fire-box."

"What's the matter with the fire-box?"

"She has a habit of droppin' out," said the conductor.

"We'll be a day late in St. John's," the passenger grumbled.

The conductor laughed. "You will," said he, "if the trouble is with

the fire-box."

* * * * *

While the mixed accommodation was panting on the long grade, Tom

Topsail's punt, Burnt Bay bound, was splashing through a choppy sea,

humoured along by a clever hand and a heart that understood her whims.

It was blowing smartly; but the wind was none too much for the tiny

craft, and she was making the best of it. At this rate--with neither

change nor failure of the wind--Tom Topsail would land Archie

Armstrong in Burnt Bay long before the accommodation had begun to

think of achieving that point in her journey across the island. There

was no failure of the wind as the night spent itself; it blew true and

fair until the rosy dawn came softly out of the east. The boy awoke

from a long doze to find the punt overhauling the first barren islands

of the long estuary at the head of which the Burnt Bay settlement is

situated.

With the most favourable weather there was a day's sailing and more

yet to be done.

"How's the weather?" was Archie's first question.

"Broodin'," Tom Topsail drawled.

Archie could find no menace in the dawn.

"Jus' broodin'," Topsail repeated.

Towards night it seemed that a change and a gale of wind might be

hatched by the brooding day. The wind fluttered to the east and blew

up a thickening fog.

"We've time an' t' spare," said Topsail, in the soggy dusk. "Leave us

go ashore an' rest."

They landed, presently, on a promising island, and made a roaring

fire. The hot tea and the lobster and the hard-bread--and the tales

of Topsail--and the glow and warmth of the fire--were grateful to

Archie. He fell sound asleep, at last, with his greatcoat over him;

and Tom Topsail was soon snoring, too. In the meantime the mixed

accommodation, back in the wilderness, had surmounted the grade, had

dropped three heavy cars at a way station, and was rattling on her way

towards Burnt Bay with an energy and determination that surprised her

weary passengers and could only mean that she was bound to make up at

least some lost time or explode in the attempt.

* * * * *

Morning came--it seemed to Archie Armstrong that it never would

come--morning came in a thick fog to Tom Topsail and the lad. In a

general way Tom Topsail had his bearings, but he was somewhat doubtful

about trusting to them. The fog thickened with an easterly wind. It

blew wet and rough and cold. The water, in so far as it could be seen

from the island, was breaking in white-capped waves; and an easterly

wind was none of the best on the Burnt Bay course. But Tom Topsail and

Archie put confidently out. The mixed accommodation was not due at

Burnt Bay until 12:33. She would doubtless be late; she was always

late. There was time enough; perhaps there would be time and to spare.

The wind switched a bit to the south of east, however, and became

nearly adverse; and down came the fog, thick and blinding. A hundred

islands, and the narrowing main-shore to port and starboard, were

wiped out of sight. There were no longer landmarks.

"Man," Tom Topsail declared, at last, "I don't know where I is!"

"Drive on, Tom," said Archie.

The punt went forward in a smother of water.

"Half after eleven," Archie remarked.

Tom Topsail hauled the sheet taut to pick up another puff of wind. An

hour passed. Archie had lost the accommodation if she were on time.

"They's an island dead ahead," said Tom. "I feels it. Hark!" he added.

"Does you hear the breakers?"

Archie could hear the wash of the sea.

"Could it be Right-In-the-Way?" Tom Topsail wondered. "Or is it

Mind-Your-Eye Point?"

There was no help in Archie.

"If 'tis Right-In-the-Way," said Tom, "I'd have me bearin's. 'Tis a

marvellous thick fog, this," he complained.

Mind-Your-Eye is a point of the mainland.

"I'm goin' ashore t' find out," Tom determined.

Landed, however, he could make nothing of it. Whether Right-In-the-Way,

an island near by Burnt Bay, or Mind-Your-Eye, a long projection of

the main-shore, there was no telling. The fog hid all outlines. If

it were Right-In-the-Way, Tom Topsail could land Archie in Burnt Bay

within half an hour; if it were Mind-Your-Eye point--well, maybe.

"Hark!" Tom exclaimed.

Archie could hear nothing.

"Did you not hear it?" said Tom.

"What, man? Hear _what_?"

"_That!_" Tom ejaculated.

Archie heard the distant whistle of a train.

"I knows this place," Tom burst out, in vast excitement. "'Tis

Mind-Your-Eye. They's a cut road from here t' the railway. 'Tis but

half a mile, lad."

Followed by Archie, Tom Topsail plunged into the bush. They did not

need to be told that the mixed accommodation was labouring on a steep

grade from Red Brook Bridge. They did not need to be told that a

little fire, builded by the track before she ran past, a flaring

signal in the fog, would stop her. With them it was merely a problem

of getting to the track in time to start that fire.

CHAPTER XXXVI

_And Last: In Which Archie Armstrong Hangs His Head in His

Father's Office, the Pale Little Clerk Takes a Desperate

Chance, Bill o' Burnt Bay Loses His Breath, and there is a

Grand Dinner in Celebration of the Final Issue, at Which

the Amazement of the Crew of the "Spot Cash" is Equalled

by Nothing in the World Except Their Delight_

It was the first of September. A rainy day, this, in St. John's: the

wind in the east, thick fog blowing in from the open. Sir Archibald's

grate was crackling in its accustomed cheerful way. Rain lashed the

office windows at intervals; a melancholy mist curtained the harbour

from view. Sir Archibald was anxious. He drummed on the desk with his

finger-tips; he paced the office floor, he scowled, he pursed his

lips, he dug his restless hands deep in his pockets. The expected had

not happened. It was now two o'clock. Sir Archibald was used to going

home at three. And it was now two o'clock--no, by Jove! it was eight

after. Sir Archibald walked impatiently to the window. It was evident

that the fog was the cause of his impatience. He scowled at it. No,

no (thought he); no schooner could make St. John's harbour in a fog

like that. And the winds of the week had been fair winds from the

French Shore. Still the expected had not happened. _Why_ had the

expected not happened?

A pale little clerk put his head in at the door in a very doubtful

way.

"Skipper of the _Black Eagle_, sir," said he. "Clerk, too," he added.

"Show 'em in," Sir Archibald growled.

What happened need not be described. It was both melancholy and stormy

without; there was a roaring tempest within. Sir Archibald was not

used to giving way to aggravation; but he was now presently embarked

on a rough sea of it, from which, indeed, he had difficulty in

reaching quiet harbour again. It was not the first interview he had

had with the skipper and clerk of the _Black Eagle_ since that trim

craft had returned from the French Shore trade. But it turned out to

be the final one. The books of the _Black Eagle_ had been examined;

her stores had been appraised, her stock taken, her fish weighed. And

the result had been so amazing that Sir Archibald had not only been

mystified but enraged. It was for this reason that when Skipper

George Rumm, with Tommy Bull, the rat-eyed little clerk, left the

presence of Sir Archibald Armstrong, the prediction of the clerk had

come true: there were two able-bodied seamen looking for a berth on

the streets of St. John's. First of all, however, they set about

finding Tom Tulk o' Twillingate; but this, somehow or other, the

discreet Tom Tulk never would permit them to do.

* * * * *

By Sir Archibald's watch it was now exactly 2:47. Sir Archibald rose

from the chair that was his throne.

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I had hoped----"

Again the pale little clerk put his head in at the door. This time he

was grinning shamelessly.

"Well?" said Sir Archibald. "What is it?"

"Master Archie, sir."

Archie shook hands with his father in a perfunctory way. Sir

Archibald's cheery greeting--and with what admiration and affection

and happiness his heart was filled at that moment!--Sir Archibald's

cheery greeting failed in his throat. Archie was prodigiously

scowling. This was no failure of affection; nor was it an evil regard

towards his creditor, who would have for him, as the boy well knew,

nothing but the warmest sympathy. It was shame and sheer despair. In

every line of the boy's drawn face--in his haggard eyes and trembling

lips--in his dejected air--even in his dishevelled appearance (as Sir

Archibald sadly thought)--failure was written. What the nature of that

failure was Sir Archibald did not know. How it had come about he could

not tell. But it _was_ failure. It was failure--and there was no doubt

about it. Sir Archibald's great fatherly heart warmed towards the boy.

He did not resent the brusque greeting; he understood. And Sir

Archibald came at that moment nearer to putting his arms about his big

son in the most sentimental fashion in the world than he had come in a

good many years.

"Father," said Archie, abruptly, "please sit down."

Sir Archibald sat down.

"I owe you a thousand dollars, sir," Archie went on, coming close to

his father's desk and looking Sir Archibald straight in the eye. "It

is due to-day, and I can't pay it--now."

Sir Archibald would not further humiliate the boy by remitting the

debt. There was no help for Archie in this crisis. Nobody knew it

better than Sir Archibald.

"I have no excuse, sir," said Archie, with his head half-defiantly

thrown back, "but I should like to explain."

Sir Archibald nodded.

"I meant to be back in time to realize on--well--on those things you

have given me--on the yacht and the boat and the pony," Archie went

on, finding a little difficulty with a lump of shame in his throat;

"but I missed the mail-boat at Ruddy Cove, and I----"

The pale little clerk once more put his sharp little face in at the

door.

"Judd," said Sir Archibald, sternly, "be good enough not to interrupt

me."

"But, sir----"

"Judd," Sir Archibald roared, "shut that door!"

The pale little clerk took his life in his hands, and, turning

infinitely paler, gasped:

"Skipper of the _Spot Cash_ to see you, sir."

"WHAT!" shouted Archie.

Judd had fled.

"Skipper--of--the--_Spot--Cash_!" Archie muttered stupidly.

Indeed, yes. The hearty, grinning, triumphant skipper of the _Spot

Cash_! And more, too, following sheepishly in his wake: no less than

the full complement of other members of the trading firm of Topsail,

Armstrong, Grimm & Company, even to Donald North, who was winking with

surprise, and Bagg, the cook, ex-gutter-snipe from London, who could

not wink at all from sheer amazement. And then--first thing of

all--Archie Armstrong and his father shook hands in quite another way.

Whereupon this same Archie Armstrong (while Sir Archibald fairly

bellowed with delighted laughter) fell upon Bill o' Burnt Bay, and

upon the crew of the _Spot Cash_, right down to Bagg (who had least to

lose), and beat the very breath out of their bodies in an hilarious

expression of joy.

* * * * *

"Dickerin'," Bill o' Burnt Bay explained, by and by.

"Dickering?" ejaculated Archie.

"Jus' simon-pure dickerin'," Bill o' Burnt Bay insisted, a bit

indignantly.

And then it all came out--how that the Jolly Harbour wreckers had come

aboard to reason; how that Bill o' Burnt Bay, with a gun in one hand,

was disposed to reason, and _did_ reason, and continued to reason,

until the Jolly Harbour folk began to laugh, and were in the end

persuaded to take a reasonable amount of merchandise from the depleted

shelves (the whole of it) in return for their help in floating the

schooner. It came out, too, how Billy Topsail had held the candle over

the powder-keg. It came out, moreover, how the crew of the _Spot Cash_

had set sail from Jolly Harbour with a fair wind, how the wind had

providentially continued to blow fair and strong, how the _Spot Cash_

had made the land-fall of St. John's before night of the day before,

and how the crew had with their own arms towed her into harbour and

had not fifteen minutes ago moored her at Sir Archibald's wharf. And

loaded, sir--loaded, sir, with as fine a lot o' salt-cod as ever came

out o' White Bay an' off the French Shore! To all of which both Sir

Archibald and Archie listened with wide open eyes--the eyes of the boy

(it may be whispered in strictest confidence) glistening with tears of

proud delight in his friends.

There was a celebration. Of _course_, there was a celebration! To

be sure! This occurred when the load of the _Spot Cash_ had been

weighed out, and a discharge of obligation duly handed to the firm

of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, and the balance paid over

in hard cash. Skipper Bill was promptly made a member of the firm to

his own great profit; and he was amazed and delighted beyond

everything but a wild gasp--and so was Billy Topsail--and so was

Jimmie Grimm--and so was Donald North--and so was Bagg--so were they

all amazed, every one, when they were told that fish had gone to

three-eighty, and each found himself the possessor, in his own

right, free of all incumbrance, of one hundred and thirty-seven

dollars and sixty-three cents. But this amazement was hardly equal to

that which overcame them when they sat down to dinner with Archie and

Sir Archibald and Lady Armstrong in the evening. Perhaps it was the

shining plate--perhaps it was Lady Armstrong's sweet beauty--perhaps

it was Sir Archibald's jokes--perhaps it was Archie Armstrong's

Eton jacket and perfectly immaculate appearance--perhaps it was the

presence of his jolly tutor--perhaps it was the glitter and snowy

whiteness and glorious bounty of the table spread before them--but

there was nothing in the whole wide world to equal the astonishment of

the crew of the _Spot Cash_--nothing to approach it, indeed--except

their fine delight.

THE END

* * * * *

The Works of

NORMAN DUNCAN

THE SUITABLE CHILD

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[Illustration]

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