THE MILL-CREEK ROAD
Billy’s passage over the causeway was a hasty and somewhat perilous one,
for the rocks were overgrown with thick, brown seaweed and still wet
from the falling tide. Considering what a hurry he was in and how many
times he looked back over his shoulder, it was quite remarkable that he
made the crossing without mishap. He walked up a strip of sandy beach,
climbed a steep bank and came into the cool, dark pine woods. The faint
marks of an old road showed before him, covered with a rusty-brown
carpet of fallen needles and leading past the big, grey empty mill of
which the Captain had spoken. He followed along it, turned down the lane
as directed and tramped some distance straight through the forest, the
tall black trees towering above him and the partridge berries, trailing
ground pine and slender swinging Indian pines growing thick beneath his
feet.
It was more than a mile, perhaps nearly two, that he covered before he
observed a clearing ahead of him, and then came suddenly to the edge of
the woods and to the shore again. A very neat, brown cottage stood in
the open space, with a garden around it, a fence of white palings and a
green gate at the end of the lane. Beyond the house he could see grey
rocks, a little pier stretching out into the water, a fishing boat at
anchor and, as a background to everything, the bright, sunlit sea. He
opened the gate and came slowly through the garden.
A little girl was stooping over one of the round flowerbeds, picking
pansies into her white apron. She was a short and solid little person,
with thick yellow braids, very round pink cheeks and, as she looked up
at him, a most cordial welcoming smile.
“I’m Sally Shute,” she announced somewhat abruptly and without a
particle of shyness; then, as Billy hesitated, “I believe I would like
to know who you are.”
“I’m Billy Wentworth, and I brought these strawberries from Captain
Saulsby,” the boy answered, a little abashed at this sudden plunge into
the business of getting acquainted.
“The Captain said he was sorry not to send them sooner.”
He could not seem to think of anything else to say, that was of especial
importance, so turned to go.
“Wait,” Sally commanded, in the tone of one who is used to having her
orders obeyed. “I must take the berries to my mother and have her empty
them out, because Captain Saulsby will want his boxes back again. And I
think,”—here she looked him over solemnly from head to foot—“I think
that you look thirsty.”
Billy grinned and admitted that there might be some reason for that
appearance.
Getting acquainted with Sally was as rapid a process as had been getting
acquainted with Captain Saulsby. The tall glass of cold milk and the
plate of fresh gingerbread certainly put an end to any formalities
between them, and the expedition down to the hen-house to see the new
brood of deliciously round, fat ducklings carried them far on the road
toward friendship. Billy thought that the ducks looked rather like Sally
herself, they were so small and fat and yellow and so very sure of
themselves, but he did not summon courage to say so. Next, they went
down to the pier to see, “the biggest big fish you ever saw, that my
father brought in last night.”
This, Billy felt, was more worth showing him than were mere ducklings,
but he did not admit being impressed by the size of the fish, although
in truth it was a monster, nearly as long as the dory that held it. He
stood passing his hand over the slippery surface of its silver scales
and listening to the thrilling tale of its capture, recounted by Sally
with as much spirit as though she herself had been present. She broke
off in the middle of her story, however, to exclaim:
“Gracious, I’m keeping you here until maybe the tide will be over the
causeway and you can’t get back. That would never do!” They hurried up
to the house, gathered the berry boxes together in haste, and went
toward the gate.
“I’ll not forgive myself if I have made you miss the tide,” Sally said.
“I think I will walk with you as far as the creek to make sure.”
She chattered continuously as they went down the wooded lane, telling
him what the different flowers and birds were, what games she and her
brother played there among the trees, where her father’s land ended, and
where Captain Saulsby’s began.
“The Captain owns almost all of this end of the Island,” she said. “His
father or maybe his grandfather built the mill and used to run it. There
were grain fields over most of Appledore then, and people farmed more
and fished less. Captain Saulsby doesn’t do anything with the land
except the little piece his house is on; he has not really lived here a
great many years. He ran away when he was a boy and sailed all over the
world, and only came back to settle down when he got too old to go to
sea.”
Her talk did not remain long on the subject of the Captain, however, but
presently, in response to a question of Billy’s, wandered away to Johann
Happs.
“Yes, I know him, and I like him too. He comes every so often to fix our
clocks, mend the locks and things that won’t work, sharpen up the tools
and put us in order generally. He’s so cheerful and honest: there’s not
a person on the Island that doesn’t admire Joe and trust him.”
Billy shook his head silently; he could make nothing, so far, of this
strange affair of Johann Happs. He had not time to reflect on the puzzle
long, for presently they met some one coming down the lane toward them.
“He’s queerer than the Captain or Johann too,” thought Billy, and with
some reason. The man who approached was as unusual as were the old
sailor and Johann Happs, with one variation. Those two, one liked at
once; this person it was impossible not to detest the moment one laid
eyes upon him.
He was small and pinched-looking, with greyish sandy hair and a sallow
face. His eyes were light-coloured and shifty, seeming to have a rooted
objection to looking straight at any one. He wore white shoes that were
very shabby and checked clothes of a cut that was meant to be extremely
fashionable—and was not. His straw hat was put on at a jaunty, youthful
angle, but, when he took it off to greet Sally with a flourish, he
betrayed the fact that he was growing bald and a little wrinkled.
“Very pretty woods you have here, very pretty,” he observed, holding out
a hand which obstinate Miss Sally pretended not to notice.
“They aren’t our woods; they are Captain Saulsby’s,” she replied
ungraciously. “His land begins back there.”
“Ah, very true, Miss Shute,” the man went on. “He’s rather a queer one,
our friend the Captain, now isn’t he? He hardly seems to remember the
place is his, I think. Doesn’t come here very often and look after his
boundary fences and all that, does he?”
Even Billy could see that the man’s eagerness betrayed him and that he
asked the last question a shade too anxiously. Sally observed it as
plain as day and had no hesitation about saying so.
“If you want to find out all that so much, you had better ask Captain
Saulsby himself,” she told him emphatically. “I really think he knows
best about his own affairs.”
“You are right,” the other agreed instantly, “and I will ask him. But
you see,”—here he dropped his voice to a very confidential tone—“the old
Captain is a hard man to do business with, very hard. I am trying to buy
this land of him, not for myself, you understand, but for a friend, a
man who is a stranger in these parts, and immensely wealthy. He has
taken a fancy to Appledore Island and wants to build a summer home here,
and an elegant place it is to be; he has actually shown me the plans. It
seems he has set his heart on buying the mill-creek property from the
Captain, but, dear, dear, what an obstinate creature the old fellow is!
We have offered him a good price and of course he is only holding out
for more money; but he has tried my patience almost to its end. I am
wondering if he has a clear title to all these acres he owns. You never
heard your father say anything to that effect, did you, my dear?”
He bent forward and his hard little eyes fairly glittered as he put the
question. Sally, however, as a source of information, was quite as
disappointing as Captain Saulsby.
“Harvey Jarreth,” she announced firmly, “you are always going round
asking questions about other people’s business, but I, for one, won’t
answer them. And my father won’t either, and besides, he’s not at home.”
“Very well,” returned Jarreth cheerfully, “very well.”
It was evidently no new thing to him to receive replies as tart as
Sally’s. He turned on his heel and marched away down the lane before
them, swinging his shoulders and his cane, yet somehow not giving the
careless effect that he so plainly wished.
“Everybody hates Harvey Jarreth,” Sally explained when he was out of
hearing. “I know it was not polite to talk to him so, but he makes me so
angry that I never can help it. He is always getting the best of people
and boasting about it, making money on sharp bargains, finding out
things that aren’t his concern and then profiting by them. No one can
trust him and no one can like him.”
“Does he really want to buy Captain Saulsby’s land, do you think?” Billy
asked.
“He says so. My father thinks it would be a good thing for the Captain
if he could sell it and if there really is such a person as Harvey
Jarreth tells about who wants to buy it for a house. None of us has ever
seen any such friend of his. And Captain Saulsby is a queer old man; he
is dreadfully poor, yet you can’t possibly tell whether he will agree or
not. It would be like Mr. Jarreth to get the land from him some other
way, if he can’t buy it. He is so sharp at such things and the Captain
is so careless!”
They had come to the mill-creek road by now, and were passing the door
of the mill itself.
“That’s a funny old place,” Billy observed. “Does any one live there?”
“People lived in it a good while after it had stopped being used as a
mill,” Sally said, “but it is empty now. Would you like to look in?”
The big timbered door was fastened only by an iron latch, so there was
no difficulty about pushing it open and peeping in. The whole of the
lower floor was one great room, with a crooked flight of rickety stairs
at the back, leading up to the second story. The windows were small,
making the interior full of shadows and very cool and dark after the hot
sunshine outside. There was a big fireplace of rough stones, a bench
near it, a table and a broken chair or two, with a three-legged stool in
the chimney corner.
“Jacky and I come here to play sometimes,” said Sally, “although he
doesn’t like it much. People used to say it was haunted, but of course
that’s nonsense. Still it is pretty dark and queer and rather too full
of strange creakings when you are alone.”
They closed the door again, went down the steps and along the road and
parted on the beach.
“I’m glad you came,” said Sally; “you must come again. Now hurry, or the
tide will catch you. I think Harvey Jarreth has gone on to Captain
Saulsby’s ahead of you. Good-bye.”
As Billy hastened across the stepping-stones and through the meadow, he
looked very sharply and very often down toward the rocks, but could see
no signs of any one’s presence. Sally was right; Harvey Jarreth had gone
ahead of him and was standing now by the bench near the hedge, in hot
dispute with the old Captain.
“I never saw a man so blind to his own interests,” he was saying. “I
believe you are out of your senses. Come now, say what figure you will
really take.”
“You could cover the land with gold pieces for me and I wouldn’t sell,”
returned the old sailor with determination. “I’m not saying that it
isn’t a good offer for me in some ways, but I will part with no property
to a man who won’t give his name or state his business. If I’m to take
his money, I must know where it comes from.”
“It is perfectly natural that my friend should ask me not to give his
name,” Jarreth insisted. “And as for the money, what do you care where
it comes from, just so you make something? What do you want with all
those acres your father left you, when you only can dig up one corner of
it to plant a few miserable poppies in?”
“What does your friend want of it?” retorted the Captain; “and by the
way, how does it happen you have such a friend? How long have you known
him?”
“Why—why, not long,” admitted Jarreth, “but he’s all right, I know that,
and able to buy the whole of Appledore Island twice over. Well, I
suppose you are standing out for a bigger price and I will just have to
tell him so.”
“I’m standing out for nothing of the sort, you everlasting lunkhead,”
roared the old man, completely exasperated, “and I’ll waste no more time
talking to you.”
“I’ll just step up to the house and rest a little there in the shade,”
Jarreth said. “I have a long walk home, so I might as well give you time
first to think this well over. You will see reason in the end.”
The Captain made no reply, but deliberately turned his back upon Jarreth
as he walked away, and began puffing furiously at his pipe.
“Well, Billy Wentworth,” he said, taking his first notice of the boy,
who had stood waiting until the altercation should end, “how did you
like Sally Shute?”
“I liked her lots,” Billy replied with enthusiasm, “and I am glad I
went. Here are your boxes: I will carry them up to the house.”
“Sit down a bit until I finish my pipe,” the Captain said. “That
persistent cuss is waiting up there at the cottage and we may as well
let him cool his heels a while. His time isn’t worth anything except to
think up mischief.”
Billy took his place on the bench beside the old sailor and sat staring
out to sea.
“What is Johann Happs doing out there in his boat?” he inquired at last.
“Is he going to sail her?”
“I think not today,” Captain Saulsby answered. “He is always working out
there at something or other. He is as fond of her as though she were his
own kin. He hasn’t any one belonging to him, maybe that is why he loves
her so.”
Just at this moment a small boy came lounging down the path with as
little hurry as though all the world were waiting for him. He was short
and fat and looked so much like a lesser edition of Sally that there
could be no doubt of his being Jacky Shute.
“I’m just a-goin’ to weed those onions, Captain Saulsby,” he said
hastily, to prevent the old sailor’s speaking first. “I stayed down by
the wharf a little late, fishing, but there’s plenty of time yet. It’s
not five o’clock.”
He scurried away across the garden, leaving the Captain sputtering with
helpless indignation.
“That’s the kind of helper I have,” he exclaimed. “Comes when he likes,
goes when he likes, does what he likes. His mother and Sally can’t do a
thing with him. And stupid! Why, there’s nothing you can teach him, no
matter how you try. He has fished and paddied along this shore all his
life, but he doesn’t know a thing about boats; he can’t tell the
difference between a sloop and a knockabout. And what’s more,—” here the
old man turned full upon Billy and dropped his voice as though he hated
to speak so dreadful a thing aloud—“what’s more, he says he doesn’t want
to know.”
Billy opened his mouth to say something in reply, and then shut it
again. He realized that the ignorance of which the Captain spoke was as
great as would be the inability to distinguish between a dog and a cat,
but he was unwilling to betray the fact that he was as much in the dark
as Jacky Shute. A few hours ago he would have been quite scornful of any
such knowledge; now he felt a strong desire to hide his ignorance, a
desire which, in turn, gave way to an even greater wish. He fought
against it, reminded himself over and over again how determined he was
to despise everything that had to do with the sea, how he hated
Appledore and would have no interest in it. But there was something
about the rough old sailor’s bent figure, broken by a hundred tempests
yet strong and determined still, there was something about the tossing
blue water, about the wide, unbroken horizon, about the fresh, sharp,
salt air that made him feel—well, different in a most indefinable way.
They sat in silence for a little while until the old man’s pipe was
smoked out, and Billy felt that it was time for him to go. He rose, held
out his hand to say good-bye, and then suddenly felt his wish so strong
within him that it broke forth into words.
“Captain Saulsby,” he said, “I don’t know the difference between a sloop
and a knockabout, either. I don’t know anything about the sea or about
boats. I wish you would teach me.”
The sailor’s gnarled old brown hand was laid very gently on his
shoulder.
“Bless you, how should you know,” he answered; “you that never saw salt
water before today? Sure, I’ll teach you anything I know; sit right down
again and listen.”
Miss Mattie Pearson, up at the hotel, must have rocked and knitted and
knitted and rocked a long, long time that day as she watched for her
nephew’s return. The bright red sock that she was making for the
Belgians grew several inches, the other guests went in to dinner, but
still she waited, nor did she seem impatient. She was spare and elderly
and beginning to be white-haired; she might have answered well enough to
Billy’s description of her as an “old maid aunt” but she had keen grey
eyes that had been able to look pretty deeply into her nephew’s
rebellious young soul. He had been sullen and discontented ever since
his arrival that morning and, if he had made any efforts to conceal his
state of mind, they had not been successful ones. So she had sent him
off in the direction of Captain Saulsby’s house and seemed not in the
least surprised or displeased that he was so long in coming back. Old
maid aunts sometimes have a way of knowing things, just from the fact
that they have lived so long.
Meanwhile Billy was still sitting on the bench listening, entranced, to
details of full-rigged ships, schooners, yawls, raceabouts and dories.
His head began to reel under the weight of all the knowledge poured out
upon him, so that, finally, it was only with mighty effort that he
followed what the Captain was saying. Even the old sailor realized this
at length and decided to have mercy.
“I will tell you what we can do,” he said. “We will make you a model;
schooner-rigged, we will have her, with everything complete and
shipshape, so that you can learn the ropes too well ever to forget them.
No,” as Billy tried to remonstrate, “of course I will have time. What is
an old man good for, when he can’t follow the sea any longer, but to
hand on what he knows to some one who will do him credit some day? Yes,
we will build you a model and she shall be called the _Josephine_, after
the first ship I ever sailed in; the finest one that ever crossed the
seas.”
As Billy finally took his way homeward, his mind was a seething mass of
nautical terms which he vainly tried to set in order.
“The gaff holds the top of the mainsail,” he was saying to himself, “and
the jib-boom—”
Here he was obliged to interrupt the repetition of his lesson by
laughing aloud at the memory of his last view of Captain Saulsby. Harvey
Jarreth had been waiting at the cottage, true to his word, so that
Billy’s final sight of the two had shown him the little eager man still
pouring out a flood of argument, while the Captain sat unconcernedly
darning his blue sock once more, and whistling as gaily as though
Jarreth and his real-estate project were a thousand miles away.
However, just before Billy passed out through the gap in the wall, he
saw something that drove both lesson and laughter completely from his
mind. He had stopped to take one more look at the little house, the
sloping garden, the steep rocks running out into the foaming surf and at
Johann Happs’ trim little boat riding at anchor just inside the harbour.
One glance showed him clearly that the vessel was in distress, but how
or why he could not tell. She seemed to be settling slowly in the water,
indeed had already sunk so deep that the waves were breaking over her.
And, strangest of all, Johann Happs was standing, with folded arms, upon
the beach, staring at her but quite unmoving, never lifting a hand to
rescue his beloved boat.