THE WITCH'S WARNING
Whistler had been assured when he attended the session in the sheriff's
office at home, before joining the crew of the _Kennebunk_, that the
enemy alien named Franz Linder, who was supposed to have blown up the
Elmvale dam, was an influential member of that band of spies that were
doing so much harm in the United States.
It was surprising to find this scrap of a letter addressed to the spy in
this island cabin off the coast of North Carolina. Yet it smacked of no
improbability.
Whistler had heard the spy tell the skipper of the oil carrier, the
_Sarah Coville_, that his work was done in that vicinity. Linder, or
Blake as he was known at Elmvale, had naturally got well away from the
neighborhood of the dam after it was blown up.
That he was on this island at the present time was not so likely; but
that he had been here, and in this cabin, was very possible. Perhaps had
the castaways from the wrecked yawl arrived a few hours before at the
cabin of Mag they might have seen the German spy.
The old woman who tried to make Whistler believe she possessed second
sight, or some gift quite as uncanny, was in league with or had some
knowledge of Franz Linder. The boy was confident on this point.
She was of German descent at least, and she showed bitterness toward
"the Yankees." However, she proved herself to be a hospitable hostess.
It was her southern, not her Teutonic, training probably that led to
this.
Whistler could not read German, and he did not know that any member of
his party could do so. Nevertheless, he crumpled the bit of paper in his
hand and thrust it into his pocket, biding his time until he could show
it to Mr. MacMasters.
It was ten o'clock before the stew was ready to be dished up. The aroma
of it awakened the hungry men.
"This must be heaven, for it smells like mother's cooking!" declared
Slim. "Oh, yum, yum! Oh, boy!"
"The old lady ain't no angel," put in Jemmy; "but she sure can cook."
"And angels can't, I guess," added Torrance, grinning.
"Say, boy!" grinned Rosy, "didn't you ever eat angel cake?"
Whistler found his chance to speak to Mr. MacMasters when the others
crowded around the table. Mag put the steaming kettle of stew in the
middle of the bare board and ladled it out into brown earthen bowls.
"See what I found on the floor here, Mr. MacMasters," Whistler said
quietly, and thrusting the paper into the ensign's hand. "Don't let the
old woman see it, sir."
Mr. MacMasters was cautious. He held the paper under the edge of the
table and saw almost instantly what the communication was and to whom it
was addressed.
"That's the name of that spy you boys say blew up the Elmvale dam, and
was out on that oil tender we chased in the submarine patrol boat, isn't
it?" whispered the ensign. "I declare! Did you find it here?"
"Yes, sir. You see, the edge of the paper is browned. The whole letter
was probably thrown into the fire on the hearth and this piece failed to
be destroyed."
"You've hit it right, I fancy," agreed the officer. "Something queer
about this old woman and about this place."
"She knows we are from the _Kennebunk_, too. How should she know so much
if she wasn't in with the spies?"
"And she knew too much about the steamer being mined in the channel
over there," muttered Mr. MacMasters.
"It looks as if we were watched by the spies and that she is in cahoots
with them," Whistler suggested.
"Humph! Maybe. You can't read this letter, I suppose, Morgan?"
"No, sir. None of us boys read German. Not even Ikey, although he
understands the language quick enough when it is spoken. And poor Ikey
isn't here!"
"Don't worry about that," advised Mr. MacMasters. Then: "I do not think
any of the men can translate German. Of course there is probably nothing
on this paper of present moment to us.
"What we should do first is to find the rest of our crowd and get off
this island. The _Kennebunk_ will be coming back up the coast and we'll
miss her altogether."
"I hope the other boys are safe," sighed Whistler anxiously.
"I hope they have as good a refuge and are treated as kindly as we are.
But we can't make a search of the island in the dark. Besides, they may
not have landed on this island at all. There are other beaches quite as
hospitable as this one proved, I have no doubt."
Whistler and Torry helped the old woman clear up and wash the bowls and
spoons after supper. She sat in the chimney corner and puffed away
slowly at a short-stemmed and very black pipe.
The seamen were rather afraid of Mag, Jemmy especially. He carefully
crossed his fingers whenever she chanced to glance in his direction.
Mr. MacMasters went outside to assure himself that nothing could be done
toward searching for the rest of the crew of the auxiliary steamer
before daybreak. It was as dark as Erebus without, and the gale still
blew strongly off shore.
The ensign politely asked the strange old woman what arrangements they
should make for the night.
"We don't wish to turn you out of your bed, you know, Ma'am," he said.
She waved him away, the pipe in her hand. "Tumble into yo' bunks," she
ordered. "Old Mag doesn't sleep--hasn't slept for more years than
you-uns are bo'n already. That is why she knows more than others--yes!
The spirits of the night come and whisper to her while she stays awake."
"Arrah! D'ye hear that now?" whispered Irish Jemmy hoarsely. "'Tis as
much as our lives are worth to stay here."
Superstitious as he was, Jemmy was afraid to leave the cabin alone.
Most of the castaways were glad to retire to the berths again and,
blessed with full stomachs, it was not a great while before they fell
asleep.
The two Seacove boys finished helping the old woman.
"You are a pair of good boys," she said after looking at them for some
time and muttering to herself the while. "Why don't you run away? I'll
get you off the island yet, befo' that officer man wakes up."
"Why, Mother! we don't want to run away," Torry told her, laughing. "We
belong to one of the Navy's crack superdreadnaughts."
"Aye, I know. The _Kennebunk_," said Mag, nodding gloomily.
"Sure," Torry rejoined. "We want to see some fighting."
"'Tis not fighting you-uns'll see," croaked the woman. "Old Mag tells
you, and she knows. Yo' fine, big ship will go down in the midst of the
seas and her crew with her. Better yo' luck if it happens befo' yo' git
back to her already."
"You don't mean that?" Whistler cried.
"I'm a-tellin' yo' so," said the queer old woman. "Old Mag knows mo'
than other folks. Oh, yes! She'll sink. Better yo' boys stay ashore."
"What do you know about 'the witch's warning'?" whispered Torry to
Whistler. "She thinks she's got second sight. Knows more than anybody
else. She's like one of the Seven Sutherland Sisters--she prophesies."
"Shucks!" chuckled Whistler in the same cautious tone, "they weren't
prophetesses; they sold hair restorer."
But to himself Whistler muttered:
"Maybe she does know more than we do. But how does she know it? There's
something awfully queer about this whole business."