CHRIS' STORY.
THE little darkey's face was so serious that Charley could not doubt
that he had seen, or imagined he had seen, something out of the
common. He was so long familiar with Chris' superstitious fears that,
ordinarily, he would have scoffed at them, but now, he remembered the
shooting the previous day and the mystery surrounding the disappearance
of the unseen marksman.
"Tell me just what you saw, Chris," he said, quietly.
"Hit was soon arter sundown," began the little negro. "I had dun got
de dishes washed up an' was fixin' to go to bed when I 'lowed that a
little swim in de gulf would make me sleep a sight better. So I starts
down for de beach. I ain't more den thirty feet away when I seed hit
atween me an' de water. Hit was walking back an' forth, back an' forth,
wid hits face turned all de time to de water. Hit was white, all white,
Massa Chas."
"What did you do?" questioned Charley, as the little negro paused,
shivering at the recollection.
"I don't know 'zackly, but I reckon I let out a yell an' shut my eyes
to hide out dat awful sight. Den I remembers dat charm an' I grabs
for hit, saying some conjurer words daddy taught me. Dat sho's am a
powerful charm, Massa Chas. Hit sho' am powerful."
"Go on," said Charley, impatiently.
"Dat charm sho' did de work, for when I opened my eyes dat ghost was
gone. Jes' dun melted into de air. Soon as my laigs quit shakin' so
dat I could walk I makes for de cabin an' bars up de door an' windows
tight. Dat's all I guess 'sept dat hit was a powerful long time afore I
could get to sleep an' I keeps awishin' for you-alls."
"How long did you keep your eyes closed?" Charley questioned.
"Hit seemed like a year but I reckon hit wasn't no more dan a minute."
Charley arose, wearily. "Show me the spot where you saw it," he
directed.
The little negro lad led the way without hesitation. When about twenty
feet from the water's edge, he stopped. "Hit was right hyar," he
declared.
Charley bent down and examined the sand carefully. A glance assured
him that Chris' story had some basis in facts for numerous footprints
were impressed upon the firm, white sand. He studied them with
eager interest. They were not fishermen's tracks, or those of his
companions, for the fishermen all wore big, heavy boots, and he and
his chums were shod in rough, broad-toed, working shoes, while the
tracks indicated a small shoe--possibly a number seven--and their shape
suggested expensive footwear.
"If I were a story book detective, Chris, I could tell from these
tracks the age, size, and color of the one who wore them; his height,
the color of his hair, and what he ate for breakfast; but, as I am
only a common, every-day mortal, all I can make out of them is that
your ghost was a man, and a pretty heavy one, too, judging from the
way his feet sank into this hard sand; see, our shoes hardly make an
impression. If his clothes matched his shoes, he must have been well
dressed. I should say that he wasn't very old either for here is where
he jumped at least five feet. That must have been when you worked your
charm or rabbit's foot on him."
"I say hit was a ghost," persisted Chris, stubbornly. "Hit was white,
all white, an' hit vanished jes' like that."
"And here's where it vanished," said Charley, following a line of the
footprints to where they led up into the fringe of palms. "He might
as well have vanished, though, for we cannot track him in this hard
ground; so we may as well go back to the cabin. Hereafter, Chris, just
as soon as it comes dark, go into the cabin and bar the door and
nothing will hurt you. The charm will guard you from any stray ghosts
and the bars and rifle will keep anything else out."
"Dat's all right, Massa Chas," said the little negro, bravely. "I ain't
scared much ob de ghost now, I'ze seed how dat charm works. An' golly!
I reckon dat ghost is de only thing dis nigger ever was scared of."
Vain as was this boast, Charley knew it was true. He had seen the
plucky little negro in many dangers and had never known him to show a
sign of fear except at the unknown which excited all the superstitious
fears of his race.
It still lacked an hour to time to go fishing and Charley lay down on
his couch but he could not sleep. He lay quiet, puzzling over Chris'
experience. Coupled with the mysterious shots of the day before, it
made a problem that defied all his attempts at solution. "Who could the
unseen one be? Certainly not one of the fishermen, the tracks proved
that. Chris' oft-repeated declaration that the ghost was all in white
suggested that it might be a tourist. Tourists often dressed in white
duck or linen in the tropics, while thinner-blooded natives always wore
warmer clothing at this season of the year. But what would any tourist
want on the island, and above all, why remain hidden. After all, the
mysterious one was friendly to them so why worry about the matter? But
was he friendly? Might not those mysterious shots have been aimed at
them as well as the fishermen?" And then a startling thought occurred
to the lad. "Might not it be an escaped lunatic?" That would explain
the queer actions for which he could find no other logical reason. The
thought was most distasteful. A lunatic at large on the island, and
armed with a deadly weapon was more to be feared than all the hostile
fishermen. With an effort, Charley shook off his gloomy speculations
and rising, proceeded to don his fishing clothes. He was dead tired and
would gladly have staid in this night but he felt that he must not hold
back. They must fish every night while the weather was fine and they
could get out. There would be stormy nights when they could not get out
and they must work their best to make up for their lack of experience.
When he was fully dressed, he aroused his companions. They were still
stiff and sore from the unaccustomed labor and their hands were swollen
and painful from the many pricks they had received, but their long
sleep had refreshed them and they attacked with ravenous appetites the
hearty supper Chris had cooked.
"I am going in the opposite direction to-night," Charley announced, as
they took their places in the launch and started out. "I got a wireless
message to-day telling me that there is a big bunch of fish to the
north of us. It's a fact," he replied, in answer to his companion's
questioning looks. "All day there has been a big flock of pelicans
hovering over the water in that direction. They often follow up large
bunches of fish to pick up the ones wounded by sharks."
They had run but a little way when he gave the order to cast anchor. "I
think we have gone far enough," he said. "It is easier to find a big
school at night than in the day time and I do not wish to run by them
in the launch. Somehow, I've got a hunch that we are going to strike
a big bunch, from the space those pelicans were spread out over the
water."
His suppressed excitement communicated itself to his companions and
they fidgeted about, impatient for dark to come.
It came at last and they lost no time in getting away from the launch.
For perhaps a mile they rowed on in silence, then Charley ceased rowing
and thrust an oar down deep into the water. He viewed the result with
dissatisfaction. "For some reason the water does not fire to-night,"
he announced. "It happens that way very often. I am sorry for we'll
have to fish by sound, and that is much more difficult. Now whenever I
stop rowing both of you stop also. That will give me a better chance to
listen."
Resuming his oars, he continued his cautious advance, pausing every
little while and straining his ears for the faintest sound from the
water.
At last, he stopped suddenly. His quick ear had caught the sound for
which he had been waiting.
"Listen!" he cried, excitedly.
From far ahead came a faint rippling murmur frequently broken by soft
pats upon the water.
"That's the school," he declared, eagerly. "It's a big one and they are
working this way. All we have to do is to hold our boats in position
and wait. They are coming straight for us."
"If those are mullet, they don't sound as though they amounted to
much," said Captain Westfield, doubtfully. "I've heard mullet jump when
they made a splash like you'd thrown an anchor overboard."
"Mullet working that fashion, you never want to run," Charley
explained. "Fishermen have a saying: 'Never fish jumping mullet.' When
mullet are schooled up they do not jump high because of injuring others
in their fall. That patting sound you hear is the flipping of their
tails above water."
Keyed up to the highest pitch our three fishermen waited the coming of
the steadily advancing multitude.
"Pass me the end of your net, Captain," Charley at last directed, in a
voice that trembled with excitement.
All ready with oars dipped he waited, waited until even in the darkness
Walter could see the advancing school coming, bearing a tiny wave
before them. Nearer crept the wave, fifty feet, thirty feet, twenty
feet, then--"Go!" Charley shouted, and the boats, driven by the
strength of excitement, leaped in amongst the frightened school. Around
them the water boiled and foamed with the frightened fish. They struck
the sides of the skiffs like hailstones on a tin roof. They battered
against the dipped oars making them vibrate like an electric current.
Charley held on his course as long as he dared before giving the signal
to close up. When they came together, the end of his net barely crossed
over Walter's.
"I came near losing them all by being too greedy," he panted. "A few
feet more and my net would not have reached you and they would have
poured out of the gap like quicksilver. Well, I guess we've got enough
for our breakfast, all right."
"How many do you think we've got?" Walter questioned, eagerly.
"Wait and see," Charley laughed. "Come on and let's get drummed up good
and start picking up as quick as we can. I fancy we've got plenty of
work ahead of us."
The drumming finished, they rowed back to the ends of their nets.
Walter leaned over and dragged his aboard, then gave a shout of
delight. "They are sticking in it like pins in a pin cushion," he
shouted.
"Same here," agreed Charley, happily, "and I guess, the captain is in
the same fix."
In a few minutes their boats had drifted apart and put a bar to
further conversation, but Walter grinned as there floated over the
water Charley's voice singing all the songs he knew, and the captain's
whistle going over and over the one and only tune he knew, "The
Sailor's Hornpipe." Evidently things were coming well with them.
For himself, he labored steadily and happily on for every yard of net
pulled aboard yielded up at least a dozen silvery captives. Time flew
with flying footsteps and when, at last, he straightened up to get
a drink of water from his jug, he was surprised to see a gray light
stealing over the waters. Day was breaking and the night had passed
away. He could see Charley and the captain, plainly. Charley's net
was all aboard and he was helping the old sailor with his. Both their
skiffs lay dangerously low in the water. He glanced down at his own
boat. Her gunwales were nearly level with the water under the weight of
the fish in her, and he had still a hundred yards of net to pick up.