“The Girl Kidnapper; or, Nick Carter’s Up-to-date Clew,” is the title of the story that you will find in the next issue of this weekly, No. 124, out January 23d. It deals with the doings of some unusual criminals, and the remarkably clever manner in which Nick Carter got the upper hand of them.
“The Girl Kidnapper; or, Nick Carter’s Up-to-date Clew,” is the title of the story that you will find in the next issue of this weekly, No. 124, out January 23d. It deals with the doings of some unusual criminals, and the remarkably clever manner in which Nick Carter got the upper hand of them.
[Pg 38]
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 120 ofNick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
Stroth started to lead me toward another door at the forward end of the stateroom; then he caught the interest in my eyes, now that I had opportunity to turn attention to the room itself.
“It’s no Chinese puzzle to guess my hobby, is it?”
“Well, hardly!” I exclaimed, for there wasn’t a square inch of wall space that wasn’t actually papered with photographs of the oldest, most freakish type.
Every trick of overexposure, and underexposure, blending, “ghost prints,” compositions, moonlight—every weird effect of which I had ever heard was there—and done in a wonderful knowledge of the art.
“Superb!” I exclaimed.
“Then you know the game,” he said delightedly.
“I’ve done little camera work for years,” said I, “but my memory tells me what splendid results these are.”
“I thought we’d get along, Grey,” he answered. “Something seemed to tell me so. Come on, then, and I’ll show you where I love to be.” And, once more, he approached the door.
“Just a minute,” I interposed, as my eye caught sight of a five-by-seven print which fitted into the panel of a small locker door about breast-high. I never have been able to see how the photograph was taken. The subject was simple enough. It was Stroth himself, looking down, it seemed, into the very heart of a negative coming to life. It was as though the lens was situated in the developing tray itself, and that the dawning picture was looking out wonderingly at its creator. The setting was that of the dark room’s somberness—a bottle or two of dull reflection, a glass graduate. But greatest of all was the deep hue of the ruby lamp as it brought out the eager tension of his features.
I have dwelt on that crane of the neck and stoop of the shoulders; it was there—intensified, unmistakable. The look in the eyes I cannot describe clearer than to say that they lived—actually lived and glowed on that bit of lifeless paper.
“Oh, that thing,” said he carelessly. “Just yours truly at his hobby. But come, here we have the dark room itself.”
And he swung open the door.
Such equipment I have never seen equaled, and I could feel the old glow of the camera crank stealing over me again.
The door which he closed behind us excluded the light entirely, and, with the click of a wall switch, Stroth flooded the small apartment with a soft ruddiness which I saw was effected by a cunningly devised scheme of lighting.
A sort of bowl containing red electric bulbs depended from the ceiling, which itself was tinted to the hue, and the resultant ability to distinguish everything one needed in an absolutely safe light was a joy.[Pg 39]
“Pretty sweet, eh, Grey?” he said, at the exclamation of pleasure I didn’t restrain.
“Great!” said I. “And aboard a vessel, at that!”
His brow clouded a second as he replied:
“And right there you’ve hit upon my greatest difficulty. Of course, right now, with booms broad off, and scarcely any sea, I can work to perfection. But heavy weather is apt to put me out of commission. I’ve tried every possible scheme to overcome the trouble—even to having a swinging table, but no go. But, oh, here!”
And he snapped over to another tone—a brighter one.
“I believe we’ve got time,” he added, as he rummaged into the interior of a small cabinet, “and, strange as it may seem, it’s the first time I ever tried the thing. It’ll certainly interest you.”
I said nothing in reply, but watched him closely as his nimble fingers, with the facility of long practice, flew from plate holder to tray, from bottle to graduate. And next moment we were standing side by side, craning over a negative coming to life.
“To my way of thinking,” said he, as he gently rocked the fluid across the dull face of the plate, “you can’t beat the old tray development; I’ll have none of that tank stuff in mine.”
“I agree with you heartily there,” I replied. “But what is this, anyway?”
The lines on the negative were beginning to take a significance distinctly reminiscent.
Stroth chuckled. “My first snapshot by searchlight looks as if it were going to be a success.”
“And do you mean to say,” I cried, “that last night——”
“Too good a chance to lose,” said he, with continued mirth. “And I got on deck just about the right minute, didn’t I?” Whereupon he withdrew the plate from its bath, and held it up between me and the red glow of the developing lamp.
And there, unmistakable, I saw depicted the punt, the hydroplane shunting from its course, Pawlinson’s arms not yet lowered from the hurl he had given me, and I myself just striking the water, a bit of spray fouling a line or two.
“Remarkable!” said I, not without a touch of wrath, for the picture brought back the moment.
“It’ll be one of my best!” cried Stroth enthusiastically, “and, right this minute, I wouldn’t take fifty dollars for it. It’s great!”
He stepped a bit to one side, and bathed the plate, preparatory to the “fixing bath.” But just as he slipped the negative into the “hypo” there came a cheery, but decided, rapping at the dark-room door.
“Dad, oh, daddy!” came through the panel, in a voice of bell-like, girlish clearness.
With a bound almost feline, Stroth sprang forward, whispering sharply:
“I forgot the lock!”
But he didn’t reach the door in time, for she had tried the knob, concluded it was right enough to enter. And a hasty reflection assured me that the picture wouldn’t suffer, anyway, now that it had reached the fixing tray.
The girl, her eyes getting accustomed to the lesser light, caught sight of me, and started; then whirled suddenly upon her father.
“Then we lost, dad?”
“Well, scarcely, Stella!” Stroth put a lightness to his answer, which thinly veiled decided uneasiness. “We[Pg 40]won, and won well. So much so, in fact, that Mr. Grey here is to be our guest for the trip. You see, I just thought it would be a nice thing to kidnap him for company.”
Even in the darkness surrounding us, I could feel his eyes drilling at me, as if defying me to contradict by word or manner.
Silence was my only course, and the girl quickly lifted the suspense by recognizing the introduction. She even stepped forward, and shook my hand, as she said:
“It was great fun, wasn’t it, Mr. Grey? And I was certainly put out when dad made me stick to my stateroom last night, when we were getting under way.”
Here Stroth interrupted:
“You know you were all tired out, dear, and I thought it best that you should——”
“Oh, I knew enough to realize that a captain of a ship has the right of life and death over all aboard,” she bantered, taking me along with her infectious laughter, “and I just obeyed.”
Stroth smiled whimsically as he retorted:
“I certainly am boss when you’re around, honey. There can be no denying that; I’m just positively tyrannical.”
She greeted this with a delightful hilarity, that fully riveted any verdict of the love between this father and daughter.
But for all his excellent acting, I could read considerable perturbation in Stroth.
“Well, sure enough, dad, I didn’t really mean to interrupt you, but Saki told me that dinner would be ready in about five minutes, and I just——”
That instant she caught sight of the plate in the tray, and made a step toward it, adding:
“I certainly hope I didn’t spoil——”
But, before she could get a fair look, Stroth sprang past her, and caught up the tray.
“No, no, Stella,” said he, “you didn’t spoil anything. It’ll be all right. You see, I——”
He kept whirling the solution across the face of the plate.
“Oh, daddy, let me see!” cried the girl ingenuously, and she checked his arm in its gyration.
For one brief moment I saw mingled annoyance and consternation flash over his features. Then they cleared to a decision, and the next second I witnessed its carrying out.
“Wait!” he exclaimed suddenly, as she made as if to peer into the tray itself. “You might get your dress or hands stained. Come now, I’ll take the plate out itself. It’s about fixed, anyway.”
He reached his forefinger into the hypo in a measured groping for the edge of the glass, but his eye held me full as he withdrew it.
“Here, now girlie,” and he lifted it clear of the liquid.
She stuck her little head out prettily, her arms back of her, against possible drip.
But she saw nothing, for the negative fell to the floor, where it was shattered to a thousand pieces!
“Oh, oh, daddy!” she cried, in genuine grief.
“Why, it’s nothing at all, honey,” said he. “I was just showing Mr. Grey my method of developing, and the picture wasn’t a bit valuable. It’s no matter, except to show how clumsy and butter-fingered I’ve got to be. Come, let’s see what that yellow lad’s got for dinner.”
Once more I read my part for silence as we filed from[Pg 41]the dark room and across the outer stateroom, but mystery was gathering thick about me.
“Butter-fingered! He, indeed!” I muttered to myself, as I brought up the rear. “His hand’s as steady as a rifleman’s, and he had just told me he wouldn’t take fifty dollars for that negative. I guess I’d better go slow in confab for a while.”
The mahogany-trimmed saloon greeted us cheerfully with its immaculate linen and polished silver, and I contrasted the environment with the last place in which I had partaken of food, the forecastle. And I then and there resolved to play every card I had or could gather to stay “aft.”
My appetite was whetted, even during the short time since the homely meal old Steve had provided; and, indeed, we all tackled the splendid food with zest.
There were four of us; Stroth, his daughter, Stevens, and myself.
Stevens had been the last to enter, which he did from his own stateroom, situated still farther aft.
“You, Mr. Grey, and Captain Stevens have met before, I believe,” said Stroth, without a quiver, and the little man and I each took the hint, and shook hands cordially enough, though I did feel kind of funny when I did so. But I was more surprised when Stroth followed this up with:
“And now you see Captain Stevens, Stella,” whereupon the captain bowed in most courtly manner, while I wondered considerably.
“We scarcely had time back there on the launch to get acquainted, did we, captain?” she said lightly.
Stevens shot me a quick glance, as he replied:
“But I hope the acquaintance will have a better chance for a time now, Miss Stella.”
So the girl hadn’t seen him before I had myself!
Stroth’s manner was carefree and easy, and he acted the most genial host. I could feel that the manner in which I had so humbly submitted to the revelations of the past few minutes had relieved his mind of all uneasiness. He knew I had taken my cue.
The Jap, Saki, was deftness itself in his service, and the start of this little trip to Savannah was certainly auspicious, for at sea the gastronomies are certainly important.
When the meal was over, and, at Stella Stroth’s suggestion, we all went up on deck where we found that the wind had lessened somewhat. The afternoon bade fair to be one of perfect midsummer.
And so, two by two, we paced a constitutional up and down the windward quarter-deck. Stroth and his daughter walked together while Stevens and I followed, keeping our conversation absolutely on generalities.
Suddenly the girl whirled and faced us.
“I was just suggesting to father,” she said, “that nothing could be finer than such a day as this for taking pictures.”
Of a surety the idea was as harmless a one as I could possibly imagine. It certainly was an ideal light to work in for clear-cut, sharp-shadowed snapshots. But the very hint of such a thing had a noteworthy effect upon both men.[Pg 42]
Stroth’s face first lit up to a trace of enthusiasm, but this spark was rapidly quenched by a troubled look of almost doglike humbleness when he met the hasty glance Stevens cast him.
And I could plainly see that Stevens himself was distinctly worried as he strove to shunt the idea.
“Mr. Stroth has often told me that vivid sunlight such as this is makes too great contrasts.”
“Oh, nonsense, daddy!” cried the daughter. “Of course, if one wanted absolutely artistic effects, maybe so; but what I’d want would be just some ‘homy’ pictures of the decks, the sails, the things about us. Ah, I love it all so! You don’t know, dad, how I’ve missed the oldRuby Light! Come now, just a half dozen.”
She whirled on me.
“You’re with me, aren’t you, Mr. Grey?”
With her? Well, rather! Nor could I see the slightest harm in my saying so.
“Why, I think it would be fine!” I exclaimed enthusiastically.
One can imagine my bewilderment at the result that immediately followed my concurrence.
Stroth’s features took on what was almost a defiance, and a defiance that was directed at Stevens; while the little captain favored me with a scowl that carried actual anger. And, just like a schoolboy that has been permitted to break some bounds, Stroth trotted happily down the companionway in search of one of his cameras.
The next half hour he spent in the full delight of his hobby, and he certainly had the knack of poising his subject; he knew composition—had it all at his finger tips.
But from the first of the picturetaking, Stevens had excused himself on the strength of working his reckoning, and I didn’t see him till supper time.
We three, however, got along famously, and, when supper did come, we fell to like so many children in a heartiness which even Stevens’ sour looks couldn’t check.
Supper done, the table was cleared, and we played fan-tan till four bells.
“Early hours aboard this packet!” cried Stroth boyishly. “And ten o’clock’s a good bedtime. Off and away with you now, girlie.”
She kissed him on the cheek, and bade us each a happy good night. I still believe mine was the best. There was a certain hesitancy about it that I relished immensely.
Stroth turned to me as soon as she had left us.
“Saki will show you your stateroom, Grey. I’ve even managed to drum up a change or two of clothes, which may be a bit overlarge for you, but——”
“But, under circumstances which brought me aboard your——”
I certainly had taken a wrong tack, for he cried out sharply:
“A pleasure trip to Savannah, remember!”
“I beg pardon!” I hastened to say, as I followed the Jap who had popped into sight at the sound of a buzzer.
But before I gained the stateroom assigned me, and had closed the door, I heard Stroth ask Stevens:
“How’s the wind blowing?”
“There’s a point or two more no’th’ard to it, but it holds about the same strength, and, of course, it’s fair.”
“Fine!” ejaculated the owner. “So we ought to be about off Montauk to-morrow morning, oughtn’t we?[Pg 43]”
“About that,” replied the skipper. Then he lowered his tone just as I was closing my door in dismissal of the Jap. I couldn’t catch a word, but the voice carried solicitude of some sort.
Then came Stroth’s reply; rather a petulant one, I thought:
“Yes, yes, Stevens; I promise. Yes, yes, of course!”
There was certainly a difference in my quarters of this night and the one previous; for that little stateroom, though plain enough, was the essence of convenience, and the berth was comfort itself.
But, tired as I was, I couldn’t get to sleep right away. Things had been happening a trifle too fast, and one or two points were puzzling. I sat on a transom fully an hour. Then I crawled into the suit of pajamas that had been laid out for me, propped up the pillows at the bunk end, and ruminated.
“I know what I want,” I finally mumbled to myself, “and that’s a smoke.”
It seemed as if I must have that smoke. I have since cured myself of the habit, but it held me strong enough then, as is evident when I add that I finally decided to have a try at finding the humidor which Stroth had handed me in his picture-papered stateroom.
“It’s worth a try, anyway,” said I to myself. “He wouldn’t mind, of course. And I can manage it without disturbing a soul.”
I opened my door cautiously, and crossed the saloon, which was dimly lighted by a night lamp of small candle power. Fortune favored me in that the farther door was slightly ajar. I opened it a bit farther, then craned my neck for a view.
“There it is,” said I mentally, as I recognized the dim outline of the box of cigars, and noiselessly I opened it and took one.
I had almost regained the saloon when I heard a faint noise and the click of glassware. I turned attentively, and under the lower crack of the farther door there filtered out to me the deep-red glow of the dark room.
But, for all the trouble I had taken to get the cigar, I didn’t finish it. By the time it was half smoked I got very sleepy, and the next thing I knew—as Uncle Remus says—“I didn’t know nuffin.”
I awoke to Saki’s knock next morning, shaved in the warm water he had had the good sense to bring, and was first to reach the table.
I was quickly joined by Stevens, and I saw that his mood had bettered little since the evening. He acknowledged my presence with a dry nod; but, as we were finishing the simple meal, he assured himself that we were alone in the saloon by a hasty glance around, then asked low, but sharply:
“I suppose you know what will be your best course?”
“I believe you gave me that countersign even as far back as the dock end at College Point when you left me: ‘A closed mouth spills no mush.’”
“Exactly!” And he quitted the room for the deck immediately, while I whirled at the opening of a door and rose as Miss Stella entered.
“Why, are you all finished?” she cried. “I certainly must be a sleepyhead![Pg 44]”
She was as fresh and clear as the summer morning sifting through the open ports.
“Well, scarcely a sleepyhead,” I replied. “Your father hasn’t shown up yet, so you’re not the last.”
“Oh, yes, I guess I am the last, for all that,” she returned, digging away in dainty defiance at an iced grapefruit.
“Because, you see,” she added, “there goes Saki now with daddy’s toast and coffee.” She nodded toward the Jap, who was just entering the owner’s stateroom. “You see”—and she laughed lightly—“yesterday was picturetaking day. Now it’s dark room, and Heaven knows when we’ll see him next—that is, if he’s like he used to be, dear old dad!”
“Used to be?” I couldn’t check the question in spite of me.
“Why, yes. Didn’t you know? I haven’t even been aboard thisRuby Lightin over three years. I suppose, even when daddy made the bet then, he didn’t explain that I’d been in a convent in France ‘most three years, and needed some excitement? No?”
“Made the bet?” I echoed, mystified beyond measure.
Then she laughed heartily.
“Oh, come, come now, Mr. Grey! Just because you lost the wager, you mustn’t play possum about it all. You know as well as I do that even before dad came to France to get me, he made this bet with Captain Pawlinson that, for all he’d made such a hit as a detective at Washington, he couldn’t catch us before we sailed for Savannah. Just for a lark, of course. And wasn’t it fun, though? Daddy always was a wonderful hand when it came to anything in the adventure line, and I come honestly enough by it.”
Thank the Lord, she was bubbling away, and taking little notice of how her words were affecting me; and I got all out of the interval I could in controlling my amazement. So this absurd yarn was what had been cooked up for her benefit! I wondered that, even convent bred as she was, she was unsophisticated enough to believe it.
But her next words came as almost reply:
“You see, Mr. Grey, my father is a man of—well, shall I say eccentricities? And he certainly does do some of the oddest things! It’s just possible,” she added naïvely, “that it’s because we Stroths have always had plenty of money. Don’t you think so?”
“Ye-es, yes. Of course, that must be it.” I was groping for an avenue of temporary escape, so seized upon the commonplace: “And now, Miss Stroth, how about a walk on deck?”
She laid down her napkin, and rose buoyantly. “Splendid! Oh, this is better than France, I tell you, Mr. Grey! I’ll be with you in just a minute, for unless I wear a hat on deck for the first day or two I burn like the dickens in the sun.”
There was something rather delicious in the way she said this that made us both laugh, and I was still chuckling when I mounted the steps to the deck.
Once more the sun shone clear, but I noted an unsettled haziness to westward that might bring a change before night.
Once more the smart schooner was undergoing its daily grooming. Old Steve was distributing polishing kits to four of the men, though he stopped long enough to take a tug at his forelock in salute. Evidently my[Pg 45]reception aft had made a great impression upon him, as well it might.
But I returned the greeting as democratically as I could, and turned to a question that came sharply from behind me.
It was Stevens.
“Did Mr. Stroth come to breakfast?” said he, without preliminary.
“No,” I replied, as directly. “The Jap took it in to him.”
Not another word passed, but he looked his chagrin, which bordered upon anger. Then he paced back to his position on the quarter-deck.
The few minutes that were left me alone I gave to thinking over the revelations just made me by this girl.
I watched the waters swirling past the beam, though they let in no light upon the mystery. But I did glow with delight at the thought that, whatever shady guilt hung over that low-lying vessel, it was not shared by her.
My feeling toward her hadn’t changed a whit; I loved her even more intensely, but certainly it was a strange situation. There was a quietness about it all, an inevitableness that bore the irrevocable stamp of fate itself. Predetermined it was—my love for her—and, as such, to be greeted quietly, mildly. It was decided, and I was happy.
I know how absurd this sounds as I thus word it, but it’s as near as I can come to the actual fact.
She joined me within ten minutes, and began chatting happily about everything around us.
I noticed that the course had been shifted westward during the night, which brought us closer by the wind, and our leeward rail was gurgling to a smart angle of heel. It was fine sailing.
“Oh, look!” cried the girl. “The mist is lifting.” She pointed to starboard, a bit forward of our beam. “Captain Stevens,” and she trotted over to him, “what lighthouse is that?”
“You’ve a quick eye, Miss Stella,” replied Stevens. “It’s Montauk Point.”
She clapped her hands delightedly.
“And haven’t they wireless there?”
“To be sure they have. If the fog lifts a little more you’ll be able to see the apparatus.”
“Then let’s communicate with them! Won’t that be fun? You’re the operator yourself, aren’t you, captain?”
“Yes,” the little man answered slowly, “but I’m afraid we can’t do much talking with our own instrument, Miss Stella. You see, we broke it on the way to Portland.”
“Oh, well, then we can’t, of course,” she said, in disappointment.
It was a lie on Stevens’ part, but it was a lie that I rather rejoiced in, for it certainly would not do to have the shore wireless suspect who we were. I knew Pawlinson well enough by now not to want that.
And so, with the whimsicality of her temperament, she offered to compromise for her disappointment if she could have a “trick” at the wheel.
“Oh, that’ll be easy enough,” agreed Stevens, glad to shift the topic as he motioned the fellow at the helm to one side.
And the next two minutes proved that she knew that game well. I can see her now, braced to the roll—her little hands clutching the spokes sturdily—her eyes with[Pg 46]the upward minding of the mainsail’s quivering luff, for we were sailing a taut full-and-by.
There was a girl for you!
I have never witnessed a more violent shift of weather in such latitude, or a more sudden.
Perhaps it was because the fog bank had kept it from us longer than we supposed, and only lifted just in time to give us our slight warning.
For that fog did suddenly clear, though it cleared but for another and greater blackness.
As lowering and menacing a thunderhead as ever whipped out of the northwest was all but upon us.
Now, all this rot in books about even the very seconds being precious makes me tired, for you usually have plenty of time to snug down for a blow.
But this time it really was a question of minutes before that squall would strike us.
And Stevens saw it as soon or sooner than I did, though he certainly went about his preparation in a way that was decidedly not of the usual practice.
I could see that he was distinctly excited, but I could swear it was not nervousness at the approaching blow, however it might be connected with it.
Without a single word, he nodded to the fellow to resume the helm, while he simply smiled the girl into relinquishing it. Then he stepped quietly forward, and up to old Steve, who had never taken his eyes from his chief since the second the storm had been sighted.
The command was given in an actual whisper, and the men virtually tiptoed at the nimble work of shortening sail.
The main tops’l had been clewed, the flying jib doused, and five fellows were about to man the main halyards to lower—all in a dead silence, broken only by the grumble of the thunder which would soon be upon us—when a sudden yell fairly froze us by its virulence.
And up through the companionway bounded Carl Stroth!
I’ll not soon forget the light in those eyes of his as he bellowed:
“Here, you lily-livered hounds! What? Douse sail for a puny summer shower? What d’ye think we are? Children? Come now, you lame duck!” and he swung Stevens around. “I’ll give an order or two myself—somethin’ worthy of theRuby Light! Up with that mainsail again! Now the jib! Topsail! All of ’em, I say!”
As well try to cork Vesuvius.
The sails reset, he elbowed the fellow from the wheel, and took it himself just as the first fury descended upon us.
She was a noble vessel in a blow, as I could see, but she had lost some way, and had no time to recover. Expert at the wheel as he was, it was too much to expect of timber.
She quivered an instant to the first flaw, then followed the deadlier, heavier wind.
There was a minute of sharp list as cordage groaned. Then we shot back suddenly to an absolutely even keel, while a thumping started against the leeward planking.
Both masts had been carried away clean and true to the deck line![Pg 47]
There’s a sensation akin to pain in the midriff when a mast goes by the board. It is bad enough when actual stress of heavy weather brings that sickening, crunching crackle. But this thing was positive wantonness; this setting of extra canvas to a whipping “frother,” new canvas, at that, and without even the precaution of a single “preventer!” Old sails would have saved the sticks.
In that first instant of terror, the girl instinctively clutched me, and I held her fast a moment in my happiness before I assured her:
“There’s not a bit of danger! It’s just a mess, that’s all!”
And it certainly was a mess!
The schooner wallowed in the trough of the quick sea that had followed the squall’s first fury, the sorriest mass of confusion imaginable. It was a positive sin.
The masts, still hanging to the shrouds which hadn’t all parted, thumped their menace against the planking of the side; the main boom, still fast to its sheet, ground at the mahogany rail as it sawed between goose-neck and traveler.
The canvas, mountains of it, flapped, rolled, and puffed frantically, a matted mass of cordage to leeward, wire stays of stiff crinkle, turnbuckles, spreaders, and blocks.
It was a time that called for quick action.
And quick action it got. I never saw greater promptness. Stroth was fairly beside himself, and his emotion was—joy!
“Oho!” he bellowed, in positive happiness, the very instant we righted to an even keel, “here we have it now—and something like!”
Then he was all over the boat, roaring orders in a tone of voice of which I never would have believed him capable.
And, quick to the inspiration of that personality, the men jumped to the task of clearing away.
“Toss me that ax!” cried the owner to old Steve, and he himself went at a steel stay that held a spar from moving.
“Tie first, then cut!” He had a sharp way with him that made you start an instant before you sprang to the task. I felt the impulse of it, though my place was certainly to soothe the girl. Then he caught a look at me over his shoulder, and shouted:
“Take her below, Grey, to her cabin. I’ll need you in five minutes. And, mind you, look sharp!”
I know when to obey a man—and silently.
The girl still clung to me, but her terror came not so much from the vessel’s condition as it sprang from consternation at the remarkable change in her father.
But she didn’t say a word except to thank me when I left her at her stateroom door.
“I’m all right now, Mr. Grey,” she said quietly, though the haunt of some indefinite fear still showed in those wonderful eyes of hers. “You’d better get back to deck. He may need you.”
And the way she said that pronoun told where the trouble lay.
Even in the short interval I had been below deck, the weather had taken on a change for the better. A quick[Pg 48]squall is almost always a short one, bearing out the old adage: “Short warning, soon past.”
But, though the wind had fallen, we again faced that clammy nuisance, fog. For, as though it had but lifted to give us the warning Stroth did not heed, the mist once more settled its gloomy mantle over us—almost in disgust, I was pleased to fancy.
The vessel still was rolling to the trough, but a certain sort of order was beginning to show out of the chaos of the minutes preceding.
Stroth caught sight of me, and cried:
“Come, lend a hand here, Grey! Every pound counts at this!”
A quick glance about told me the scheme—a scheme which had come to him the very instant of the crash. All the hampering rigging had been cut away, and the spars, secured to lines, now floated aft, a tangled mass.
“On deck with it, you see!” he exclaimed heartily, as he looked over his men that stood about him. And from that instant I realized that they were reallyhismen.
There was a spirit in their way of jumping to his bark, a sprightliness of real zest, a vim that told its own story of master and crew. They loved him as much as they feared him. It’s a good combination aboard ship.
And Stevens? He was one of the crew now; though I still read great worry in his face.
And it was to old-fashioned “yo-ho-ing” that we fairly sang the spars over the taffrail onto deck; the mainmast to starboard, the foremast to port. A tackle rigged to the bitts had done the trick.
When everything was lashed fast, Stroth motioned Stevens to the position at the wheel. Excitement, the joy of it, still lighted his eye.
Then, with a “Come on, Grey!” he strode forward, and disappeared before me through a midship hatch. I followed down an iron ladder, and found myself in the engine room, where old Steve had already preceded us.
“Located the trouble?” demanded Stroth.
“Yaas, sir!” grunted the old bo’s’n. “But it’s wuss’n I thought fust. Shaft’s bent.”
“You’re something of a doctor in this sort of thing, Grey?” It was more assertion than query. At least, he didn’t wait for an answer before adding:
“Old Steve’ll show you the tools, and I needn’t say that the quicker we get way on the schooner, the better.
“Meanwhile,” he went on, and his tone varied not a whit from its evenness, “I guess I’d better take a minute now getting this flipper back into commission.”
He withdrew his left hand from his jacket pocket, where it had been hidden, and I believe that that incident told me more of Carl Stroth than I ever could have learned otherwise.
“You see,” he explained simply, “one of the lads, in his eagerness to cut adrift a while back, missed his aim a trifle.”
He unbound a tight-wrapped handkerchief. It was a nasty cut to look at, for the blade had found the fleshy part of the palm between wrist and little finger. The cut was clear to the bone.
“Good heavens, Mr. Stroth!” I cried. “You’d better wash that clean immediately. Have you any peroxide of[Pg 49]——”
His answer was a clear laugh, genuine and boyish. Then he mounted the ladder with the agility of an acrobat. One hand to the rungs is no light feat in itself.
TO BE CONTINUED.
When the four of us got back to boarding school, after the holidays, the first thing we did was to “put up a job” on Plug, the old fellow who occupied the dormitory with us.
“I’ve got it,” said Decker. “We’ll dissect him. I don’t mean out and out; but just make believe, you know. I’ve an uncle that’s a medical man,” and he told me all about it. “I’ll tell Plug we’re going to study anatomy, and must have a subject; and we’ll have some jolly fun. To-night the professor is going to a lecture, and takes his wife with him, so we’ll go up to our dormitory after study hour, and open the door between Plug’s room and ours, and lock the outside ones. We’ll have a table and knives, and a bucket for the blood, and everything prepared, and he’ll believe it all, eh?”
“Jolly!” said I.
And then we set to work to talk it over, sitting on the bench under the dining-room window, and mightily scared we were, to be sure, when, after a while, the window went up behind us, and Plug himself poked his head out. He hadn’t heard a word, though; for all he said was:
“Mornin’, young gents. I hope you’ve had a merry Christmas?”
When Decker makes up his mind to do a thing, he does it. And that night all seemed easy. The professor took his wife to the lecture. The assistant marched the little uns to bed at nine.
Then we heard Plug stumble up, and at ten we four filed upstairs. We’d bought candles and smuggled a couple of long boards up, and I took the sheets off my bed, and spread them over the boards.
Then we took out our four knives, rolled up our shirt sleeves, unlocked Plug’s door, and marched in.
Plug lay sound asleep in bed, or looked as if he did; and Decker walked up to him and shook him.
“Wake up, Plug; you are wanted,” said he solemnly.
Plug lifted up his head.
“Tain’t mornin’, is it?” asked he.
“No,” said Decker. “Science does not wait for morning.”
“Hey?” said Plug.
“Rise and follow us,” said Decker.
“I shan’t do no such thing,” said Plug. “None of your tricks now, young gents.”
“This is no trick,” said Decker solemnly. “Follow us.”
Plug got up, wrapped in a queer old dressing gown that he slept in, and came toddling after us. When he saw the stretcher in the middle of our room, he stood quite still.
“What’s that for?” asked he.
“Plug,” said Decker, “it is for scientific purposes. We are now medical students, and we must study anatomy. You are a splendid subject, being all bones, and we are[Pg 50]going to dissect you. We’ll give you chloroform, if you like, but we must do it. You know you can’t help yourself; so be quiet.”
“Be quiet, and be dissected? No, young gents—no, indeed,” quavered Plug; “but it’s only a joke. Now, ha’ done, an’ let an old man go to bed.”
“Plug,” said Decker, “this is folly. Hoist him up, boys!”
And we four seized the old man and laid him on the boards. He struggled less than we expected. He didn’t believe it yet.
“Tie him,” said Decker.
We did it. He only flopped about a little, like a dying fish.
“Do you want to say a prayer?” asked Decker.
“Now, do ha’ done, young gents,” said Plug. “You don’t dare for to murder me.”
“Dissecting is lawful,” said Decker, as he took out his knife.
“Help!” cried Plug—“professor—Mr. Jangs—missis—help, help!”
“Silence,” said Decker. “Gentlemen, you perceive this is the breastbone. I commence here.”
He lowered his knife. At that instant Plug gave a jump, and it wasn’t so much that the knife went into him as that he went into the knife. His breast—a bulgy, chicken breast he had—went right up, the point stuck, and out poured the blood—not a few drops, but quarts of it—all over him, all over the sheet, down on the painted floor. Decker’s hands were red, so were his pants.
“Oh, dear!” he screamed, “oh, what have I done? Oh, Plug, it was only a joke! Oh, I didn’t mean to! Oh, oh, oh! Get up! Say you ain’t hurt?”
“Young gent,” said Plug faintly, “I’m murdered. You’ll be hung; that’s my comfort. Good-by.”
And with that his tongue stuck out of his mouth perfectly black, and his eyes rolled up, and he gasped and gurgled.
“Dead!” shrieked Decker, and tumbled over on the floor: and just then—rap, rap, rap at the door, and the professor’s voice:
“What’s all this noise, young gentlemen?”
“Please, sir,” I cried, “Sprat has had a nightmare;” and my teeth chattered so I could not speak.
“Tell Sprat to remember that nightmares disturb the house,” said the professor, “and that I disapprove of them.”
Then he went slowly downstairs, and Decker lifted up his head again, and said:
“Dead! Dead! We’ll all be hung!”
“You’ll be,” said Sprat. “Not us.”
“Accomplices,” said Decker. “Oh, dear, oh!”
“Well,” said Brown, the coolest of us all, “the thing is done. It can’t be helped. All we can do is to hide it. We must put him back in his room and lock both doors, leaving the knife in his hand; then wash up the floor, burn the sheets, throw the boards out of the window, and go to bed. It will be called suicide, and we’ll escape.”
“But we’ve killed him,” said Decker. “I’m a murderer, so are you—all of you.”
“You don’t want to be hung, do you?” cried Brown. “We didn’t mean to do it. Shut up—don’t betray your[Pg 51]selves. Come, boys! Sprat, make a fire out of copy books. Roper, pitch these boards out of the window. Wait. Here, Decker, catch hold of poor Plug. We must have him in bed first.”
“I can’t touch him,” said Decker. “I’d die.”
“Then, Roper, come here!” said Brown. “Don’t mind. Shut your eyes, if you have to. What did we get ourselves in this box for? How his tongue sticks out, and how black it is! I’m sick—oh, how sick I am! I say, if we don’t hurry, we’ll all be hung! Think of your mothers! Mine would die! There, that’s brave!”
And so we carried poor Plug back into the little room we had dragged him from, and put him into bed, put the knife in his flabby hand, and rushed out, locking him in. Then it was easier to work, the three of us. Decker couldn’t do anything, and we covered him up in his bedclothes. It took Brown and Sprat and me all night to tear the big linen sheets up and burn them bit by bit, and to scrub the floor.
After that there was Decker in a sort of spasm, and we had to wash his hands and face, undress him, and wash his things like a baby.
Five o’clock struck when we finally tumbled into bed, cold and miserable and horror-stricken; but if we could have slept otherwise, Decker’s moans would have kept us awake.
We four oldest scholars breakfasted with the professor and Mrs. Stuffemwell. Plug usually waited. We knew he wouldn’t this morning—couldn’t—and every minute we expected to hear cries and calls of murder; but nothing of the sort happened.
We dragged Decker up, and dressed him, and he went down with us, the worst-looking object you ever saw; but the professor didn’t notice his looks, Mrs. Stuffemwell, either, until when he said: “Will you be helped to steak, Decker?” he answered.
“Heaven forgive me! No.”
Then naturally says he:
“Decker, are you going crazy?”
We didn’t know what was coming now, but Brown up and answered:
“If you please, I think Decker is very sick, and a little out of his mind since the nightmare.”
“I thought it was Sprat who had the nightmare,” said Mrs. Stuffemwell.
“We made a mistake in the dark. It was Decker,” said Brown.
“Decker will do the ten extra problems, then, instead of Sprat,” said the professor.
Just then in came the assistant.
“Professor,” he said, speaking very fast, “the school fire is not made. Plug is not up yet.”
“Poor old man,” said Mrs. Stuffemwell; “he is growing feeble. Let him sleep. One of the women will make the fire.”
“They were saying he might have had a fit or something in the night, sir,” said the assistant. “His door’s locked.”
“No, no. I trust not,” said the professor. “I trust not. A worthy old man that; and, by the way, his name is not Plug. Nicknames are very indiscreet, Mr. Ginger.”
“Beg pardon. I should have said Thomas,” said Mr. Ginger. “I’ve no doubt Thomas is very well.”
Poor Decker gave a groan.[Pg 52]
“Two more problems, Decker,” said the professor. “You must have another nightmare.”
Then, breakfast being over, we went into the recitation room, and the professor read a chapter. It was that one where Cain kills Abel. When he got to where he says: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Decker tumbled over on the floor, and had to be taken out and have water put to his head.
After a while, talking it over, we decided that the family knew that Plug was dead, and wanted to hide what they supposed to be his suicide from the school, for fear of losing scholars, and that eased us three a little; but nothing helped Decker.
He sat in an awful state of mind, trying to do his problems in vain, and talking to himself.
At dinner he ate nothing. At tea time he was worse, for he was seasick, and had to be carried out. And when study hour came, there he was with his problems again.
The young ones had gone to bed. Mr. Ginger, also. The professor presided at the study table, and Mrs. Stuffemwell sat by the fire, crocheting.
All was very still, when, suddenly, there came three knocks on the door. The professor never stirred. They came again.
“Shall I open the door, sir?” said Brown.
“For what?” asked the professor.
“A knock, sir,” said Brown.
“I heard none; but see,” said the professor.
Brown opened the door. There was no one there.
He took his seat again. Before he had lifted his book, the door was pushed open, and in walked some one. The professor took no notice; neither did Mrs. Stuffemwell. But Brown, staring, as we all did, cried out:
“Why, there’s Plug.”
“Where?” asked the professor.
“There,” said I. “There,” said we all, pointing to the spot.
“I see no one in the room but ourselves,” said the professor, “and I have private reasons to believe that Thomas, whom you impolitely call Plug, will not be here to-night. I shall not mention why I think so here.”
“But I see him,” cried Decker.
“There!” said Sprat.
“There!” said I.
“There!” said Brown.
“How dare you say so, young gentlemen?” said Mrs. Stuffemwell.
But we all saw Plug, white as a sheet, his black tongue sticking out of his mouth; and as he came toward us, and we saw a red stain on his breast, we knew it was his ghost; and Decker uttered an awful yell, and flung himself on his knees, and began to pray for mercy on his soul. And then the professor began to roar, and Mrs. Stuffemwell to shriek with laughter, and Plug, pulling something black out of his mouth, laughed, too.
“I’ve had revenge enough, young gents,” said he. “I don’t want to kill nobody, nor to dissect ’em, neither; but I’d had tricks enough played on me, and I thought I’d see if I couldn’t play one, too. Asking professor’s leave, I heard your plans at the window; and as I’ve been with traveling play actors in my time, I knew what a bladder of blood could do, and jest how to manage the whole of it. And so I’ve had my turn for once, I[Pg 53]hope, if you do think me a fool—as I ain’t, young gents, I promise you.”
With which Plug bowed to the professor and Mrs. Stuffemwell, and toddled away, out of the room.
We three were glad to get a caning next day, but Decker was too sick to bear one for a week; and I know, for he told me so, that he never attempted to play a joke on any one again.
A Canadian barrister named McSweeny was a thorough student of human nature, and master of the art of observation. Nothing escaped his notice. While engaged upon a case, he watched the jury as a cat watches a mouse, and frequently astonished his clients by ending his arguments very abruptly and submitting the matter to the jury.
“I’ve known many a case to be talked to death after it had been won,” he said. “What is the use of wasting time and breath after the jury is converted to your way of thinking? I believe I can tell when I have my jury well in hand. At that point I stop, no matter in what shape it leaves my speech. I take it that a client employs a lawyer to win his case, and not to display his oratorical abilities.”
The peculiarity of the great criminal lawyer was well known at a murder trial in Montreal a few years ago. Mr. McSweeny appeared for the defendant. The state had apparently made out a very clear case against the prisoner. When Mr. McSweeny arose to make his address to the jury, he carefully avoided any reference to the facts set forth in the evidence or the laws governing them. He pointed out the terrible responsibility resting upon the twelve men who were sitting in judgment upon the life of one of their fellow citizens. He added that the verdict of guilty would not fall heaviest upon the prisoner, but upon his family. He asked the jury to think for a moment of the effect of an adverse verdict upon the wife and little ones of the prisoner.
Then the lawyer drew a word picture which was a marvel of artistic rhetorical work. He brought before the eyes of the jurymen the home of the accused man. He showed the patient and loving wife leaving her work to cast many an anxious glance down the road to see if her husband was yet in sight, eager to be the first to catch a glimpse of his figure in the distance, that a steaming supper might await him upon his arrival. He pictured these ruddy-faced children swinging upon the old gate waiting till papa should come home to them.
At this point the lawyer noticed that one of the jurymen had considerable difficulty in swallowing a large lump which choked him, and that there was a suspicious moisture in his eye.
The speaker paused. Turning toward that juror, he held out both hands as a little child might have done to its father, and said, in a tone that was scarcely audible:
“Gentlemen, you must send him home to them.”
Shifting uneasily in his seat, the juror blurted out:
“Yes, we’ll do it, too.”
McSweeny instantly sat down. The case was won. His client was acquitted. But the most interesting point in this case, perhaps, was the fact, which the lawyer afterward learned, that the prisoner at the bar was an unmarried man.[Pg 54]
[Pg 55]
Hereafter wedding celebrations in Cambridge, Mass., must be brief and noiseless by order of the Cambridge aldermen. The board also has voted to ask Harvard to appoint a watchman to chaperon Jarvis Street, known as “Lovers’ Lane.”
City Treasurer Lauth, of Lock Haven, Pa., has been losing paper money from his cash box. During the year thirty-three dollars was missing. He could not account for these losses until a few days ago, when he found a partly gnawed five-dollar bill on a shelf. He then came to the conclusion that mice have done the mischief.
The minor leagues are not to be in on any settlement of the baseball war. The meeting held at Omaha, Neb., at which it was proposed that they demand representation on the National Baseball Commission came to an end without any such demand. The major leagues are thus left to deal with a free hand with the outlaw Federal League, which has caused so much trouble in organized baseball.
Officials of the National Commission handed the minor leaguers a lot of nice talk at the meeting. They did not explain, however, how the minors are to be protected against a repetition of the losses they suffered last season, when the Federals lured away their players without paying the clubs anything.
Joseph L. Ball, of Moon Run, Pa., acknowledges his defeat in his recent biggest mushroom claims. He sends to theBladea letter he received from L. R. Daily, a student in Lake View High School, Chicago. The student’s letter follows:
“Dear Sir: I noticed an article in theBladestating that you had the largest mushroom ever grown. Well, if that is the largest one that you ever saw, come out to Chicago, and I will show you mushrooms twice as large as the one you had. I have seen and had big mushrooms, one especially that measured seventy-three inches in circumference. I send you the signatures of six fellow students, who will back my statement.”
A large ape escaped from its cage at the McKees Rocks, Pa., museum, and Harry Morkey, a trainer of wild animals, started to drive it back. The ape made a ferocious fight. Jumping on Morkey’s shoulders, the animal bit off his right ear and he was badly lacerated on his head. Morkey fell from pain and exhaustion, and the ape ran into the street. Chased by dogs, it ran back into the building and was caught.
A chance meeting in Laporte, Ind., of John Blakely, a wealthy Mississippi plantation owner, and James Terry, aged eighty, father of Postmaster Terry, of Laporte, broke[Pg 56]the silence of fifty-three years, and will bring to the Laporte man the reward of a winter home in the South, surrounded by all the luxuries money can provide.
Terry lived in Tennessee during the war. One day a squad of Union men were surprised by a company of Confederate scouts. Blakely was one of the scouts, and in the engagement was wounded and left on the field to die. He was found by Terry, taken by the latter to his home, and nursed back to life. Terry came North, and Blakely, after his recovery, returned to the war. After its close he was successful in amassing a fortune.
A letter received by Terry this week stated that a daughter, Mrs. Gertrude Sands, of Grand Rapids, would come here and arrange for the trip of Terry to Mississippi, where she declares her father will pay his debt of gratitude after a lapse of more than half a century.
Addressing the Rocky Mountain Hotel Men’s Convention, at Denver, Col., Enos A. Mills asked the members to advertise Colorado’s scenery and climate.
“We needn’t fear the fact that the State has gone dry,” said he. “There is no dodging the fact that thousands who come to Denver and to Colorado as tourists do so for the climate and scenery, and not the booze. Let us show them that we have the climate and the scenery, then.”
Mills reports that game and wild animals are increasing remarkably in the Estes Park district. He predicts that a national park will be established in that region this winter.
Several tame grouse are the latest members of the wild-animal kingdom to invade Mills’ back yard in Estes Park. He says there is a colony of beavers engaged in work one block from the Estes Park post office.
C. B. Galloway, fifty, of Los Angeles, who is 5 feet and 6 inches and weighs 130 pounds, is defendant in a suit for $5,178.50, brought by G. W. Markham, who alleges that a crushing handshake by Galloway almost ended his life.
“My hand was so badly crushed,” Markham says, “that blood poisoning developed and I lost a finger.”
“Jack” Jeffries, testifying for Markham, said he once shook hands with Galloway, and that he would rather take a chance with a vise than try it again.
Soldiers in the German army who are without knowledge of censors sometimes sign their own death warrants, according to David M. Pfaelzer, a member of the board of assessors of Chicago. Pfaelzer has received numerous letters from Germany recently showing that the mail service is not seriously interfered with. All of the letters were opened and read by German censors, however, and the day that he received a letter telling of the death of a relative in battle, Pfaelzer received information of the death of a cousin of an acquaintance.[Pg 57]
“It seems that a number of soldiers from Alsace are deserting,” said Pfaelzer. “The censors read all of the mail sent by these soldiers. One of my friends received a letter from a cousin in the army, who told of the desertions, and said that he did not blame them, and expected to desert to the French army himself within a few weeks. The next letter, from another relative, told of the execution of the soldier. A censor had read his letter, grimly permitted it to pass on to its destination, and then summoned the soldier for court-martial.”
Four brothers, members of the Boys’ Corn Club, of Georgia, produced 824 bushels of corn on four acres of land this year. Luther Allred, of Pickens County, one of the brothers, won first prize at the State Fair for the greatest yield from one acre. He produced 227 bushels.
There is bravery in the hospital as well as on the battlefield. A wounded French soldier was in danger of dying from hemorrhage, and the surgeon decided that only immediate transfusion of blood could save his life. Hearing this, a Briton named Isidore Colas, who lay on an adjoining cot nearly cured of his own wounds, volunteered to supply the necessary blood.
The cots were moved together, arteries were sutured, and for two hours Colas felt his own blood flowing into his comrade’s enfeebled body. Cold sweat ran in streams from his forehead, but he said not a word. When the operation was over, his comrade revived somewhat, though not enough to speak. He reached an arm slowly toward Colas, drew him close, and kissed him on both cheeks in the French fashion.
The payment of twenty-four dollars in exchange for the magic rites of a negro conjurer has failed to bring a promised fortune to Mrs. John Knox, an aged widow of Charlotte, N. C. The negro appeared at Mrs. Knox’s home and told her there was hidden beneath her house a handsome fortune of $5,000 in gold, all of which belonged to her if she would only accept it. The negro claimed to be the possessor of a wonderful magic power, which overnight would bring the gold from its hiding into the hands of the woman, and he charged only twenty-four dollars—all the old woman had—for his services. Since then Mrs. Knox has seen neither the gold nor the negro, she told the police.
Entombed for five days and nights in a black hole ninety feet below the surface in the Sibley mine, at Ely, Minn., Joseph Skusik gasped out a tale of horror from his hospital cot.
For 112 hours Skusik fought hunger, thirst, and the fear that he was going mad. A few yards away, in the blackness of the mine drift, he heard another miner, imprisoned by the cave-in, shouting to him in despair while the dirt seeped slowly down for hours and hours.
“Then the dirt came with a rush,” said Skusik. “I heard him yell once—and then gurgle. Then it was all quiet, and I knew he was gone.[Pg 58]”
The body of the smothered miner, as yet unidentified, was brought to the surface when Skusik was hoisted to the top of the shaft. It lay a short distance from the spot where rescuers found Skusik, his leg pinioned by falling stone. An arch of timbers overhead protected Skusik from the falling earth.
“I dared not sleep,” said Skusik, “for fear the dirt would smother me while I dozed. Little handfuls sifted through. I brushed them away with the hand that was free. I counted off the hours until my mind became a blank. If they say they heard me shouting, I must have been out of my head.”
While hunting in the Sierra Nevada Mountains recently, Doctor Barton J. Powell, of Stockton, Cal., met an old Indian who proved to him that an ordinary mountain-quail feather held before the eyes serves the same purpose as a powerful X-ray machine. Taking a feather from a quail he was plucking, the Indian held it before the doctor’s eyes and put his hand up to the light. The bones of the hand were plainly visible through the flesh. The Indian said feathers had been used from time immemorial by his tribesmen as an aid in setting broken bones. He added that any feather produced the X-ray effect to some extent. Doctor Powell has sent a bunch of the quail feathers to California University for experimental purposes.