CHAPTER XVIIIWHO? WHAT? WHY? WHERE?"But, Polly, it's inconceivable!"Rosalind was preyed upon by confused emotions. She was mystified, shocked, startled, apprehensive, even angry. Dominant was the sensation that this chunky, colorless young man had played a hoax upon her."It's true," affirmed Polly stubbornly. "I surely know Billy Kellogg when I see him.""Of course! But what does it mean?"Polly made a helpless gesture."He came aboard as Mr. Kellogg," said Rosalind, talking as if in self-justification. "He pretended to be Mr. Kellogg. He knew all about having been sent for by his uncle. Of course, he did act strangely. But he knew Mr. Morton; he even knew you!""You're sure?""Well," admitted Rosalind, on reflecting, "now that I think of it, in your case, I had to point you out on the wharf. But he said he recognized you. And you called him Billy!""I didn't want to make a scene," said Polly. "I knew there was something wrong, of course. So I just pretended—thought I'd wait till I got my bearings.""But who can he be?""I tell you, Rosalind, I don't know, I never saw the man before.""But he's pretending to be Mr. Kellogg—if he isn't!""Evidently. Oh, dear! It's beyond me.""It has something to do with these burglaries," declared Rosalind."I suppose so. It's awful!""He's probably a thief.""Very likely.""Yet you've recognized him—or pretended to! Do you realize what you've done, Polly Dawson?""He called me Polly," she answered defensively."And just because a stranger calls you Polly, is he to be turned loose upon your friends?""Ididn't bring him here. I hope you're not blamingme, Rosalind!""No-o; of course I didn't mean that. But how was I to know he wasn't Billy Kellogg?""I don't suppose you could tell," admitted Polly. "Is—is he nice?""He is the stupidest and most hopeless creature I ever talked to!"Polly sighed."You must go to him and demand an explanation," added Rosalind."I? Why, Rosalind, that's impossible! I don't even know the man!"Rosalind regarded the plump, young person with severity."Butyouhave given him the very last word in introductions!" she exclaimed. "You pretended you knew him. Mrs. Witherbee and everybody else have taken him at face value. You passed him without even a challenge. Are you going to allow this stranger to live here and call you Polly? Why—why, it may make youparticeps criminis!"Polly's lower lip quivered."I—I couldn't think of anything else to do," she faltered. "Oh, Rosalind, you must help me!""It looks as if we must help each other," declared Rosalind. "We simply cannot allow this man to impose upon the Witherbees."Polly was on the brink of tears. She was thoroughly frightened. Not until Rosalind, in self-defense, had placed the burden upon her did she realize the enormity involved in her recognition of the stranger. It was a mere procrastination, of course, due to bewilderment; but it had served as an authoritative introduction for the impostor."Mr. Morton!" exclaimed Polly suddenly."Well?""But they'll meet—don't you see? And they're supposed to know each other!""True," murmured Rosalind. "I'd forgotten that. Well, we've got to face it. Let's go and see what has happened."Polly shrank back."You go," she begged."We'll go together," said Rosalind firmly. "We must see it through.""But—""And listen! Not a word of explanation, unless something has already happened. Understand? No! Not a word! Go on calling him Billy. Keep it up until we find out something.""I—I can't," wailed Polly."Nonsense!" Rosalind was losing patience. "Didn't I travel all the way down from Clayton with him, talking to him just as if he were really Mr. Kellogg? It's a pity if you can't help a little—after deliberately turning him loose on this island.""Why not ex—expose him?""Not yet! We must find out some things first. We must know what it all means. Come now! For Heaven's sake, brace up, Polly! Nobody has been murdered yet.""I'm afraid!""Then let me take the responsibility," declared Rosalind in a disgusted tone. "Only you've simply got to play your part—now that you've started it."She seized the trembling Polly by the arm and started her at a rapid pace toward the house. Rosalind was bewildered not less than her companion, but she betrayed the fact by no outward sign. Even in the face of possible disaster, resolution did not desert her. Besides, her anger was still hot at the deception practised by the pudgy young man who was now so inadvertently a guest of the island.Polly's efforts to hang back were ineffectual. There was grim energy in Rosalind's grip, so that the unwilling young woman found herself propelled forward, despite her vanished courage.The Kellogg impostor was the center of a group on the porch. As they joined it, Mr. Morton approached from the other direction. The stout visitor was mopping his brow assiduously and answering questions in monosyllables. He seemed unable decide between his feet, for he stood first upon one, then upon the other, but never upon both at the same time.Rosalind and Polly appeared, he observed them with an alarmed and imploring glance. Polly's eyes did not meet his, but the cool stare of her companion never winced."Here's Mr. Morton now!" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee. "Of course, you know each other. Oh, Mr. Morton! Mr. Kellogg is here!"Morton glanced casually over the head of the Perkins boy and studied the newcomer for a brief instant."By Jove, Kellogg, but I'm glad to see you!" he drawled.The words were accompanied by the thrusting forth of a long arm, the hand attached to which seized the limp fingers of Kellogg. That young man permitted his jaw to drop an inch, where it hung, irresolute."Why—hello, Morton," he murmured."Glad you've joined us, I'm sure," said the Englishman unemotionally. "Awfully glad. How's New York?""F-fine!""And business?""Oh—er—excellent."Rosalind was too deeply engrossed in the exchange of greetings to notice that Polly's hand was clasping her own with desperate energy. The haughty lady whom everybody wished to marry was dumfounded.Morton had accepted the stranger! Morton—who knew as well as Polly that this was not the Billy Kellogg from whom he had won a year's income!Whatdidit mean?"Mr. Kellogg is up to take charge of his uncle's place while Mr. Davidson is away," explained Mrs. Witherbee, breathing a soft sigh of gratification at the absence of animosity between these knights of the gaming-table.Perspiration streamed down the cheeks of the stout young man. He stared at Morton with the fascination of a bird looking upon the mythically hypnotic serpent. His glance finally wavered and met that of Rosalind. She saw the muscles of his jaw tighten, and watched him while he breathed deeply."Oh, I say," he began. "Something's wrong. I—"Rosalind's head was moving slowly from side to side, and her glare was truly ferocious. The young man stopped. Then all traces of resolution wilted."Wrong?" asked Mrs. Witherbee anxiously."Why—er—you see—"He gulped and looked again at Rosalind. Her head was still moving, and her lips were grim."What I meant was, Uncle Henry said there was something wrong at the island, and—well, you see, he wanted me to look out for it.""What's wrong?" demanded the voice of Reginald Williams.Unanimous dismay overspread the faces of the group. They remembered Reggy's heart!"Nothing at all," said Rosalind coolly, as she stabbed the stout young man with a warning glance. "What Mr. Kellogg meant was that his uncle is engaged in some agricultural experiments, and that when he was called away it was necessary to have somebody there to look after them. So Mr. Kellogg came up."It was a shot in the air, but Rosalind felt that agriculture was safe and non-exciting. The members of the group breathed again and looked at her in admiration. The stranger was also staring at her without comprehension."Agricultural experiments!" snorted Reggy."Certainly," said Rosalind freezingly. "Exactly that. He is experimenting with a new kind of cauliflower. It's very delicate, and it has to be looked after whenever there is the least danger of frost. That's why he wanted—burlap. Isn't it, Mr. Kellogg?""Why—yes," the fat youth assented faintly.Once more Rosalind received a tribute from grateful eyes, but this time they contained astonishment as well as gratitude. She accepted the homage complacently. The role for which she had cast Reggy Williams was still his."After tea," suggested Mrs. Witherbee, "if it's really necessary, you can have the launch and go over to look after the cauliflower.""It's not necessary!" exclaimed Kellogg hastily. "It's not a bit chilly this afternoon—not a bit."Rosalind gently detached Polly from the circle and led her along the porch."Get that man aside," she ordered, "and pump him."Polly quailed."You must! We've simply got to find out something about him. And you're the only one to do it; you're supposed to know him.""But—did you see Mr. Morton? He recognized him.""He pretended to," declared Rosalind. "And that's one of the things I want to know something about. That makes two people who have pretended to know him. Are you quite sure, Polly, that you're not mistaken?""Rosalind!""Oh, well, I suppose you're not. At any rate, it's your business to do some investigating.""But I don't know what to ask.""Heavens, Polly! There are a lot of things to find out. Who is he? What is he here for? Why did he pretend to know you? Why did Mr. Morton pretend to know him? Where is Billy Kellogg? How did a telegram to Kellogg fall into his hands? Why, he may have murdered Kellogg!"Polly shrieked faintly."Of course, I don't believe he did," added Rosalind contemptuously. "That man, whoever he is, wouldn't murder a rabbit. But there's something exceedingly strange about the whole affair, and it is our business to find out what it means. Go and get him!""But what shall I say?" wailed Polly.Rosalind sighed hopelessly."Go and ask him anything," she said. "Take him down to the summer-house to see the river—anything, I tell you! And then pump—pump—pump!"Polly Dawson shivered, but obeyed. When it amounted to a clash of wills, Rosalind was irresistible.The latter lady watched the couple depart in the direction of the summer-house and smiled resignedly. Polly was so literal! Had it been her own task, Rosalind would have taken him to the first available place—anywhere that was beyond ear-shot of the others. But Polly needed a sailing-chart and a compass.Rosalind managed a meeting with Mr. Morton, but it resulted in no information, because she did not choose to acquaint that gentleman with the fact that she knew the Kellogg to be spurious. And Morton volunteered nothing. So far as the surface of him went, the meeting had not occasioned even a ripple.it was half an hour later when Polly reappeared and beckoned Rosalind to a corner of the porch."He's—he's not Billy Kellogg!" whispered Polly triumphantly.Rosalind regarded her with a minute of patience and pity."Isthatall you learned?" she asked."He admitted it!""Of course he did. What of that? You knew it, anyhow, didn't you?""Ye-es—but he confessed.""And what else did he confess?""Nothing."An exasperated gasp was Rosalind's only comment."He—he said he couldn't explain," added Polly in an agitated voice. "And he seemed so nervous about it that I felt sorry for him. Truly I did, Rosalind.""I haven't the least doubt," icily. "Tell me exactly what you said.""He said it first. He said that he knew that I knew that he wasn't Billy Kellogg, and I admitted that I did know it, and that I thought that he knew I knew it. And then before I could say anything, he said that he couldn't explain, and he hoped I would not say anything—particularly to you. He—he seemed to be afraid of you, Rosalind. And, of course, after he said he couldn't explain, I couldn't very well ask him. Now, could I?""Of course not," said Rosalind in a withering voice."And he doesn't look like a murderer either, Rosalind; so I didn't ask him about that. He said he'd explain as soon as he could, and he wanted to know what Mr. Morton thought about him. I told him I thought Mr. Morton probably thought what you did. Was that right?""I am not accountable for Mr. Morton's thoughts.""At any rate, I'm sure he won't do any harm, Rosalind—he seems so dreadfully embarrassed.""And after talking to him for half an hour, you haven't the least idea who he is or why he came here?" Rosalind demanded."I—I'm afraid not."Rosalind threw her hands wide in a gesture of hopelessness."What do you propose to do about this—impostor?" she demanded. "You are the person chiefly responsible. You permitted Mrs. Witherbee to receive him.""Why don'tyouexpose him?" asked Polly meekly.Rosalind ignored the inquiry."Besides," added Polly, "he says he will go away to-morrow.""He willnot!" exclaimed Rosalind."You mean—""I mean that he will not leave this island until we know something about him if I have to sit up by myself and watch him."Polly uttered an exclamation of awe."The man's an impostor—probably a thief," added Rosalind. "Do you suppose I shall permit him to go as he came? I thinknot!""You think we ought to tell the others?""Not yet. There is only one thing to do for the present—watch. That will be your business and mine. We must see to it that this man is not allowed to go away until everything is explained. Meanwhile, we will send for the person who is evidently the principal one to be concerned—Mr. Davidson.""And wait?""Certainly. It cannot be very long. I shall telegraph to Mr. Davidson this evening; right away, in fact. It will not be difficult to reach him on the train. And we will keep this man here until Mr. Davidson returns.""Suppose he will not stay, Rosalind?" ventured Polly timidly."Leave that to me. He'll stay!"CHAPTER XIXSTUNG!Rosalind not only wired to Mr. Davidson but, as an afterthought, she sent a message to Hastings & Hatch. The answer to the latter came promptly the following forenoon.It did not serve to restore her equanimity. It described William Kissam Kellogg minutely, as Rosalind had requested, and the description was a photographic likeness of the young man who had confessed to Polly that he was no such person."Nothing to do but wait for Mr. Davidson," said Rosalind.She spent some of the time, when it was not devoted to standing watch upon the stranger, in writing. After the call of the customs agents at Witherbee's Island, Rosalind had begun the preparation of a memorandum. It had already reached a length of several pages; there were daily additions. Also, there were classifications, thus:What I Really Did.What They Think I Did.What I Know about Certain Things and Persons.What I Must Find Out About Them.What Must Never Be Found Out About Me.Things That I Have Said (for reference inconnection with other things I may have to say beforethis is over)Suspicions That I Have.Under the last head there was much writing, for Rosalind's mind was as crowded with suspicions as that of a crowned head is thronged with troubles. It was not strange, of course, that a large part of the memorandum dealt with the boatman. At every turn and corner of it his name and his deeds intruded.But there were some things that Rosalind, even in the privacy of her diary, would not suffer herself to commit to plain English. These were represented by a cipher code, the key to which lay only in her memory.For instance, a Maltese cross represented her experience in the tree; a star the shower-bath that came from the boatman's bucket, an asterisk the dance at the hotel where she found herself in the arms of Sam. All this was by way of mitigating the disaster that would befall if her memorandum chanced to come to the eyes of another.The task of keeping watch upon the strange young man was more tedious than difficult. Most of the time he sat on the porch, staring at the lawn with inconsolable eyes. He made not the slightest attempt to escape; rather, he appeared to be in a sort of stupor. Polly felt sorry for him; Rosalind had only contempt.A day passed thus and a second began with the young man still sitting and staring. Even Mrs. Witherbee granted that he was an unhappy acquisition, while everybody was unanimous in agreeing that work had produced an appalling effect upon Kellogg.It was mid-morning when Rosalind, unable longer to endure the sight—she classified him as a vegetable—left Polly on guard and betook herself to the river. One thing she wanted was her bracelet. Of the boatman she had seen nothing; he had made no effort to restore her property.With an intent that was really subconscious, she rowed one of the light skiffs in the direction of his island. There was also something mechanical rather than deliberate in the act of her landing there, making fast her boat, and ascending the path that led to his shack. Only the sound of voices awakened her from a day-dream.She halted and listened. One of the voices was unmistakably that of Sam. The other, subdued and indifferent in tone, she finally identified as that of Mr. Morton.Now all of her senses were alert and tingling. Perhaps it was a chance meeting; perhaps a plot; perhaps—But it might be any one of so many things that it was not worth while to speculate. It was entirely a matter for observation.Rosalind advanced cautiously, taking care that no stick snapped or stone rolled underfoot, and keeping herself screened behind the small trees and bushes that sheltered the path. Presently she sighted them. The spectacle was one that surprised her.Sam and the Englishman were seated on the ground, facing each other. Between them lay a folded blanket. The boatman was shuffling a pack of cards."What I can't make out," Sam was saying, "is the luck of it—you walking right into my parlor, just as the fly went calling on the spider, and without an invitation at that. I'd been trying to think up a scheme to get you here, and, by jingo! you save me the trouble.""Um—ah—just rowing about a bit, you know. Exercise and that sort of thing. Saw your island, and came ashore to have a look.""And you didn't know it was my hangout, eh?"The boatman was watching the Englishman closely."'Pon my word, no! Awfully sorry I've intruded.""Intruded! Man alive, you're as welcome as good news! Sit still; you positively mustn't be going yet. I insist. I hear you're something of a card-player. That's why— Confound that pack! My fingers are like thumbs lately."The boatman gathered up the scattered pack and resumed his shuffling."You are about to make the acquaintance," he said, "of that certain branch of the great American sport known as freeze-out. You have ten chips; I have ten. Your chips are worth a thousand each; you'll have to take my word for it that mine are worth the same. The limit is anything you have in sight."Morton yawned."Really," he drawled, "I'm not interested, you know.""You will be," the boatman reassured him. "It's going to be highly interesting. Will you cut?""Rather, I think I'll say good day," and Morton made as if to rise.Then Rosalind noticed that a pistol lay at the boatman's side and that his hand sought it. Morton observed the movement, too, for with a bored sigh he settled back on his crossed legs."I'll cut," he said.The boatman dealt and picked up his hand. For a few seconds his antagonist seemed not to know the purpose of the five cards that lay, face downward, before him; then he lifted them languidly."I say," he yawned, "is a pair any good in this game?""Not too good," answered the boatman cheerfully. "How many?"Morton took three, while Sam contented himself with one.The Englishman tossed a chip into the center of the blanket, the boatman two."Er—what should I do now?" inquired the prisoner listlessly."Quit, call, or raise—anything you please.""To call is—er—to equal the amount of your stake?""You've got the idea."Morton added a chip to the pot and laid a pair of eights on the blanket. The boatman displayed tens up and nonchalantly raked four chips toward himself."Your deal," he said, tossing the cards across.Rosalind frowned as she stared at the Englishman."I am afraid he is a fool, after all," she thought. "Why didn't he—"The Englishman was dealing abstractedly. He had to be reminded to look at his own hand.Sam drew three cards, Morton three. This time three of the Englishman's chips crossed the blanket to the other side. He showed not even a pair."It's plain robbery," whispered Rosalind to herself. "The man doesn't know the first thing about poker. Can they really be serious?"A second look at the boatman's pistol reminded her that they probably were.For five minutes the game progressed. Twice, by an accident of fate, the Englishman gathered the pot, but for the most part his own pile was receding chip by chip. Even in his winning moments he seemed bored almost to the point of somnolence. The boatman alternately grinned and whistled."I'll just tap you for what you've got," Sam said after examining his final draw. "Two checks, I believe.""This is a deuced stupid game, you know," remarked Morton as he pushed the last of his stack to the center."Doesn't strike you quite so favorably as bridge, eh?""Rather—not.""Do you happen to have anything as good as three of a kind?"Morton looked down at his cards as if he had just discovered them."Er—what would you make of them?" he asked, displaying them.Rosalind gasped. She could see the hand from where she stood. It contained not even a pair!"I'd make a resolution to quit," advised the boatman as he took the last of the chips. "This freezes you.""Can't say I think much of your American game," and Morton yawned again prodigiously. "Ah—how much?""You've lost ten thousand, my friend.""Really, now?""Honest and truly."The boatman's hand crept toward his revolver. With a listless shrug Morton began feeling in an inner pocket. Presently he drew forth a wallet."The idiot!" fumed Rosalind. "He's been swindled!"A moment's search within the folds of the leather resulted in the appearance of an oblong slip of paper. Glancing casually at it, Morton handed it to the boatman. The latter examined it closely, then looked up with a smile."I—er—think you'll find it good," drawled Morton."I'll take a chance," said Sam as he thrust the paper into the pocket of his shirt. "Mighty nice of you to carry this around with you. But let me give you a chunk of advice. Next time you trim a guy at bridge, either keep your mouth shut about it or don't carry the stuff around with you. You are liable to tempt some of us poker kings.""Ah—thanks, by Jove! Not a bad idea, that. You'll not be wanting me now, I take it?""School's out."The boatman rose to his feet.The placidity of Morton was undisturbed as he stood and flecked a few patches of dust from his trousers."I'll be going, if you don't mind," he remarked. "My boat's at the other end of the island."Although the affair was none of hers, Rosalind found herself angry. If there was one thing that annoyed her beyond endurance, it was sheer stupidity. She believed she had just witnessed the apotheosis of it.Yet something struck her oddly as the Englishman turned and walked away. She was quite sure that she heard him chuckle. The boatman must have heard the same thing, for he stared after Morton curiously."A bad check, I'll wager," whispered Rosalind to herself. "But where was the sense in the whole affair, anyhow? Never mind; it's not my business. But I want my bracelet."She stepped from her concealment, and an instant later the boatman turned at the sound of her footsteps."Hello!" he said cordially. "You just missed the performance.""My bracelet, please," was Rosalind's only remark."Why, I'd clean forgotten it, ma'am.""You haven't—lost it?""No fear; it's safe."He turned and entered the cabin, appearing a moment later with the golden circlet lying in his palm. Rosalind seized it with more joy than dignity. The touch of it, as she snapped it about her arm, was exhilarating. Her eyes shone with the light of triumph.The boatman watched the expressive pantomime with evident approval."You're rather lucky to get it, in a way," he said. "I've just been taking a chance at freeze-out, and if I'd lost I guess it would have been up to me to fork over the bracelet as part payment."Rosalind made no pretense of being startled at the idea. She knew he was capable of no such infamy, no matter what he might be."I saw what happened," she remarked."Oh, did you?""I saw you steal ten thousand dollars."The boatman studied her quizzically."And never made a move to stop me," he commented.She winced, but decided to ignore the implication."I didn't steal it, ma'am," he added. "Poker's a perfectly fair game. I didn't stack the cards; I didn't shove a cold deck at him.""Fair! When he didn't know the first principles of it?""He certainly didn't play as if he did," admitted Sam. "But if he didn't know poker, he had no business to sit in the game.""Not with a gun at his head?""Hum! I'd forgotten the gun. I suppose that did have something to do with it. It wasn't loaded, though.""It was no better than stealing. Itwasstealing.""Funny thing about it," mused the boatman, as if he did not hear her, "but he didn't seem to care much, one way or the other. Why, he yawned in my face, ma'am."The creature baffled her completely."Have you no compunctions whatever about the manner in which you took his money?" she asked curiously."Compunctions—about him? I'm afraid not. He stole it in the first place, didn't he?""He won it—fairly!" exclaimed Rosalind. "You knew he had it, and you've been plotting and planning to get it for days and days.""Maybe," he admitted."I hope the check he gave you is bad," she added viciously."That would be a horse on me; wouldn't it, ma'am? But that's a chance that folks like you and me have to run. Still, I heard he stole it, or what amounts to the same thing.""I tell you he didn't!""You seem mighty sure about that. How do you know, ma'am?""Because Mr. Kellogg told me so.""Kellogg?""Yes; he's here."The boatman eyed her for several seconds."He is staying at Mr. Witherbee's," she added.Of course, Rosalind knew that this was a fib; but somebody who called himself Kellogg was staying there, at any rate, and she saw no need of explaining to Sam."So Kellogg's here, is he?" he remarked. "I suppose he came back to have another try at the Englishman. That'll be hard luck for Kellogg, because I think his lordship is about cleaned, ma'am.""He came for no such purpose," declared Rosalind, half wondering why she was hastening to the defense of an impostor. "Mr. Kellogg has—reformed.""Reformed? Was he— Hum! Well—was he one of us?"Rosalind's cheeks flamed."He was a good-for-nothing idle gambler!" she explained."Oh!" said the boatman in a relieved tone. "He's turned over a new leaf, eh?""He's very much engrossed in his new work."What's he doing here, then?""His uncle sent for him."Again the boatman appeared to reflect."What for?" he asked."To look after his island while he is away. Mr. Davidson has gone to Denver. And Mr. Kellogg is going to try to put an end to all these burglaries. So there's a warning for you."He pondered the warning and wrinkled his forehead."Customs officers still hanging around?" he asked."I am told they are.""And that Canadian spy-chaser—is he still on the job?""I saw the launch again yesterday.""Is Davidson's police patrol cruising, too?""Of course. And they've put on another boat."Rosalind noted with satisfaction that he was showing traces of worriment."I expect that's going to make things pretty warm," he observed."Dangerous!" she supplemented."You'd advise flitting, then, ma'am?""Beyond all question. And—well, it's only because of the bracelet that I give you this warning.""It's certainly kind of you—mighty kind."Rosalind felt that the sword no longer dangled over her head by a single hair."You're a good, square pal to tip me off," he went on. "I guess you're dead right about it. The jig's up for us."Yes, ma'am. We'd better blow.""We!""We'll be starting in a few minutes. It never pays to stick around after the last hand's played."Rosalind was tongue-tied with astonishment.CHAPTER XX"GOOD WORK, PAL!""You see," Sam went on, seemingly unaware of her consternation, "it's foolish to take any more chances than are absolutely necessary. Now that we've got a fairly good stake, it would be silly to wait. We'll run over to the American side somewhere, and once we get ashore there's small chance of getting pinched.""Are you utterly mad?" asked Rosalind, abruptly finding her voice."Mad? I should say not, ma'am. Just cautious—that's all. I'd be mad if I stayed.""But you are saying that I—""That you are going with me. Certainly. Why not?"Rosalind was not frightened, yet something in his tone chilled her. She examined his face with searching eyes. He seemed to be quite composed; there was no trace of wildness in his eyes, no betrayal of mental agitation in his speech. Were it not for his astounding words, she would have considered him entirely normal. She decided to laugh, but the attempt was poor. His was infinitely more successful."It may be a little sudden, ma'am," he admitted; "but it seems a case for quick action. I'm sorry we won't even be able to stop at Witherbee's for your trunks."She decided to try a reasonable tone."Think what you are saying," she advised, controlling her voice. "It is quite impossible—this thing you propose. But, of course, you're not serious.""Never more serious in my life."The look in his eyes gave her a twinge of alarm."But don't you see—Sam—""That's the first time you've called me by name," he interrupted with a bow. "Thanks, partner.""But don't you see there is no reason whatever for me to go."Rosalind was trying to talk to him as if he were a petulant child to be placated, or a lunatic to be argued with until help arrived."There's every reason," he answered. "Pals should stick together.""But you know—seriously—that I am not your—pal!"The vulgar word passed her lips reluctantly."But you are, ma'am; the best I ever had. I guess I could name a dozen instances of it. Want me to go over them? First, there's—""You need not. It's too absurd. I shall go at once.""Not till I go," he told her firmly. "As I was going to say when you interrupted me, ma'am, we'll make a break for the American shore, and as soon as we can get a license and a justice of the peace or minister, why—""Stop!""We'll get married."Rosalind turned pale. Truly she was dealing with a madman on this lonely little island!"Married!""Why, certainly! What else? You don't suppose I'm going to lose a pal like you?"The boatman was so calm that his manner utterly disconcerted her. A rational exterior, she reflected, often cloaked the most dangerous forms of insanity."But I have no intention of marrying—anybody.""That's been the trouble all along," he assured her. "You've had so many offers that you don't take them seriously any longer. But this is different. This isn't an offer, ma'am; it's just a plain announcement of what's going to happen. We're going to be married."She glanced swiftly through the trees in the direction of the river. There was not a boat within hailing distance."It's this way," he went on easily. "You've helped me out of a few tight places. I've helped you once, at least. We're a great team, and there's nothing like teamwork in our business. I don't mind saying I'm strong for you. You have got good nerve; when you make up your mind to anything, you're apt to get it."You and I can go a long way together. I'll admit we may quarrel some, but that'll be your fault. You've got a hair-trigger tongue, ma'am. But I won't mind that; I'm getting used to it. The point is, when we get working together we're able to deliver the goods."You wouldn't expect me to lose a good pal, would you? Of course not. And I can't see myself doing it, either. It's true that the jig is up here. But it's a wide, wide world, pal. Shall we be going?""Do you suppose for one instant," said Rosalind, trying to hide the real terror in her voice, "that I am going to marry—you?""I'm sure of it," he said confidently. "Why not, ma'am? We won't starve—and I say that without the least idea of tapping your bank-roll. You can keep it soaked away, if you want to. I've got a nice little stake now." He touched the pocket where Morton's check reposed."That'll last us a good while," he continued, "and it's a sure thing we'll turn off some kind of a job before that's gone. Why, just think! With my experience and your social drag—""Stop!"There was absolute desperation in her voice."Not much time to lose," he advised, glancing at a nickeled watch. "No telling but that Englishman'll be stirring up some sort of trouble for us."Wrath triumphed at last despite Rosalind's efforts to be self-contained."You common thief!" she cried, stamping her foot and glaring. "How dare you insult me so? You burglar! You blackmailer! You—""Spy and smuggler," he supplied. "May as well get the whole list out of your system, ma'am. I don't mind; I keep my temper better than you do."But don't forget that I'm talking facts, while you're just barking at the moon. I hate to disappoint you, in one way; but your scalping days are over, ma'am. You've had your last proposal. I don't doubt you've turned down a lot of pretty good scouts, but you won't turn down any more. That's a cinch, as far as I can see now."You had your last proposal—unless there's been one since—when the Englishman got so enthusiastic over you. I heard it, you know. You threw him rather hard. You did the same for Reggy, less than half an hour before. And I understand there's been a long string of them. Well, you're at the end of the string."He grinned complacently."You needn't shout," he added. "You're not getting a chance to turn me down. This is no proposal, ma'am. This is what you might call an order, if I have to speak plain. It don't require any answer. It's not up to you to say yes or no; all you have to do is to come along like a good pal."Rosalind shrank backward a step. At last she was genuinely frightened, for Sam possessed all the calm of a terrible madness."What a fool I'd be to let you go!" he added reflectively. "And—not to flatter myself—what a fool you'd be to miss a chance like this! We've just got to know each other's ways; we're like wheels in the same clock. I need you; you need me."I'll admit you don't have to earn your living. But think of the fun you miss when you don't! It gets mighty tiresome, standing on the outside and looking in. What you and I need, ma'am, is excitement—plenty of action—something to keep us on edge."You're what I call an emergency pal. You don't really begin to get good until you're in a scrape. It takes trouble to start you going. But when you do get started—if you don't mind my saying it, ma'am—you go to it like the cat to the canary."She scarcely heard his last words; her mind was intent on seeking some avenue of escape. Tentatively, she edged toward the path that led to the boat-landing. But the boatman understood and shook his head."When we go, we go together," he assured her. "That dress you're wearing looks all right. Whatever you need in the line of clothes we can get when we hit the mainland."As far as I'm concerned, all I have to do is to put on my hat. And that's down in the boat, I think; if it isn't, it doesn't matter. We'll start, I guess."He turned toward the path and beckoned."I refuse to stir a foot!" exclaimed Rosalind.She compressed her lips."That means carrying you, then, ma'am.""You dare not touch me!""I hate to, but I'll have to, if you're not willing to walk.""I will not go! It's—it's insanity!"The boatman shrugged and advanced toward her.She retreated a pace."If you dare—""Will you walk, then?""I'll find someway—""Once and for all, will you walk?"She searched his eyes for some trace of insincerity or weakness, but found none. A shudder of fear shook her. Then she rallied herself angrily."I shall walk," she said coldly.He nodded contentedly and led the way toward the landing. Rosalind followed mechanically, but her brain was afire with activity. Beyond doubt, the boatman had become insane; if, indeed, he had not been so from the first.But she realized that at times it was needful to humor an unbalanced mind. For the present, she would accompany him; but surely there would be an opportunity to escape. If she could obtain no aid from a passing boat, at least there would be ample help when they reached the mainland."We'll take the oldFifty-Fifty," he remarked as he loosed the painter. "It's better than rowing. And if anything goes wrong, why, you're here to fix it. By the way, what do you want me to call you, ma'am, Rosie?"She glared at him."No? Rosalind, maybe? It's a little long; but it'll do, I suppose. It's shorter than saying Miss Chalmers, anyhow. But it's not as short as pal. I rather like that, myself. But you seem to be touchy about it."Rosalind stepped aboard the launch without answering.She prayed that the engine might not start; but the prayer was unanswered, for it purred happily at the first turn of the fly-wheel. The launch backed out into the stream. An instant later it described a half-circle, then started eastward."We'll hit the trail for Ogdensburg," said the boatman. "Plenty of preachers there.""Are you aware of the fact," remarked Rosalind, with a sudden smile of triumph, "that before you drag me to a preacher you must drag me to some town clerk or other person and obtain a license?"To her annoyance, he appeared neither surprised nor dismayed."It's just another step in the journey," he said carelessly. "I'll admit that this license game is sometimes a spoil-sport on romance. But you haven't got me there. You'll agree! You'll step right up to the captain's office and take your little oath without saying a word. A good pal never welches.""I shall most certainly turn you over to the police at the first opportunity.""No," he said confidently, with a shake of his head; "you won't do anything of the kind. Why, ma'am, you're the pal who keeps me out of the hands of the police! You're an expert at it. I'm proud of you."You see, if one of us got pinched, the other would have to go along, too; I'm strong for sticking together. You understand—for better or for worse, ma'am. I think that's the way they say it."And if they should happen to pinch you, it would be real embarrassing, I expect. They'd start finding things out, maybe; all about lots of things that have happened to you and me. My, but that would be a piece for the papers! Head-lines and pictures and artists drawing little sketches of Rosalind, the 'Regal Lady,' sitting in a tree and burgling a house and bossing a gas-engine and—""Stop!""Oh, all right; I'll stop! I expected you to get the idea. You're not much of a hand for getting laughed at, I notice. And folks might laugh if they read the papers. You've got a kind of a long name for a big-type head-line, too; some printer-chap might chop it down to Rosie in order to make it fit."The boatman grinned and reached over to advance the spark.Rosalind turned her back upon him—this One-Cylinder Sam who meant to marry her—and gazed despairingly across the water. By sheer perversity of fate, there was not a boat within half a mile. Ogdensburg meant a run of several hours, even at the best gait of theFifty-Fifty. It might be dark when they arrived. She imagined the panic on Witherbee's Island when nightfall came without her.Sam lighted his pipe and sat hunched over the tiller, smoking thoughtfully. For a quarter of an hour he appeared to pay no attention to anything save the back of Rosalind's head. Then something caused him to glance upward at the sky, then at the horizon that lay behind them. He wrinkled his forehead and put aside his pipe.It was scarcely mid-afternoon, but daylight was failing rapidly. Rosalind herself, although wholly concerned with her absurd and perhaps dangerous plight, presently noticed the change in the sky. A swift survey of a great bank of black and lead-colored clouds ended with a glance at the boatman."Squall coming," he admitted, with a nod.She experienced a feeling of elation. A squall might mean anything but a license and a parson. It was a storm that saved Britain from the Armada.Sam, however, made no alteration in his course. Frequently he glanced over his shoulder, but soon this maneuver became unnecessary, for the battle-front of the squall had advanced with such appalling rapidity that it now overhung them, like some monster destroyer of the air. As yet, however, there was no breath of wind."You'll make an island?" Rosalind suggested."She'll ride it out," he said confidently. "I've been out in 'em before."Rosalind measured the low free-board of the launch with a doubtful eye. She was still triumphant in what she felt would abruptly shatter the mad plans of the boatman, yet she was sensibly uneasy at the fairly ferocious aspect of the storm."Better make a landing," she warned."Afraid?"She turned her back upon him.Half a mile astern a long, white line extended itself across the river. Beyond it the boatman could not see, for all was murk and grayness and ominous opacity. Then the white line seemed to leap forward at a furious pace. The speed of the launch was as nothing to it.Suddenly the steersman seemed to awake. He chewed his under lip anxiously as he watched the onrush of the line of foam."Worse than I thought," he muttered. "I'm a fool."A quarter of a mile to his left lay an island, but he knew there was not a chance in a thousand of making the lee of it. Besides, to alter the course meant taking the squall abeam, with a swift ending of the voyage in mid-river."Come aft here!" he commanded.Rosalind turned and studied the white line. It was not more than a hundred yards distant. Without a word she obeyed him.He motioned her to a seat beside him, and as she sat down passed an arm around her shoulders."Sit tight, pal," he said. "And if it gets too bad, there's a life-preserver under your feet."The change is his tone impressed her for the moment far more than threatened perils. All the banter and sarcasm had vanished from his voice. He spoke gravely, almost grimly."I shall not need it," she answered. "I swim.""We may be in a bad fix," he said, his lips close to her ear. "If it was anybody but you I wouldn't admit it. But you're game. It'll blow hard and get rough. I'm sorry—"The remainder of the sentence she could not near, for the white line had overtaken them. The storm-front delivered a blow like a battering-ram, a blow in which wind, hail, sea, and a stifling smother of froth seemed welded into one sinister and mighty weapon. The launch staggered, then leaped forward.Rosalind felt a cruel beating of ice-shrapnel upon her face, her arms, her thinly clad shoulders. In an effort to give her shelter the boatman drew her head down against his flannel shirt. One hand was needed for the tiller, for the clumsy power-boat was yawing and swaying, and at every lurch struggled, as if with deliberate purpose, to offer her beam to the storm.He steered wholly by instinct. Every landmark and island had been blotted out as if swept from the surface of the river. Even the bow of the launch was no longer visible.The boatman sat with his feet braced against a cleat, his body swaying with the roll of the seas. He squinted through half-closed eyes, but saw nothing save a fury of white water and driving hail. Indeed, river and air seemed to have merged into a whirling, stinging, vapory mass, in the grip of which the launch was flung onward, so that at times she seemed to fly, rather than float.Rosalind was glad to hide her face, not because she feared to look upon the fury that encompassed them, but to shield it from the bitter volleying of the hail. It seemed not to descend from sky to earth, but to travel horizontally, with the velocity and flat trajectory of a rifle-bullet.Flying water smote her when the wind sliced the crests from waves and flung them aboard across the stern of the wallowing launch. The boatman's grip tightened. Even in the din and ferocity of the storm she found herself marveling at the power that lay in his slender but sinewy arm.His lips were against her ear."All right?" he shouted. "Just nod; don't try to talk!"She nodded.Another minute passed. There was no slackening in the onslaught. Once the tiller was almost wrenched from Sam's hand by the impact of a sea that caught the launch a quartering blow. It was nearly disaster, but he managed to swing the stern to the wind again. Yet the blow had left its mark. There was water now above the flooring.As it swirled about Rosalind's feet she reached forward to where a tin bucket lay. The boatman drew her back."No use!" he roared. "You can't bail!"She accepted his decision without question, and again hid her face against his breast."Get the life-preserver!"She heard the command but dimly, though it was shouted directly into her ear.Rosalind shook her head. Of what use was a thing of cork and canvas out there in the white fury?"Get it!"Again she shook her head. It was not merely the uselessness of the thing that caused her stubborn refusal. It was the fact—and she was calmly conscious of it, too—that there was only one life-preserver in the boat.Just why this influenced her was not clear in her mind, but she realized with faint surprise that it did. She even found herself pondering over it, telling herself that it was unethical to seize this lone chance that offered itself only to her. Yet she was doubtful, too, that ethics had anything to do with the matter.The water in the cock-pit was deeper, and there was a growing sluggishness in the movements of the launch that she noted as quickly as the boatman himself."Rosalind!"She lifted her head slightly."For Heaven's sake, put it on!""No!" she cried almost fiercely.She felt the grip of his arm tighten convulsively. Something that sounded like a sob came from his throat."It's your one chance!" he shouted.She shook her head.Then for a brief instant some freak of the gale tore a great rent in the curtain of hail that shrouded them. The boatman's straining eyes had a vision of black rocks fairly in the path of his storm-harried craft. The murk closed in again."We're going ashore!" he roared.Rosalind nodded."In half a minute—not more!"Again she signed that she understood."Listen!" His lips were bellowing the words into her ear. "I'll steer until we're ready to hit. Then I'll rush you forward and get you ashore somehow. Understand?"She nodded."Be ready!"Now he prayed for another glimpse of the goal that lay ahead, but it was denied him. He could only calculate its nearness; nay, could do little more than guess. Second by second they were closing upon it, yet he dared not release the tiller, for if the launch yawed before she struck she might never strike at all. Safety or disaster lay in the barrier toward which they were sweeping, he knew not which.But his plans were swiftly made. The woman at his side would have the best chance he could give her.He tried counting the seconds, but this was useless. If he could but see again for a single instant! It was death to start too soon; death to wait too long. And he could only guess at the moment!The tension snapped. Why—how—he did not know; the hail still half blinded him. Yet he staggered to his feet, dragging her with him, and rushed forward, knee-deep in the water that filled the rapidly settling launch.As he neared the bow a black wall sprang out of the gray mist. To Rosalind it seemed to rear itself to an impossible height. The launch lunged heavily toward it."Don't cling to me!" he shouted.At the same instant she was lifted in his arms. As the boatman stepped out upon the slippery, staggering deck the black wall hung over her.Rosalind felt herself tossed into the air. For what seemed an interminable period she hung suspended in space. Then something rose to meet her feet with a jarring shock. She was standing on a ledge.Below her, even above the roar of the wind, came the sound of a heavy, crashing blow. The launch had struck. She knew what that meant. The boatman had given her the one chance!With a gasping sob she whirled about and stepped to the edge of the rock."Sam!"
CHAPTER XVIII
WHO? WHAT? WHY? WHERE?
"But, Polly, it's inconceivable!"
Rosalind was preyed upon by confused emotions. She was mystified, shocked, startled, apprehensive, even angry. Dominant was the sensation that this chunky, colorless young man had played a hoax upon her.
"It's true," affirmed Polly stubbornly. "I surely know Billy Kellogg when I see him."
"Of course! But what does it mean?"
Polly made a helpless gesture.
"He came aboard as Mr. Kellogg," said Rosalind, talking as if in self-justification. "He pretended to be Mr. Kellogg. He knew all about having been sent for by his uncle. Of course, he did act strangely. But he knew Mr. Morton; he even knew you!"
"You're sure?"
"Well," admitted Rosalind, on reflecting, "now that I think of it, in your case, I had to point you out on the wharf. But he said he recognized you. And you called him Billy!"
"I didn't want to make a scene," said Polly. "I knew there was something wrong, of course. So I just pretended—thought I'd wait till I got my bearings."
"But who can he be?"
"I tell you, Rosalind, I don't know, I never saw the man before."
"But he's pretending to be Mr. Kellogg—if he isn't!"
"Evidently. Oh, dear! It's beyond me."
"It has something to do with these burglaries," declared Rosalind.
"I suppose so. It's awful!"
"He's probably a thief."
"Very likely."
"Yet you've recognized him—or pretended to! Do you realize what you've done, Polly Dawson?"
"He called me Polly," she answered defensively.
"And just because a stranger calls you Polly, is he to be turned loose upon your friends?"
"Ididn't bring him here. I hope you're not blamingme, Rosalind!"
"No-o; of course I didn't mean that. But how was I to know he wasn't Billy Kellogg?"
"I don't suppose you could tell," admitted Polly. "Is—is he nice?"
"He is the stupidest and most hopeless creature I ever talked to!"
Polly sighed.
"You must go to him and demand an explanation," added Rosalind.
"I? Why, Rosalind, that's impossible! I don't even know the man!"
Rosalind regarded the plump, young person with severity.
"Butyouhave given him the very last word in introductions!" she exclaimed. "You pretended you knew him. Mrs. Witherbee and everybody else have taken him at face value. You passed him without even a challenge. Are you going to allow this stranger to live here and call you Polly? Why—why, it may make youparticeps criminis!"
Polly's lower lip quivered.
"I—I couldn't think of anything else to do," she faltered. "Oh, Rosalind, you must help me!"
"It looks as if we must help each other," declared Rosalind. "We simply cannot allow this man to impose upon the Witherbees."
Polly was on the brink of tears. She was thoroughly frightened. Not until Rosalind, in self-defense, had placed the burden upon her did she realize the enormity involved in her recognition of the stranger. It was a mere procrastination, of course, due to bewilderment; but it had served as an authoritative introduction for the impostor.
"Mr. Morton!" exclaimed Polly suddenly.
"Well?"
"But they'll meet—don't you see? And they're supposed to know each other!"
"True," murmured Rosalind. "I'd forgotten that. Well, we've got to face it. Let's go and see what has happened."
Polly shrank back.
"You go," she begged.
"We'll go together," said Rosalind firmly. "We must see it through."
"But—"
"And listen! Not a word of explanation, unless something has already happened. Understand? No! Not a word! Go on calling him Billy. Keep it up until we find out something."
"I—I can't," wailed Polly.
"Nonsense!" Rosalind was losing patience. "Didn't I travel all the way down from Clayton with him, talking to him just as if he were really Mr. Kellogg? It's a pity if you can't help a little—after deliberately turning him loose on this island."
"Why not ex—expose him?"
"Not yet! We must find out some things first. We must know what it all means. Come now! For Heaven's sake, brace up, Polly! Nobody has been murdered yet."
"I'm afraid!"
"Then let me take the responsibility," declared Rosalind in a disgusted tone. "Only you've simply got to play your part—now that you've started it."
She seized the trembling Polly by the arm and started her at a rapid pace toward the house. Rosalind was bewildered not less than her companion, but she betrayed the fact by no outward sign. Even in the face of possible disaster, resolution did not desert her. Besides, her anger was still hot at the deception practised by the pudgy young man who was now so inadvertently a guest of the island.
Polly's efforts to hang back were ineffectual. There was grim energy in Rosalind's grip, so that the unwilling young woman found herself propelled forward, despite her vanished courage.
The Kellogg impostor was the center of a group on the porch. As they joined it, Mr. Morton approached from the other direction. The stout visitor was mopping his brow assiduously and answering questions in monosyllables. He seemed unable decide between his feet, for he stood first upon one, then upon the other, but never upon both at the same time.
Rosalind and Polly appeared, he observed them with an alarmed and imploring glance. Polly's eyes did not meet his, but the cool stare of her companion never winced.
"Here's Mr. Morton now!" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee. "Of course, you know each other. Oh, Mr. Morton! Mr. Kellogg is here!"
Morton glanced casually over the head of the Perkins boy and studied the newcomer for a brief instant.
"By Jove, Kellogg, but I'm glad to see you!" he drawled.
The words were accompanied by the thrusting forth of a long arm, the hand attached to which seized the limp fingers of Kellogg. That young man permitted his jaw to drop an inch, where it hung, irresolute.
"Why—hello, Morton," he murmured.
"Glad you've joined us, I'm sure," said the Englishman unemotionally. "Awfully glad. How's New York?"
"F-fine!"
"And business?"
"Oh—er—excellent."
Rosalind was too deeply engrossed in the exchange of greetings to notice that Polly's hand was clasping her own with desperate energy. The haughty lady whom everybody wished to marry was dumfounded.
Morton had accepted the stranger! Morton—who knew as well as Polly that this was not the Billy Kellogg from whom he had won a year's income!
Whatdidit mean?
"Mr. Kellogg is up to take charge of his uncle's place while Mr. Davidson is away," explained Mrs. Witherbee, breathing a soft sigh of gratification at the absence of animosity between these knights of the gaming-table.
Perspiration streamed down the cheeks of the stout young man. He stared at Morton with the fascination of a bird looking upon the mythically hypnotic serpent. His glance finally wavered and met that of Rosalind. She saw the muscles of his jaw tighten, and watched him while he breathed deeply.
"Oh, I say," he began. "Something's wrong. I—"
Rosalind's head was moving slowly from side to side, and her glare was truly ferocious. The young man stopped. Then all traces of resolution wilted.
"Wrong?" asked Mrs. Witherbee anxiously.
"Why—er—you see—"
He gulped and looked again at Rosalind. Her head was still moving, and her lips were grim.
"What I meant was, Uncle Henry said there was something wrong at the island, and—well, you see, he wanted me to look out for it."
"What's wrong?" demanded the voice of Reginald Williams.
Unanimous dismay overspread the faces of the group. They remembered Reggy's heart!
"Nothing at all," said Rosalind coolly, as she stabbed the stout young man with a warning glance. "What Mr. Kellogg meant was that his uncle is engaged in some agricultural experiments, and that when he was called away it was necessary to have somebody there to look after them. So Mr. Kellogg came up."
It was a shot in the air, but Rosalind felt that agriculture was safe and non-exciting. The members of the group breathed again and looked at her in admiration. The stranger was also staring at her without comprehension.
"Agricultural experiments!" snorted Reggy.
"Certainly," said Rosalind freezingly. "Exactly that. He is experimenting with a new kind of cauliflower. It's very delicate, and it has to be looked after whenever there is the least danger of frost. That's why he wanted—burlap. Isn't it, Mr. Kellogg?"
"Why—yes," the fat youth assented faintly.
Once more Rosalind received a tribute from grateful eyes, but this time they contained astonishment as well as gratitude. She accepted the homage complacently. The role for which she had cast Reggy Williams was still his.
"After tea," suggested Mrs. Witherbee, "if it's really necessary, you can have the launch and go over to look after the cauliflower."
"It's not necessary!" exclaimed Kellogg hastily. "It's not a bit chilly this afternoon—not a bit."
Rosalind gently detached Polly from the circle and led her along the porch.
"Get that man aside," she ordered, "and pump him."
Polly quailed.
"You must! We've simply got to find out something about him. And you're the only one to do it; you're supposed to know him."
"But—did you see Mr. Morton? He recognized him."
"He pretended to," declared Rosalind. "And that's one of the things I want to know something about. That makes two people who have pretended to know him. Are you quite sure, Polly, that you're not mistaken?"
"Rosalind!"
"Oh, well, I suppose you're not. At any rate, it's your business to do some investigating."
"But I don't know what to ask."
"Heavens, Polly! There are a lot of things to find out. Who is he? What is he here for? Why did he pretend to know you? Why did Mr. Morton pretend to know him? Where is Billy Kellogg? How did a telegram to Kellogg fall into his hands? Why, he may have murdered Kellogg!"
Polly shrieked faintly.
"Of course, I don't believe he did," added Rosalind contemptuously. "That man, whoever he is, wouldn't murder a rabbit. But there's something exceedingly strange about the whole affair, and it is our business to find out what it means. Go and get him!"
"But what shall I say?" wailed Polly.
Rosalind sighed hopelessly.
"Go and ask him anything," she said. "Take him down to the summer-house to see the river—anything, I tell you! And then pump—pump—pump!"
Polly Dawson shivered, but obeyed. When it amounted to a clash of wills, Rosalind was irresistible.
The latter lady watched the couple depart in the direction of the summer-house and smiled resignedly. Polly was so literal! Had it been her own task, Rosalind would have taken him to the first available place—anywhere that was beyond ear-shot of the others. But Polly needed a sailing-chart and a compass.
Rosalind managed a meeting with Mr. Morton, but it resulted in no information, because she did not choose to acquaint that gentleman with the fact that she knew the Kellogg to be spurious. And Morton volunteered nothing. So far as the surface of him went, the meeting had not occasioned even a ripple.
it was half an hour later when Polly reappeared and beckoned Rosalind to a corner of the porch.
"He's—he's not Billy Kellogg!" whispered Polly triumphantly.
Rosalind regarded her with a minute of patience and pity.
"Isthatall you learned?" she asked.
"He admitted it!"
"Of course he did. What of that? You knew it, anyhow, didn't you?"
"Ye-es—but he confessed."
"And what else did he confess?"
"Nothing."
An exasperated gasp was Rosalind's only comment.
"He—he said he couldn't explain," added Polly in an agitated voice. "And he seemed so nervous about it that I felt sorry for him. Truly I did, Rosalind."
"I haven't the least doubt," icily. "Tell me exactly what you said."
"He said it first. He said that he knew that I knew that he wasn't Billy Kellogg, and I admitted that I did know it, and that I thought that he knew I knew it. And then before I could say anything, he said that he couldn't explain, and he hoped I would not say anything—particularly to you. He—he seemed to be afraid of you, Rosalind. And, of course, after he said he couldn't explain, I couldn't very well ask him. Now, could I?"
"Of course not," said Rosalind in a withering voice.
"And he doesn't look like a murderer either, Rosalind; so I didn't ask him about that. He said he'd explain as soon as he could, and he wanted to know what Mr. Morton thought about him. I told him I thought Mr. Morton probably thought what you did. Was that right?"
"I am not accountable for Mr. Morton's thoughts."
"At any rate, I'm sure he won't do any harm, Rosalind—he seems so dreadfully embarrassed."
"And after talking to him for half an hour, you haven't the least idea who he is or why he came here?" Rosalind demanded.
"I—I'm afraid not."
Rosalind threw her hands wide in a gesture of hopelessness.
"What do you propose to do about this—impostor?" she demanded. "You are the person chiefly responsible. You permitted Mrs. Witherbee to receive him."
"Why don'tyouexpose him?" asked Polly meekly.
Rosalind ignored the inquiry.
"Besides," added Polly, "he says he will go away to-morrow."
"He willnot!" exclaimed Rosalind.
"You mean—"
"I mean that he will not leave this island until we know something about him if I have to sit up by myself and watch him."
Polly uttered an exclamation of awe.
"The man's an impostor—probably a thief," added Rosalind. "Do you suppose I shall permit him to go as he came? I thinknot!"
"You think we ought to tell the others?"
"Not yet. There is only one thing to do for the present—watch. That will be your business and mine. We must see to it that this man is not allowed to go away until everything is explained. Meanwhile, we will send for the person who is evidently the principal one to be concerned—Mr. Davidson."
"And wait?"
"Certainly. It cannot be very long. I shall telegraph to Mr. Davidson this evening; right away, in fact. It will not be difficult to reach him on the train. And we will keep this man here until Mr. Davidson returns."
"Suppose he will not stay, Rosalind?" ventured Polly timidly.
"Leave that to me. He'll stay!"
CHAPTER XIX
STUNG!
Rosalind not only wired to Mr. Davidson but, as an afterthought, she sent a message to Hastings & Hatch. The answer to the latter came promptly the following forenoon.
It did not serve to restore her equanimity. It described William Kissam Kellogg minutely, as Rosalind had requested, and the description was a photographic likeness of the young man who had confessed to Polly that he was no such person.
"Nothing to do but wait for Mr. Davidson," said Rosalind.
She spent some of the time, when it was not devoted to standing watch upon the stranger, in writing. After the call of the customs agents at Witherbee's Island, Rosalind had begun the preparation of a memorandum. It had already reached a length of several pages; there were daily additions. Also, there were classifications, thus:
What I Really Did.What They Think I Did.What I Know about Certain Things and Persons.What I Must Find Out About Them.What Must Never Be Found Out About Me.Things That I Have Said (for reference inconnection with other things I may have to say beforethis is over)Suspicions That I Have.
Under the last head there was much writing, for Rosalind's mind was as crowded with suspicions as that of a crowned head is thronged with troubles. It was not strange, of course, that a large part of the memorandum dealt with the boatman. At every turn and corner of it his name and his deeds intruded.
But there were some things that Rosalind, even in the privacy of her diary, would not suffer herself to commit to plain English. These were represented by a cipher code, the key to which lay only in her memory.
For instance, a Maltese cross represented her experience in the tree; a star the shower-bath that came from the boatman's bucket, an asterisk the dance at the hotel where she found herself in the arms of Sam. All this was by way of mitigating the disaster that would befall if her memorandum chanced to come to the eyes of another.
The task of keeping watch upon the strange young man was more tedious than difficult. Most of the time he sat on the porch, staring at the lawn with inconsolable eyes. He made not the slightest attempt to escape; rather, he appeared to be in a sort of stupor. Polly felt sorry for him; Rosalind had only contempt.
A day passed thus and a second began with the young man still sitting and staring. Even Mrs. Witherbee granted that he was an unhappy acquisition, while everybody was unanimous in agreeing that work had produced an appalling effect upon Kellogg.
It was mid-morning when Rosalind, unable longer to endure the sight—she classified him as a vegetable—left Polly on guard and betook herself to the river. One thing she wanted was her bracelet. Of the boatman she had seen nothing; he had made no effort to restore her property.
With an intent that was really subconscious, she rowed one of the light skiffs in the direction of his island. There was also something mechanical rather than deliberate in the act of her landing there, making fast her boat, and ascending the path that led to his shack. Only the sound of voices awakened her from a day-dream.
She halted and listened. One of the voices was unmistakably that of Sam. The other, subdued and indifferent in tone, she finally identified as that of Mr. Morton.
Now all of her senses were alert and tingling. Perhaps it was a chance meeting; perhaps a plot; perhaps—
But it might be any one of so many things that it was not worth while to speculate. It was entirely a matter for observation.
Rosalind advanced cautiously, taking care that no stick snapped or stone rolled underfoot, and keeping herself screened behind the small trees and bushes that sheltered the path. Presently she sighted them. The spectacle was one that surprised her.
Sam and the Englishman were seated on the ground, facing each other. Between them lay a folded blanket. The boatman was shuffling a pack of cards.
"What I can't make out," Sam was saying, "is the luck of it—you walking right into my parlor, just as the fly went calling on the spider, and without an invitation at that. I'd been trying to think up a scheme to get you here, and, by jingo! you save me the trouble."
"Um—ah—just rowing about a bit, you know. Exercise and that sort of thing. Saw your island, and came ashore to have a look."
"And you didn't know it was my hangout, eh?"
The boatman was watching the Englishman closely.
"'Pon my word, no! Awfully sorry I've intruded."
"Intruded! Man alive, you're as welcome as good news! Sit still; you positively mustn't be going yet. I insist. I hear you're something of a card-player. That's why— Confound that pack! My fingers are like thumbs lately."
The boatman gathered up the scattered pack and resumed his shuffling.
"You are about to make the acquaintance," he said, "of that certain branch of the great American sport known as freeze-out. You have ten chips; I have ten. Your chips are worth a thousand each; you'll have to take my word for it that mine are worth the same. The limit is anything you have in sight."
Morton yawned.
"Really," he drawled, "I'm not interested, you know."
"You will be," the boatman reassured him. "It's going to be highly interesting. Will you cut?"
"Rather, I think I'll say good day," and Morton made as if to rise.
Then Rosalind noticed that a pistol lay at the boatman's side and that his hand sought it. Morton observed the movement, too, for with a bored sigh he settled back on his crossed legs.
"I'll cut," he said.
The boatman dealt and picked up his hand. For a few seconds his antagonist seemed not to know the purpose of the five cards that lay, face downward, before him; then he lifted them languidly.
"I say," he yawned, "is a pair any good in this game?"
"Not too good," answered the boatman cheerfully. "How many?"
Morton took three, while Sam contented himself with one.
The Englishman tossed a chip into the center of the blanket, the boatman two.
"Er—what should I do now?" inquired the prisoner listlessly.
"Quit, call, or raise—anything you please."
"To call is—er—to equal the amount of your stake?"
"You've got the idea."
Morton added a chip to the pot and laid a pair of eights on the blanket. The boatman displayed tens up and nonchalantly raked four chips toward himself.
"Your deal," he said, tossing the cards across.
Rosalind frowned as she stared at the Englishman.
"I am afraid he is a fool, after all," she thought. "Why didn't he—"
The Englishman was dealing abstractedly. He had to be reminded to look at his own hand.
Sam drew three cards, Morton three. This time three of the Englishman's chips crossed the blanket to the other side. He showed not even a pair.
"It's plain robbery," whispered Rosalind to herself. "The man doesn't know the first thing about poker. Can they really be serious?"
A second look at the boatman's pistol reminded her that they probably were.
For five minutes the game progressed. Twice, by an accident of fate, the Englishman gathered the pot, but for the most part his own pile was receding chip by chip. Even in his winning moments he seemed bored almost to the point of somnolence. The boatman alternately grinned and whistled.
"I'll just tap you for what you've got," Sam said after examining his final draw. "Two checks, I believe."
"This is a deuced stupid game, you know," remarked Morton as he pushed the last of his stack to the center.
"Doesn't strike you quite so favorably as bridge, eh?"
"Rather—not."
"Do you happen to have anything as good as three of a kind?"
Morton looked down at his cards as if he had just discovered them.
"Er—what would you make of them?" he asked, displaying them.
Rosalind gasped. She could see the hand from where she stood. It contained not even a pair!
"I'd make a resolution to quit," advised the boatman as he took the last of the chips. "This freezes you."
"Can't say I think much of your American game," and Morton yawned again prodigiously. "Ah—how much?"
"You've lost ten thousand, my friend."
"Really, now?"
"Honest and truly."
The boatman's hand crept toward his revolver. With a listless shrug Morton began feeling in an inner pocket. Presently he drew forth a wallet.
"The idiot!" fumed Rosalind. "He's been swindled!"
A moment's search within the folds of the leather resulted in the appearance of an oblong slip of paper. Glancing casually at it, Morton handed it to the boatman. The latter examined it closely, then looked up with a smile.
"I—er—think you'll find it good," drawled Morton.
"I'll take a chance," said Sam as he thrust the paper into the pocket of his shirt. "Mighty nice of you to carry this around with you. But let me give you a chunk of advice. Next time you trim a guy at bridge, either keep your mouth shut about it or don't carry the stuff around with you. You are liable to tempt some of us poker kings."
"Ah—thanks, by Jove! Not a bad idea, that. You'll not be wanting me now, I take it?"
"School's out."
The boatman rose to his feet.
The placidity of Morton was undisturbed as he stood and flecked a few patches of dust from his trousers.
"I'll be going, if you don't mind," he remarked. "My boat's at the other end of the island."
Although the affair was none of hers, Rosalind found herself angry. If there was one thing that annoyed her beyond endurance, it was sheer stupidity. She believed she had just witnessed the apotheosis of it.
Yet something struck her oddly as the Englishman turned and walked away. She was quite sure that she heard him chuckle. The boatman must have heard the same thing, for he stared after Morton curiously.
"A bad check, I'll wager," whispered Rosalind to herself. "But where was the sense in the whole affair, anyhow? Never mind; it's not my business. But I want my bracelet."
She stepped from her concealment, and an instant later the boatman turned at the sound of her footsteps.
"Hello!" he said cordially. "You just missed the performance."
"My bracelet, please," was Rosalind's only remark.
"Why, I'd clean forgotten it, ma'am."
"You haven't—lost it?"
"No fear; it's safe."
He turned and entered the cabin, appearing a moment later with the golden circlet lying in his palm. Rosalind seized it with more joy than dignity. The touch of it, as she snapped it about her arm, was exhilarating. Her eyes shone with the light of triumph.
The boatman watched the expressive pantomime with evident approval.
"You're rather lucky to get it, in a way," he said. "I've just been taking a chance at freeze-out, and if I'd lost I guess it would have been up to me to fork over the bracelet as part payment."
Rosalind made no pretense of being startled at the idea. She knew he was capable of no such infamy, no matter what he might be.
"I saw what happened," she remarked.
"Oh, did you?"
"I saw you steal ten thousand dollars."
The boatman studied her quizzically.
"And never made a move to stop me," he commented.
She winced, but decided to ignore the implication.
"I didn't steal it, ma'am," he added. "Poker's a perfectly fair game. I didn't stack the cards; I didn't shove a cold deck at him."
"Fair! When he didn't know the first principles of it?"
"He certainly didn't play as if he did," admitted Sam. "But if he didn't know poker, he had no business to sit in the game."
"Not with a gun at his head?"
"Hum! I'd forgotten the gun. I suppose that did have something to do with it. It wasn't loaded, though."
"It was no better than stealing. Itwasstealing."
"Funny thing about it," mused the boatman, as if he did not hear her, "but he didn't seem to care much, one way or the other. Why, he yawned in my face, ma'am."
The creature baffled her completely.
"Have you no compunctions whatever about the manner in which you took his money?" she asked curiously.
"Compunctions—about him? I'm afraid not. He stole it in the first place, didn't he?"
"He won it—fairly!" exclaimed Rosalind. "You knew he had it, and you've been plotting and planning to get it for days and days."
"Maybe," he admitted.
"I hope the check he gave you is bad," she added viciously.
"That would be a horse on me; wouldn't it, ma'am? But that's a chance that folks like you and me have to run. Still, I heard he stole it, or what amounts to the same thing."
"I tell you he didn't!"
"You seem mighty sure about that. How do you know, ma'am?"
"Because Mr. Kellogg told me so."
"Kellogg?"
"Yes; he's here."
The boatman eyed her for several seconds.
"He is staying at Mr. Witherbee's," she added.
Of course, Rosalind knew that this was a fib; but somebody who called himself Kellogg was staying there, at any rate, and she saw no need of explaining to Sam.
"So Kellogg's here, is he?" he remarked. "I suppose he came back to have another try at the Englishman. That'll be hard luck for Kellogg, because I think his lordship is about cleaned, ma'am."
"He came for no such purpose," declared Rosalind, half wondering why she was hastening to the defense of an impostor. "Mr. Kellogg has—reformed."
"Reformed? Was he— Hum! Well—was he one of us?"
Rosalind's cheeks flamed.
"He was a good-for-nothing idle gambler!" she explained.
"Oh!" said the boatman in a relieved tone. "He's turned over a new leaf, eh?"
"He's very much engrossed in his new work.
"What's he doing here, then?"
"His uncle sent for him."
Again the boatman appeared to reflect.
"What for?" he asked.
"To look after his island while he is away. Mr. Davidson has gone to Denver. And Mr. Kellogg is going to try to put an end to all these burglaries. So there's a warning for you."
He pondered the warning and wrinkled his forehead.
"Customs officers still hanging around?" he asked.
"I am told they are."
"And that Canadian spy-chaser—is he still on the job?"
"I saw the launch again yesterday."
"Is Davidson's police patrol cruising, too?"
"Of course. And they've put on another boat."
Rosalind noted with satisfaction that he was showing traces of worriment.
"I expect that's going to make things pretty warm," he observed.
"Dangerous!" she supplemented.
"You'd advise flitting, then, ma'am?"
"Beyond all question. And—well, it's only because of the bracelet that I give you this warning."
"It's certainly kind of you—mighty kind."
Rosalind felt that the sword no longer dangled over her head by a single hair.
"You're a good, square pal to tip me off," he went on. "I guess you're dead right about it. The jig's up for us.
"Yes, ma'am. We'd better blow."
"We!"
"We'll be starting in a few minutes. It never pays to stick around after the last hand's played."
Rosalind was tongue-tied with astonishment.
CHAPTER XX
"GOOD WORK, PAL!"
"You see," Sam went on, seemingly unaware of her consternation, "it's foolish to take any more chances than are absolutely necessary. Now that we've got a fairly good stake, it would be silly to wait. We'll run over to the American side somewhere, and once we get ashore there's small chance of getting pinched."
"Are you utterly mad?" asked Rosalind, abruptly finding her voice.
"Mad? I should say not, ma'am. Just cautious—that's all. I'd be mad if I stayed."
"But you are saying that I—"
"That you are going with me. Certainly. Why not?"
Rosalind was not frightened, yet something in his tone chilled her. She examined his face with searching eyes. He seemed to be quite composed; there was no trace of wildness in his eyes, no betrayal of mental agitation in his speech. Were it not for his astounding words, she would have considered him entirely normal. She decided to laugh, but the attempt was poor. His was infinitely more successful.
"It may be a little sudden, ma'am," he admitted; "but it seems a case for quick action. I'm sorry we won't even be able to stop at Witherbee's for your trunks."
She decided to try a reasonable tone.
"Think what you are saying," she advised, controlling her voice. "It is quite impossible—this thing you propose. But, of course, you're not serious."
"Never more serious in my life."
The look in his eyes gave her a twinge of alarm.
"But don't you see—Sam—"
"That's the first time you've called me by name," he interrupted with a bow. "Thanks, partner."
"But don't you see there is no reason whatever for me to go."
Rosalind was trying to talk to him as if he were a petulant child to be placated, or a lunatic to be argued with until help arrived.
"There's every reason," he answered. "Pals should stick together."
"But you know—seriously—that I am not your—pal!"
The vulgar word passed her lips reluctantly.
"But you are, ma'am; the best I ever had. I guess I could name a dozen instances of it. Want me to go over them? First, there's—"
"You need not. It's too absurd. I shall go at once."
"Not till I go," he told her firmly. "As I was going to say when you interrupted me, ma'am, we'll make a break for the American shore, and as soon as we can get a license and a justice of the peace or minister, why—"
"Stop!"
"We'll get married."
Rosalind turned pale. Truly she was dealing with a madman on this lonely little island!
"Married!"
"Why, certainly! What else? You don't suppose I'm going to lose a pal like you?"
The boatman was so calm that his manner utterly disconcerted her. A rational exterior, she reflected, often cloaked the most dangerous forms of insanity.
"But I have no intention of marrying—anybody."
"That's been the trouble all along," he assured her. "You've had so many offers that you don't take them seriously any longer. But this is different. This isn't an offer, ma'am; it's just a plain announcement of what's going to happen. We're going to be married."
She glanced swiftly through the trees in the direction of the river. There was not a boat within hailing distance.
"It's this way," he went on easily. "You've helped me out of a few tight places. I've helped you once, at least. We're a great team, and there's nothing like teamwork in our business. I don't mind saying I'm strong for you. You have got good nerve; when you make up your mind to anything, you're apt to get it.
"You and I can go a long way together. I'll admit we may quarrel some, but that'll be your fault. You've got a hair-trigger tongue, ma'am. But I won't mind that; I'm getting used to it. The point is, when we get working together we're able to deliver the goods.
"You wouldn't expect me to lose a good pal, would you? Of course not. And I can't see myself doing it, either. It's true that the jig is up here. But it's a wide, wide world, pal. Shall we be going?"
"Do you suppose for one instant," said Rosalind, trying to hide the real terror in her voice, "that I am going to marry—you?"
"I'm sure of it," he said confidently. "Why not, ma'am? We won't starve—and I say that without the least idea of tapping your bank-roll. You can keep it soaked away, if you want to. I've got a nice little stake now." He touched the pocket where Morton's check reposed.
"That'll last us a good while," he continued, "and it's a sure thing we'll turn off some kind of a job before that's gone. Why, just think! With my experience and your social drag—"
"Stop!"
There was absolute desperation in her voice.
"Not much time to lose," he advised, glancing at a nickeled watch. "No telling but that Englishman'll be stirring up some sort of trouble for us."
Wrath triumphed at last despite Rosalind's efforts to be self-contained.
"You common thief!" she cried, stamping her foot and glaring. "How dare you insult me so? You burglar! You blackmailer! You—"
"Spy and smuggler," he supplied. "May as well get the whole list out of your system, ma'am. I don't mind; I keep my temper better than you do.
"But don't forget that I'm talking facts, while you're just barking at the moon. I hate to disappoint you, in one way; but your scalping days are over, ma'am. You've had your last proposal. I don't doubt you've turned down a lot of pretty good scouts, but you won't turn down any more. That's a cinch, as far as I can see now.
"You had your last proposal—unless there's been one since—when the Englishman got so enthusiastic over you. I heard it, you know. You threw him rather hard. You did the same for Reggy, less than half an hour before. And I understand there's been a long string of them. Well, you're at the end of the string."
He grinned complacently.
"You needn't shout," he added. "You're not getting a chance to turn me down. This is no proposal, ma'am. This is what you might call an order, if I have to speak plain. It don't require any answer. It's not up to you to say yes or no; all you have to do is to come along like a good pal."
Rosalind shrank backward a step. At last she was genuinely frightened, for Sam possessed all the calm of a terrible madness.
"What a fool I'd be to let you go!" he added reflectively. "And—not to flatter myself—what a fool you'd be to miss a chance like this! We've just got to know each other's ways; we're like wheels in the same clock. I need you; you need me.
"I'll admit you don't have to earn your living. But think of the fun you miss when you don't! It gets mighty tiresome, standing on the outside and looking in. What you and I need, ma'am, is excitement—plenty of action—something to keep us on edge.
"You're what I call an emergency pal. You don't really begin to get good until you're in a scrape. It takes trouble to start you going. But when you do get started—if you don't mind my saying it, ma'am—you go to it like the cat to the canary."
She scarcely heard his last words; her mind was intent on seeking some avenue of escape. Tentatively, she edged toward the path that led to the boat-landing. But the boatman understood and shook his head.
"When we go, we go together," he assured her. "That dress you're wearing looks all right. Whatever you need in the line of clothes we can get when we hit the mainland.
"As far as I'm concerned, all I have to do is to put on my hat. And that's down in the boat, I think; if it isn't, it doesn't matter. We'll start, I guess."
He turned toward the path and beckoned.
"I refuse to stir a foot!" exclaimed Rosalind.
She compressed her lips.
"That means carrying you, then, ma'am."
"You dare not touch me!"
"I hate to, but I'll have to, if you're not willing to walk."
"I will not go! It's—it's insanity!"
The boatman shrugged and advanced toward her.
She retreated a pace.
"If you dare—"
"Will you walk, then?"
"I'll find someway—"
"Once and for all, will you walk?"
She searched his eyes for some trace of insincerity or weakness, but found none. A shudder of fear shook her. Then she rallied herself angrily.
"I shall walk," she said coldly.
He nodded contentedly and led the way toward the landing. Rosalind followed mechanically, but her brain was afire with activity. Beyond doubt, the boatman had become insane; if, indeed, he had not been so from the first.
But she realized that at times it was needful to humor an unbalanced mind. For the present, she would accompany him; but surely there would be an opportunity to escape. If she could obtain no aid from a passing boat, at least there would be ample help when they reached the mainland.
"We'll take the oldFifty-Fifty," he remarked as he loosed the painter. "It's better than rowing. And if anything goes wrong, why, you're here to fix it. By the way, what do you want me to call you, ma'am, Rosie?"
She glared at him.
"No? Rosalind, maybe? It's a little long; but it'll do, I suppose. It's shorter than saying Miss Chalmers, anyhow. But it's not as short as pal. I rather like that, myself. But you seem to be touchy about it."
Rosalind stepped aboard the launch without answering.
She prayed that the engine might not start; but the prayer was unanswered, for it purred happily at the first turn of the fly-wheel. The launch backed out into the stream. An instant later it described a half-circle, then started eastward.
"We'll hit the trail for Ogdensburg," said the boatman. "Plenty of preachers there."
"Are you aware of the fact," remarked Rosalind, with a sudden smile of triumph, "that before you drag me to a preacher you must drag me to some town clerk or other person and obtain a license?"
To her annoyance, he appeared neither surprised nor dismayed.
"It's just another step in the journey," he said carelessly. "I'll admit that this license game is sometimes a spoil-sport on romance. But you haven't got me there. You'll agree! You'll step right up to the captain's office and take your little oath without saying a word. A good pal never welches."
"I shall most certainly turn you over to the police at the first opportunity."
"No," he said confidently, with a shake of his head; "you won't do anything of the kind. Why, ma'am, you're the pal who keeps me out of the hands of the police! You're an expert at it. I'm proud of you.
"You see, if one of us got pinched, the other would have to go along, too; I'm strong for sticking together. You understand—for better or for worse, ma'am. I think that's the way they say it.
"And if they should happen to pinch you, it would be real embarrassing, I expect. They'd start finding things out, maybe; all about lots of things that have happened to you and me. My, but that would be a piece for the papers! Head-lines and pictures and artists drawing little sketches of Rosalind, the 'Regal Lady,' sitting in a tree and burgling a house and bossing a gas-engine and—"
"Stop!"
"Oh, all right; I'll stop! I expected you to get the idea. You're not much of a hand for getting laughed at, I notice. And folks might laugh if they read the papers. You've got a kind of a long name for a big-type head-line, too; some printer-chap might chop it down to Rosie in order to make it fit."
The boatman grinned and reached over to advance the spark.
Rosalind turned her back upon him—this One-Cylinder Sam who meant to marry her—and gazed despairingly across the water. By sheer perversity of fate, there was not a boat within half a mile. Ogdensburg meant a run of several hours, even at the best gait of theFifty-Fifty. It might be dark when they arrived. She imagined the panic on Witherbee's Island when nightfall came without her.
Sam lighted his pipe and sat hunched over the tiller, smoking thoughtfully. For a quarter of an hour he appeared to pay no attention to anything save the back of Rosalind's head. Then something caused him to glance upward at the sky, then at the horizon that lay behind them. He wrinkled his forehead and put aside his pipe.
It was scarcely mid-afternoon, but daylight was failing rapidly. Rosalind herself, although wholly concerned with her absurd and perhaps dangerous plight, presently noticed the change in the sky. A swift survey of a great bank of black and lead-colored clouds ended with a glance at the boatman.
"Squall coming," he admitted, with a nod.
She experienced a feeling of elation. A squall might mean anything but a license and a parson. It was a storm that saved Britain from the Armada.
Sam, however, made no alteration in his course. Frequently he glanced over his shoulder, but soon this maneuver became unnecessary, for the battle-front of the squall had advanced with such appalling rapidity that it now overhung them, like some monster destroyer of the air. As yet, however, there was no breath of wind.
"You'll make an island?" Rosalind suggested.
"She'll ride it out," he said confidently. "I've been out in 'em before."
Rosalind measured the low free-board of the launch with a doubtful eye. She was still triumphant in what she felt would abruptly shatter the mad plans of the boatman, yet she was sensibly uneasy at the fairly ferocious aspect of the storm.
"Better make a landing," she warned.
"Afraid?"
She turned her back upon him.
Half a mile astern a long, white line extended itself across the river. Beyond it the boatman could not see, for all was murk and grayness and ominous opacity. Then the white line seemed to leap forward at a furious pace. The speed of the launch was as nothing to it.
Suddenly the steersman seemed to awake. He chewed his under lip anxiously as he watched the onrush of the line of foam.
"Worse than I thought," he muttered. "I'm a fool."
A quarter of a mile to his left lay an island, but he knew there was not a chance in a thousand of making the lee of it. Besides, to alter the course meant taking the squall abeam, with a swift ending of the voyage in mid-river.
"Come aft here!" he commanded.
Rosalind turned and studied the white line. It was not more than a hundred yards distant. Without a word she obeyed him.
He motioned her to a seat beside him, and as she sat down passed an arm around her shoulders.
"Sit tight, pal," he said. "And if it gets too bad, there's a life-preserver under your feet."
The change is his tone impressed her for the moment far more than threatened perils. All the banter and sarcasm had vanished from his voice. He spoke gravely, almost grimly.
"I shall not need it," she answered. "I swim."
"We may be in a bad fix," he said, his lips close to her ear. "If it was anybody but you I wouldn't admit it. But you're game. It'll blow hard and get rough. I'm sorry—"
The remainder of the sentence she could not near, for the white line had overtaken them. The storm-front delivered a blow like a battering-ram, a blow in which wind, hail, sea, and a stifling smother of froth seemed welded into one sinister and mighty weapon. The launch staggered, then leaped forward.
Rosalind felt a cruel beating of ice-shrapnel upon her face, her arms, her thinly clad shoulders. In an effort to give her shelter the boatman drew her head down against his flannel shirt. One hand was needed for the tiller, for the clumsy power-boat was yawing and swaying, and at every lurch struggled, as if with deliberate purpose, to offer her beam to the storm.
He steered wholly by instinct. Every landmark and island had been blotted out as if swept from the surface of the river. Even the bow of the launch was no longer visible.
The boatman sat with his feet braced against a cleat, his body swaying with the roll of the seas. He squinted through half-closed eyes, but saw nothing save a fury of white water and driving hail. Indeed, river and air seemed to have merged into a whirling, stinging, vapory mass, in the grip of which the launch was flung onward, so that at times she seemed to fly, rather than float.
Rosalind was glad to hide her face, not because she feared to look upon the fury that encompassed them, but to shield it from the bitter volleying of the hail. It seemed not to descend from sky to earth, but to travel horizontally, with the velocity and flat trajectory of a rifle-bullet.
Flying water smote her when the wind sliced the crests from waves and flung them aboard across the stern of the wallowing launch. The boatman's grip tightened. Even in the din and ferocity of the storm she found herself marveling at the power that lay in his slender but sinewy arm.
His lips were against her ear.
"All right?" he shouted. "Just nod; don't try to talk!"
She nodded.
Another minute passed. There was no slackening in the onslaught. Once the tiller was almost wrenched from Sam's hand by the impact of a sea that caught the launch a quartering blow. It was nearly disaster, but he managed to swing the stern to the wind again. Yet the blow had left its mark. There was water now above the flooring.
As it swirled about Rosalind's feet she reached forward to where a tin bucket lay. The boatman drew her back.
"No use!" he roared. "You can't bail!"
She accepted his decision without question, and again hid her face against his breast.
"Get the life-preserver!"
She heard the command but dimly, though it was shouted directly into her ear.
Rosalind shook her head. Of what use was a thing of cork and canvas out there in the white fury?
"Get it!"
Again she shook her head. It was not merely the uselessness of the thing that caused her stubborn refusal. It was the fact—and she was calmly conscious of it, too—that there was only one life-preserver in the boat.
Just why this influenced her was not clear in her mind, but she realized with faint surprise that it did. She even found herself pondering over it, telling herself that it was unethical to seize this lone chance that offered itself only to her. Yet she was doubtful, too, that ethics had anything to do with the matter.
The water in the cock-pit was deeper, and there was a growing sluggishness in the movements of the launch that she noted as quickly as the boatman himself.
"Rosalind!"
She lifted her head slightly.
"For Heaven's sake, put it on!"
"No!" she cried almost fiercely.
She felt the grip of his arm tighten convulsively. Something that sounded like a sob came from his throat.
"It's your one chance!" he shouted.
She shook her head.
Then for a brief instant some freak of the gale tore a great rent in the curtain of hail that shrouded them. The boatman's straining eyes had a vision of black rocks fairly in the path of his storm-harried craft. The murk closed in again.
"We're going ashore!" he roared.
Rosalind nodded.
"In half a minute—not more!"
Again she signed that she understood.
"Listen!" His lips were bellowing the words into her ear. "I'll steer until we're ready to hit. Then I'll rush you forward and get you ashore somehow. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Be ready!"
Now he prayed for another glimpse of the goal that lay ahead, but it was denied him. He could only calculate its nearness; nay, could do little more than guess. Second by second they were closing upon it, yet he dared not release the tiller, for if the launch yawed before she struck she might never strike at all. Safety or disaster lay in the barrier toward which they were sweeping, he knew not which.
But his plans were swiftly made. The woman at his side would have the best chance he could give her.
He tried counting the seconds, but this was useless. If he could but see again for a single instant! It was death to start too soon; death to wait too long. And he could only guess at the moment!
The tension snapped. Why—how—he did not know; the hail still half blinded him. Yet he staggered to his feet, dragging her with him, and rushed forward, knee-deep in the water that filled the rapidly settling launch.
As he neared the bow a black wall sprang out of the gray mist. To Rosalind it seemed to rear itself to an impossible height. The launch lunged heavily toward it.
"Don't cling to me!" he shouted.
At the same instant she was lifted in his arms. As the boatman stepped out upon the slippery, staggering deck the black wall hung over her.
Rosalind felt herself tossed into the air. For what seemed an interminable period she hung suspended in space. Then something rose to meet her feet with a jarring shock. She was standing on a ledge.
Below her, even above the roar of the wind, came the sound of a heavy, crashing blow. The launch had struck. She knew what that meant. The boatman had given her the one chance!
With a gasping sob she whirled about and stepped to the edge of the rock.
"Sam!"