Friend Buccaneer: Of course I found the shell. That was the one issue which offered no odds. The shell lay in its bed peculiarly under a running ledge. The ordinary pearler would have discovered it only by the greatest good luck. Atherton—my friend—discovered it, because he was a sea naturalist, and was hunting for something altogether different. Atherton was wealthy, and a coral reef was more to him than a pearl. But he knew me and what such a game would mean. He was in ill health and had to leave the South Pacific and fare north. This atoll was his. It is now mine, pearls and all, legally mine. For a trifling sum I could have chartered a schooner and sought the atoll.But all my life I’ve hunted odds—big, tremendous odds—to crush down and swarm over. The only interest I had in life. And so I planted the crew and stole theWandererbecause it presented whopping odds. I selected a young and dare-devil crew to keep me on edge. From one day to another I was always285wondering when they would break over. I refused to throw overboard the wines and liquors to make a good measure.And there was you. Would you sit tight under such an outrage, or would your want of revenge ride you? Would you send the British piling on top of me, or would you make it a private war? Suspense! Dick Cunningham would not be hard to trace. Old Slue Foot. The biggest odds I’d ever encountered. Nominally, I had about one chance in a thousand of pulling through.The presence of Mrs. Cleigh—of course she’s Mrs. Cleigh by this time!—added to the zest. To bring her through with nothing more than a scare! Odds, odds! Cleigh, on my word, the pearls would have been of no value without the game I built to go with them. Over the danger route! Mad? Of course I’m mad!Four-year-old shell, the pearls of the finest orient! The shell alone—in buttons—would have recouped Eisenfeldt. He was ugly when he saw that I had escaped him. Threatened to expose you. But knowing Eisenfeldt for what he is, I had a little sword of Damocles suspended over his thick neck. The thought of having lost eight months’ interest will follow him to Hades.The crew gave me no more trouble. They’ve been paid their dividends in the Great Adventure Company, and have gone seeking others. But I’ll warrant they’ll take only regular berths in the future.And now those beads. I’m sorry, but I’m also innocent. I have learned that Morrissy really double-crossed us all. He had had a copy made in Venice. The beads you have are forgeries. So the sixty thousand offered by the French Government remains uncalled for. Who has the originals I can’t say. I’m sorry. Morrissy’s game was risky. His idea was to make a sudden breakaway with the beads—lose them286in the gutter—and trust to luck that we would just miss killing him, which was the case.Leaving to-night. Bought a sloop down there, and I’m going back there to live. Tired of human beings. Tired of myself. Still, there’s the chart. Mull it over. Maybe it’s an invitation. The lagoon is like turquoise and the land like emerald and the sky a benediction.
Friend Buccaneer: Of course I found the shell. That was the one issue which offered no odds. The shell lay in its bed peculiarly under a running ledge. The ordinary pearler would have discovered it only by the greatest good luck. Atherton—my friend—discovered it, because he was a sea naturalist, and was hunting for something altogether different. Atherton was wealthy, and a coral reef was more to him than a pearl. But he knew me and what such a game would mean. He was in ill health and had to leave the South Pacific and fare north. This atoll was his. It is now mine, pearls and all, legally mine. For a trifling sum I could have chartered a schooner and sought the atoll.
But all my life I’ve hunted odds—big, tremendous odds—to crush down and swarm over. The only interest I had in life. And so I planted the crew and stole theWandererbecause it presented whopping odds. I selected a young and dare-devil crew to keep me on edge. From one day to another I was always285wondering when they would break over. I refused to throw overboard the wines and liquors to make a good measure.
And there was you. Would you sit tight under such an outrage, or would your want of revenge ride you? Would you send the British piling on top of me, or would you make it a private war? Suspense! Dick Cunningham would not be hard to trace. Old Slue Foot. The biggest odds I’d ever encountered. Nominally, I had about one chance in a thousand of pulling through.
The presence of Mrs. Cleigh—of course she’s Mrs. Cleigh by this time!—added to the zest. To bring her through with nothing more than a scare! Odds, odds! Cleigh, on my word, the pearls would have been of no value without the game I built to go with them. Over the danger route! Mad? Of course I’m mad!
Four-year-old shell, the pearls of the finest orient! The shell alone—in buttons—would have recouped Eisenfeldt. He was ugly when he saw that I had escaped him. Threatened to expose you. But knowing Eisenfeldt for what he is, I had a little sword of Damocles suspended over his thick neck. The thought of having lost eight months’ interest will follow him to Hades.
The crew gave me no more trouble. They’ve been paid their dividends in the Great Adventure Company, and have gone seeking others. But I’ll warrant they’ll take only regular berths in the future.
And now those beads. I’m sorry, but I’m also innocent. I have learned that Morrissy really double-crossed us all. He had had a copy made in Venice. The beads you have are forgeries. So the sixty thousand offered by the French Government remains uncalled for. Who has the originals I can’t say. I’m sorry. Morrissy’s game was risky. His idea was to make a sudden breakaway with the beads—lose them286in the gutter—and trust to luck that we would just miss killing him, which was the case.
Leaving to-night. Bought a sloop down there, and I’m going back there to live. Tired of human beings. Tired of myself. Still, there’s the chart. Mull it over. Maybe it’s an invitation. The lagoon is like turquoise and the land like emerald and the sky a benediction.
A spell of silence and immobility. Not a word about his battle with Flint, thought Jane. A little shiver ran over her. But what a queer, whimsical madman! To have planned it all so that he could experience a thrill! The tragic beauty of his face and the pitiable, sluing, lurching stride! She sighed audibly, so did the two men.
“Denny, I don’t know,” said Cleigh.
“I do!” said Dennison, anticipating his father’s thought. “He’s a man, and some day I’d like to clasp his hand.”
“Maybe we all shall,” said Cleigh. “But open the box, Jane, and let’s see.”
Between the layers of cotton wool she found a single pearl as large as a hazelnut, pink as the Oriental dawn. One side was slightly depressed, as though some mischievous, inquisitive mermaid had touched it in passing.
“Oh, the lovely thing!” she gasped. “The lovely thing! But, Denny, I can’t accept it!”
“And how are you going to refuse it? Keep it.287It is an emblem of what you are, honey. The poor devil!”
And he put his arm round her. He understood. Why not? There are certain attractions which are irresistible, and Jane was unconscious of her possessions.
Jane raised the bottom layer of cotton wool. What impulse led her to do this she could not say, but she found a slip of paper across which was written:
“An’ I learned about women from ’er.”
“An’ I learned about women from ’er.”
All this while, across the street, in the shadow of an areaway, stood a man in a mackintosh and a felt hat drawn well down. He had watched the van disgorge and roll away, the arrival and the departure of the messenger boy.
He began to intone softly: “‘Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.’”
With a sluing lurch to his stride he started off down the street, into the lashing rain. A great joke; and now there was nothing at all to disturb his dreams—but the dim white face of Jabez Flint spinning in the dark of the sea.
THE END
THE END
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESSGARDEN CITY, N. Y.
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.