He immediately made known his need of help.
"I'm afraid," he began with a tremor of anxiety in his voice, "that you have been assigned to a case which will prove hard to solve. The woman I love—the woman I had expected to marry soon—has been taken from me in a most mysterious way. Somehow she's been kidnapped, and taken to sea a prisoner on her father's yacht."
"Her name?" Van Dusen demanded crisply as the speaker paused.
"It's Ethel Marion," Roy answered huskily. "The daughter of Colonel Stephen Marion, who, at present, is with his regiment on the Mexican Border." He drew Ethel's message from his pocket and extended it to the detective.
"The only clue I have," he continued, "is this letter from her. She managed somehow to toss it near enough to a fisherman's dory so that they picked it up, and forwarded it to my mother's camp in the Adirondacks. I wired the Collector of the Port for information about the yacht's clearance papers. I had a reply from him at Albany on the way down here. He said that the yacht has not been cleared, and that if it's not in port, it has been stolen."
Roy fairly groaned, and made a gesture of despair.
"That's all I know of the affair," he added drearily. "I am distracted for fear something dreadful may have happened already. You understand now how badly I require your help. I can think of nothing—do nothing. You are not to think of expense. Just rescue Ethel Marion and run down and jail those guilty of this crime against her." His voice suddenly became pleading. "And you must let me enlist as a lieutenant to serve under you. Inactivity under such stress would drive me mad, I know. I was stunned at first, but now I have my faculties again, and I believe that I may be able to be of use in the case under your guidance."
Van Dusen stretched out his hand and clasped that of Roy warmly. Something in the firm contact comforted the distraught lover. It was as if strength and courage flowed into him from the other man.
"Rely upon me," Van Dusen said quietly, but with a note of confidence in his voice that still further served to hearten his hearer. "And I shall certainly make use of you—and at once. First off, I'll ask you to get in touch immediately with Captain Halstead, the master of my yacht. Arrange to have it properly equipped and provisioned, so that we may sail at a moment's notice. Luckily," he added musingly to himself, "the new wireless outfit is already installed onThe Hialdo. We'll need it."
Van Dusen stood up abruptly, and again spoke to Roy, almost curtly.
"After you've attended to the matter of the yacht, report to me at the agency. You should be there well within an hour. If you arrive first, wait for me."
"But you——?" Roy began eagerly.
Van Dusen replied to the unfinished question.
"I'm off now to seek a clue from Miss Marion's maid." His voice grew gentle as he spoke again after a moment's silence. "It's a curious case; curious and—difficult. But, please God, we'll win."
Roy's answer came brokenly.
"Heaven bless you, Van Dusen! And," he added with fierce intensity, "we will win—we must!"
Van Dusen hurried to the Marion address, where he found Ethel's maid thoroughly enjoying the vacation that had resulted for her from Doctor Garnet's action. Using his alias of Jack Scott, Van Dusen explained to the girl the situation that had developed, which was so perilous to her young mistress. When the maid had recovered from her first dismay, she told freely all that she knew, and this was sufficient easily to give Van Dusen the suspicion that the family physician might be in fact the guilty man, who was responsible for Ethel's disappearance.
The detective's next visit was to the office of Doctor Garnet. There he found the physician's secretary much worried over the prolonged and unexplained absence of his employer. He declared that the last time he had seen Doctor Garnet was several days before when he had left in answer to a hurry call from the victim of an accident. The secretary added that he had made careful inquiries in every possible direction, but had been unable to find any trace whatsoever of the missing man.
Van Dusen gave only vague answers to the anxious questions put by the secretary. He stated merely that a client of his was anxious to get in touch with the physician. Then, without more ado, he hastened to keep his appointment with Roy. His own face, now he was alone without any necessity for the mask of indifference, was deeply perturbed. Consternation was written in his expression. His deductions brought him face to face with the fact that Garnet was actively concerned in the mystery. Either the physician was actually guilty of abducting his girl patient for some evil purpose of his own, or else he himself was also a victim of the kidnappers along with Ethel. Or, finally, the man had suddenly become deranged from nerve strain and overwork, and in this irresponsible condition had stolen away the girl, with what crazy design none might guess. This possibility was even more dreadful than the others since there could be no certainty as to what the madman might intend. Van Dusen realized, with a shudder of horror, that in haste must lie the only chance of rescuing the girl from some horrible fate. It seemed to him that the single feasible plan would be to follow down the coast according to the directions given in Ethel's letter to Roy. While doing this the wireless on his yacht would keep constantly in touch with all Southern ports and with the coastwise steamers for news ofThe Isabel. Then whenever the stolen yacht should be located, if fortune so favored, it would be pursued with all speed in the hope of effecting a rescue.
Van Dusen found Roy pacing uneasily to and fro in an outer room at the agency. He had performed the duties entrusted to him by the detective and was now wild with impatience for further action. His first glance into Van Dusen's face stirred him to new excitement.
"Oh, Arthur!" he exclaimed, "I can see by your expression that you have obtained important information. Tell me!" he insisted. "Tell me! I must know—even if it's the worst. In these hours of suspense and despair, I've braced myself to stand any shock. Tell me!"
Van Dusen answered soothingly.
"Roy, old man, the mystery will be solved, I think, and that before long. That is to say, it will be cleared up unlessThe Isabelfounders at sea before we can reach it. I have discovered that in all human probability Miss Marion has been carried away in the yacht by Doctor Garnet."
"Are you positive about that?" Roy demanded fiercely.
"I am positive this far," came the quiet reply. "Doctor Garnet has not returned to his office since the time when he answered the call to attend Miss Marion on the yacht. It is fairly to be deduced from her message to you that he appeared on board in answer to her summons. I am of the opinion that Doctor Garnet is the one responsible for this outrage. He is either the victim of a sudden fit of insanity, or he has become a man-beast, sacrificing position and honor and every decent instinct in order to gratify a heretofore smoldering lust, which has suddenly flamed forth and got beyond his control."
"Your deductings are doubtless right—at least in part," Roy admitted, though with obvious reluctance in his tone. "But I find it hard to believe the possibility of Doctor Garnet's being the brute you suggest. He is universally esteemed not only for his ability, but also for his manliness and his many deeds of kindness and charity. If he has done this thing it must have been as you also suggest because he has gone crazy."
Roy mused for a moment, and then spoke with a new note of excitement in his voice.
"How do we know that the Doctor was not murdered while on board the yacht, and that the murderer or murderers then made off with the vessel and Marion? Or, perhaps, the tender was capsized and he was drowned along with the caretaker. Afterward the kidnapping may have been done by others who knew nothing whatever of Doctor Garnet." Roy shook his head with decision. "Anyhow," he added, "I cannot believe that Doctor Garnet, in his right mind, could ever have been guilty of such a foul crime."
Van Dusen regarded the young man tolerantly, but his smile was a little cynical as he replied:
"When you have studied crime as thoroughly as I have during the past few years, Roy, you will not be so confident of finding nothing but good in any particular man, no matter how high his reputation may be. I cannot say with certainty that Doctor Garnet is vile; neither can I say that he is incapable of vileness. But in the work I have to do, I must entertain all possibilities if I would solve the problem."
"Well, Arthur," came Roy's reply after a moment of reflection, "I admit that I am amazed by what you have told me. I do not in the least understand the turn of affairs by which Doctor Garnet is implicated. But you are in charge of the case, and I am absolutely in your hands. I mean not to hamper you in any way—not even by throwing doubts on your judgment. So, now, just tell me what you mean to do next."
Van Dusen answered authoritatively:
"We must leave at once. On my way here, I sent out wires to Norfolk and other near-by coast points. These will be sufficient to keep the port officers on the lookout forThe Isabel, as well as the coast-guard crews. I have a wardrobe on board my yacht. Whatever you may need beyond what's in your bag, I can supply you with. Let's be off."
Van Dusen's yacht was moored near the spot whereThe Isabelhad been lying. The detective made diligent inquiry at the landing stage in the hope of picking up some bit of information concerning Doctor Garnet's presence there, but the effort was fruitless. No one seemed to have known anything concerning the physician's visit.
Forthwith, then, the two young men went aboard Van Dusen's yacht, and a few minutes later the vessel was under way, with instructions to the master to hug the New Jersey shore while keeping a sharp lookout forThe Isabel.
The detective operated his own wireless outfit and for several hours at the outset of the voyage he kept busy, interrogating the different ships bound up and down the coast, and the shore stations as well, for any information concerning the stolen yacht. Finally, a tramp steamer answered that she had passedThe Isabelthe day before, and that the yacht at that time was headed down the coast, going slowly, in the direction of Hampton Roads. At once, on receiving this news, Van Dusen directed that the yacht's course should be set for Cape Charles and the Roads.
As a matter of fact, without this information, the yacht must have taken this same direction for the sake of safety, since the weather soon became so threatening that none but the most foolhardy would have ventured to navigate in the open sea a vessel ofThe Hialdotype.
The Hialdopushed her nose through the waters of Hampton Roads in the early morning. Both Roy and Van Dusen were on the bridge, surveying with their glasses every detail visible of the bays and creeks. They dared hope to catch somewhere a glimpse ofThe Isabel, for they believed that she must be secreted somewhere hereabouts in some out-of-the-way place. They were justified in this by the fact that they had received no word of the yacht's arrival from the harbor authorities of Norfolk. Yet, now, their roving scrutiny was of no avail. Nowhere could they find a trace of aught that could possibly be mistaken forThe Isabel.... With the approach of night the violence of the gale became such that perforce Van Dusen gave orders for the tying up of theThe Hialdoat the Norfolk port, there to await the passing of this southeaster of hurricane force.
The hours during which the tempest raged were fraught with horror for Roy Morton. He was in despair now, for he could not believe thatThe Isabelwould be able to ride out the gale. His imagination pictured for him with frightful vividness the wreck of the yacht and its carrying down to death the girl he loved. The young man's agony of spirit was so evident that Van Dusen became alarmed lest he should break down. The detective thought to distract Roy from his morbid thoughts by suggesting that they take a trip into the town to lessen the tedium of waiting until the storm should wear itself out. His persistence at last won a reluctant consent, and the two set forth.... In after years, Roy was to think often with shuddering of what must have been the dreadful result, had he indeed refused to accompany the detective on that excursion into the town.
The mere act of rapid walking had a beneficial effect upon Roy. His circulation was equalized by the exercise and something of his natural buoyancy of spirit was restored to him. The detective, too, found pleasure in the tramp, and the young men walked along many miles of the Norfolk streets, aimless, but well entertained. They swung at last into the square where a huge monument commemorates the Lost Cause and heroic dead. Suddenly Van Dusen's attention was attracted to a huge gilt sign over the door of a saloon. The outer aspect of the place was attractive enough, with something of distinctiveness about it. He turned to Roy and spoke with a tone of amused interest.
"That seems a bit different from other saloons. And I fancy the sign tells the truth." With the words, he pointed to the gilt lettering over the door.
Roy turned and looked in the direction of the detective's pointing finger. "Clam Broth King," he read, and smiled appreciatively.
"Well, old man," he remarked, "it's a straightforward way of advertising a food, as well as a novel one. And from the labels on the bottles in the window, it might prove a good place for us to visit before we start on the return journey to the yacht."
"I really know the place," Van Dusen declared, "and it is excellent. About a year ago, I was in this city on an important case. It was through the assistance of The King that I was able to locate a most valuable witness. And the probability is that but for the sign I would have missed it. I've always been a perfect fiend for clam broth. After seeing the sign, I knew, of course, there must be something particular in that line inside, and so I wandered in. Well, I was served by The King. When I first entered, I reconnoitered by stepping up to the bar and ordering a drink. Before I had a chance to question the man who was serving me, a gentlemanly appearing fellow touched me on the arm, and asked me pleasantly if I wouldn't like a cup of clam broth. He said that The King had just made a fresh batch, and that it was fine. I scrutinized the fellow closely. He had a kindly, youthful face, and his bearing was agreeable. I answered him promptly that good clam broth was just what I wished to have. 'But,' I demanded, 'who the devil is The King? It's a new one on me, to have a king for a chef.'
"The man laughed and then replied:
"'Oh, The King! Why, he's onlyme!'
"To cut it short, a few minutes later the broth was served to me, along with some dainty wafers, and while I drank it The King and I made friends."
Van Dusen's tone changed abruptly.
"But let's not loiter here on the outside any longer. Let us go into the presence of The King."
So it came about that Roy was duly presented to The King, and he was not disappointed in either that culinary monarch or the throne room. Perhaps his enthusiasm was the greater since he was sorely in need of food to nourish a mind and body exhausted by suffering.
The clam-broth King catered largely to the officers of ocean-going vessels. There's hardly a master sailing the main who has touched at Norfolk or anchored in Hampton Roads during recent years that has not known Harry the clam-broth King, and has called him friend. To-day the usual number of storm-bound seafaring men of the better class were gathered around the miniature tables in the place. The King was very busy indeed, passing from group to group to see that none of his friends were neglected. He greeted Van Dusen with obvious pleasure and had a welcoming smile for the newcomer when he was introduced to Roy. A moment later Van Dusen and Roy were seated at one of the tables, each with a bowl of piping-hot clam broth before him.
But before the contents of the bowls had been wholly swallowed both Roy and the detective paused to listen with avid interest to the words of a mariner seated at an adjoining table. And this is what they heard:
"Yes, boys, it was some blow and believe me it is still a-kicking up good and plenty outside the Capes. I missed the worst of it. My barometer had indicated that there was going to be some big doings long before the clouds begun to loom. I was half a mind to haul to in the hook o' the Cape at Lookout, but the sky seemed so clear and I was so near Hatteras that I made up my mind that we could get into the Roads by crowding the boilers a little. I'd a heap rather be laying up close to the King's clam broth than at that sorry, lonely, Lookout Bight. Don't understand me that I have got anything against that snug little harbor. I have every reason in the world not to have for she has saved my vessel and my carcass many's the time. The only thing is that it is such a desert place on land, not a house, not a human, with the exception of the light-keeper and his crew. When a skipper makes harbor he likes it to be where there are some shore pleasures on tap. I will venture that there was not less than half a dozen skippers put in there to get away from this blow and every last one whilst they knew the fact of that little nook o' safety being there had saved him and his ship, was just a-raring because he had not taken a chance rounding Hatteras and putting into Hampton Roads where he could run in here and gossip and inhale the fumes of King Harry's clam broth and feel the effects of his Scotch, while this-here West India hurricane wore herself out.
"You know, boys, I wish that I was a yachtsman with a good roll to back it up. Why, do you know them fellers take lots of chances and it's very seldom that they lose their craft? Of course, I have navigated over more of the sea than you, having been coasters all your lives. And do you know there is hardly a port in the world where I haven't seen a pretty, trim American yacht lying at anchor or haven't passed them on the seven seas? And never have I found one in great distress—except for being out o' some particular kind of liquor. With we fellers it's different. We're always in some kind o' trouble, not to mention being constantly out o' all kinds o' liquors. And then we are scairt o' our lives, or run aground or burn up, and so lose our master's papers, which means our job."
The speaker paused to clear his throat noisily. Then he went on:
"Speaking along these lines reminds me of a little yacht we passed on the run up, off Ocracoke Inlet. She was a long ways off shore, headed in. But I guess she made the inside all right in spite of the waves running high and breaking and the strength of the wind increasing with every flaw. Her name wasThe Isabel. And it's my opinion the captain of that yacht ought to be in the crazy house or dead."
Somehow at the outset, the narrative had riveted the attention of Roy and Van Dusen. It was as if their intuitions warned them that something significant was to issue from the mariner's rambling remarks. The utterance of the yacht's name thrilled them both, and they stared at each other for a moment with startled eyes. Then they listened again with new intentness as the speaker continued his account:
"It was just after daylight. I had been on the bridge all through the night, for I was anxious over our position, should the hurricane break with full force. I knew from the glass that it was close on us. I was looking dead ahead. Suddenly out of the mist appeared a craft as white and trim as a swan. She would plunge forward on a giant wave, then disappear for a moment in the trough, to appear again right side up, and coming at full speed to meet the next one. She was driving so fast that often she would force herself through, rather than over, the oncoming waves. I just naturally kept expecting from second to second that that fool skipper, sending her along at such reckless speed, would bury her so deep that it would be impossible for her to shake off the tons of brine, and so float on top again. If the fool only had sense enough to slow her down, I thought to myself, that bit of a craft would almost go through hell itself without a scorch. I realized that we were getting dangerously close, for I was going fast before the wind. So I quickly gave a passing-signal blast from our whistle, indicating that we would pass her on the port side. What do you suppose that fool at the wheel did then? Close as we were, and with no other reason that I could guess other than a desire to court death, he deliberately answered my signal with two blasts. They meant that he was going to starboard, almost diagonally across our bow. I saw it was too late to correct his error, so I simply had to accept his cross signal, and I did my best to avoid a collision. I was successful—no thanks to him. We missedThe Isabelby a hair. As it was, I thought that in spite of all we could do the suction from our propellers would draw in and crush the smaller boat against our side. I fancy we missed it more through good luck and the grace of God than through good management. And now what do you think?
"That chap at the wheel, instead of appearing grateful and giving me three blasts in salute, stuck his head and shoulders out of the pilot-house window and shook his fist at me. He yelled, too, and the wind brought the words down to me. 'You're only a dirty tramp, but you think you own the seas!' You boys know that that word 'tramp' for a good honest trading steamer always did get on my nerves. I admit I swore a little at the bunglesome cuss, but he was well to windward, so I might just as well have saved my breath.
"I honestly believe that that ornery fellow in the pilot house was crazy as a bed-bug. Stranger still, there wasn't another soul in sight aboard of her. I'm thinking I'll report the affair to the inspectors. There's no doubt in my mind thatThe Isabelweathered the storm for the chap was headin' her straight as he could go for Ocracoke Inlet. As the yacht was of light draft she could easily get over the bar and into Pamlico Sound, where he could haul to under the lea of the sand dunes. Down there that craft would ride out 'most anything that might come along."
The detective, with a gesture to Roy that he should remain in his seat, arose and crossed over to the Captain of the tramp steamer. He called the man aside, and frankly explained how he had overheard the narrative concerning the yachtIsabel. He admitted that this information was of vital importance to his friend and himself.
The Captain at once became intently interested. Doubtless he foresaw something in store for the yachtsman that would settle his own score against the fellow, the fellow who had reviled him.
"If you really want to come up with that critter," the mariner declared, "it would be the easiest thing in the world according to my mind, provided you have the right sort of a boat."
Van Dusen described his yacht.
"How much does thisHialdoof yours draw?" the swarthy-faced skipper demanded.
"She draws, fully stocked, just eight and a half feet aft," the detective answered. "And we could shift the gasoline so that she would get through on eight feet of water."
The captain nodded appreciatively.
"That fellow, the chances are, is right this minute at anchor somewhere in Pamlico Sound, or else he's cruising around on some of those connecting inland waters. The one and only place where he could get to sea again would be where he went in at Ocracoke, or else at Beaufort Inlet—though he might head for Norfolk by way of one of the two canal routes. You can bet your bottom dollar that, even as crazy as he is, he won't tackle the open sea just yet while this heavy swell is still on. It's my idea you got your man sure enough, for he's in a trap. The thing for you to do is to get aboard your craft, and then hot-foot it through the Dismal Swamp Canal for Ocracoke by way of Albemarle, Coratan and Pamlico Sounds.
"If you like," the Captain added with a touch of embarrassment lest he might seem officious, "I'll keep a sharp lookout on the other canal, so that he can't pass you while you're going through old Dismal. You might post the authorities at Elizabeth City to keep an eye open for the yacht, and to detain her if she shows up while you're rushing on at full speed for Ocracoke and Portsmouth. They're the little towns, one on each side of the Inlet. If you don't happen to find the outfit at either of these places, there ain't a particle of doubt according to my judgment that those folks can inform you of the direction taken byThe Isabelwhen she sailed, for they keep mighty close tabs on every vessel that comes or goes through the Inlet. If you find she headed south on the inside, you'll know that loony is making for Beaufort Harbor with the idea of waiting there for the sea to calm down before venturing on the outside. Or maybe he hasn't any intention of going out at all. It seems to me he's more likely to be heading for some one of those tributaries to the Sound that are narrow and deep, with the shores covered by a regular jungle growth. Boats of any size seldom go into them—except once in a while one run by a drag-net fisherman. This crazy man could expect to hide there for weeks on a stretch without danger of being disturbed. If it's actually a case of kidnapping he's certainly shown himself as cunning as mad folks sometimes are."
The detective motioned to Roy to join him and the Captain. Then in a few crisp words he explained the situation as it was indicated by the mariner. Both he and Roy joined in expression of gratitude to the skipper, who gave his name as Jake White. Then the two, realizing the need of haste, said farewell, and made their way back to the wharf with what speed they might.
To the average humane person the loss of a pet, whether through thievery or death itself, brings a very real sorrow for a time. How much worse it must be for one who lives alone, a recluse on an island of sand in the sea, to suffer the loss of his only living companion, something to come at his beck and call, something that seems indeed to reciprocate its master's affection!
It is true that Shrimp was only a fowl—a Dominick rooster at that. Probably, from the standpoint of intelligence, a creature very low in the scale. But its association in this case had developed the qualities of the bird. The years of companionship had brought man and rooster to an intimate understanding of each other.
When Captain Ichabod stepped from his shack, his pocket bulging with corn for his favorite, and saw the rooster showing afar off against the snow-white sand where he was industriously scratching, and whistled a summoning call, Shrimp would come racing toward him at top speed, with wings beating a rhythm to his hurrying legs. Then would the rooster greedily pick the grain of corn from his master's horny palm, clucking the while guttural notes of gratitude. And at such moments Ichabod's heart would grow warm with pleasure in the realization that it was within his power thus to make one of God's creatures happy.
When Doctor Hudson came to the door of the shack, where the bereft old fisherman sat, shaken with sorrow over his loss, he tenderly smoothed the Captain's wrinkled brow. He asked to know the cause of this sudden misery.
Ichabod, with a boylike gesture, brushed away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he straightened himself, and met the physician's kindly gaze squarely.
"Thar ain't no call for explanations when a feller's feelin's are teched. Doc, do ye know o' some lonely codger that needs a good housekeeper?"
The earnest question came in such startling contrast to the old man's manner of a moment before, when he was shaken with sobs, that the Doctor was hard put to it to restrain a burst of laughter. But by a great effort he limited his expression of amusement to a broad smile as he replied:
"Yes, I know one—an old retired fisherman by the name of Jones, Captain Ichabod Jones. He's a man who has weathered many of the storms of life. Now, as his bark is getting nearer to the last port, he needs to be less alone." A note of very sincere sympathy had crept into the physician's voice. "He should no longer be troubled with the cares of looking after his own home. But, I suppose, there's no use mentioning this to the man himself."
"Yo'r in the right church, Doc," replied the fisherman, "but ye are approachin' the wrong pew. Ichabod Jones has proved himself this day. I did 'low that I was gettin' sort o' decrepit like, but this mornin' proved to me that I ain't as near all in as me and my friends thought. Didn't I tote a human woman nigh onto a quarter of a mile without a-hurtin' me a mite? No, sir, Doctor, I am the man that wants the job. Them scoundrels that I saved has stole all that I had in the world to come home to and now I'm ready to quit this island o' mine and go an' dust out an' cook vituals for some crabbid old customer that is meaner than me. The more he'd quarrel the more it 'ould suit fer it 'ould take my mind off of this woman business that took place here to-day, and then I might larn to forgit the rooster."
"Jones, I believe you're crazy!" The Doctor exclaimed half angrily. Then he added, with a grin: "I guess I'd better give you a sedative to quiet those overwrought nerves of yours. Then you can get inside the shack, lie down on your bunk and doze off for a spell."
The old fisherman took the remark with all seriousness. His face grew livid as he stared at the Doctor with widened eyes. He stretched to his full height and spoke in a tone of tense solemnity.
"I will have you to know, Doctor Hudson, that never again will Ichabod Jones occupy that bunk, for—God A'mighty, man!—it has been desecrated by a woman. Of course, it was my own fault, I suppose. But then there was death a-starin', an' what could I do? When I built that hut an' tossed the fust blankets on that bunk I swore by the power that rules the waters what washes over this sand-bank o' mine that no woman should ever be welcome. An', by the Eternal, I meant it! They may say that Icky Jones has quar notions, and like enough he has, but when that woman what I loved saw fit to take on the beach-comber o' Port Smith Town, an' left me to be the laughin' stock o' Cartaret County, I sure as shootin' made up my mind that it couldn't happen but once in my lifetime—an' it hain't—an' it won't! An' say, Doc, when that foreign woman, whilst I was a-bringin' her to, opened up them pretty eyes an' looked at me fer the fust time, I made up my mind or rather diskivered, that old as I be an' quar as I be, I can't trust myself agin whar thar's women. Sure as thar's clams and oysters on them rocks yonder, I'd play fool, an' try an' make it heigh-ho for the parson. You see, Doc, it ain't that I hate women that I located on this lonely island. It's because, by golly, I'm afeared of 'em."
This was the first time, so far as the physician knew, that Ichabod had ever thus frankly confessed the truth concerning his bitter marital experience and its effect on his life. Doctor Hudson was deeply impressed by the fisherman's display of emotion. He spoke seriously in reply:
"Captain, you can't imagine how glad I am to have heard you say this. Until now, I never could understand how a man of your honest character and kind heart could hate the sex to which we owe our being, the sex that has done so much to make life more beautiful, to make happiness for humanity. Now, at last, I understand. Your seeming hatred has been merely a mask for cowardice. You'd fight a giant, if need be—just as you have fought that giant, the sea, so often and so bravely. But, just the same, you're an arrant coward. You turn tail and run when a woman's in question, because you're afraid of the weaker sex. I suspect it's time for you to reform. I want you to come to town with me now, and stay there until you've fully recovered from to-day's excitement. While you're there, I'll look round and see what I can do toward finding you a place as housekeeper."
Ichabod shook his head with great emphasis.
"No, sir, Doc," he declared sturdily, "I ain't a-goin' to stir a step fer the town. But I'll let ye tow me as far as the Spar Channel. Then I'll set sail fer the coast-guard station. I'll spin my yarn thar to the boys, an' like's not spend the night with 'em. Then I reckon I'll come back to the Island. But, fust off, I'll stop at your office an' git some fumigatin' powders, so's to fix the house fit fer Ichabod again."
The Captain and the physician made some further examination, which convinced them that the strangers had in fact left the Island by means of the wrecked yacht's little tender. Assured of this, the two men set forth, the Doctor for Beaufort, Ichabod to pay his visit at the life-saving station near old Fort Macon, where he knew that he was sure of a royal welcome.
The staid little city of Beaufort had been stirred to its remotest corners with the exciting news brought back from Ichabod's Island by the physician. Doctor Hudson had told the story to little groups here and there as he called upon his patients. Needless to say that a shipwreck, even though it be only that of a medium-sized pleasure craft, was enough to set everyone all agog with excitement. And here, too, there was the added mystery, concerning the young and beautiful woman together with her strange companion, who had been rescued from death only to vanish so inexplicably.
Next day, Ichabod quite forgot to stop at the town in order to secure the fumigating powders from the physician. As a matter of fact, he was accompanied home by a number of the life-saving crew, who were eager to survey the wreck and make investigation on their own account. As he approached the Island, the old fisherman was astonished to see at least a dozen launches and fishing schooners gathered near the wreck. It was low tide, and all those aboard the craft seemed to be staring down into the pellucid waters. It was evident that something of an unusual sort attracted their gaze. As Ichabod drew near, accompanied by the boat from the life-saving station, one of the men, on a launch that had her nose resting on the tiny beach at the oyster rocks was seen to be busy arranging a block and tackle. In answer to Ichabod's hail, he shouted that there was a dead man in the wreck.
This information astonished both Ichabod and those to whom he had told his story, for he had had no least suspicion that there was a third person on the yacht at the time of the wreck. In answer to eager questions, the man with the tackle declared that the body seemed to be chained fast to the engine of the sunken boat.
At this news, the Captain became greatly excited.
"Men!" he exclaimed in accents of dismay. "Hain't it been enough for this old, weather-beaten, storm-tossed hulk of an Ichabod to have gone through more'n most young fellers could stand without now havin' a murder to be investigated at his very door? Didn't ye hear them words o' Sumner Jenkins? He says as how the body is chained to the ingine. It's fitten, boys, as we should go right plumb up thar, an' have a look fer ourselves."
A few minutes later, Ichabod and his companions were lying alongside the wreck, and were leaning over gunwales, looking intently down into the transparent depths of the sea. And there, sure enough, lay the form of a man, with distorted features and wide-open dead eyes gazing back up at them. Around the waist of the corpse there was to be seen distinctly the chain that tightly encircled the body and thence ran to the engine frame, around which it was twisted, and held immovable by a huge padlock. Thus fettered, the unfortunate wretch had been carried down to his doom in the sea.
The gruesome discovery had been made that morning by pure chance on the part of a fisherman who, out of curiosity to view the wreck, had brought his boat up into the wind there. A careless glance over the side had shown him the ghastly face of the corpse beneath the waves. At the sight, the fisherman had let his craft slip off before the wind. He sailed straight to Beaufort, and told the town his news. It was the tidings carried by him that brought the morbid crowd of sightseers.
The combined efforts of those present had been insufficient to raise the engine and the body of the dead man to the surface. Now they were arranging a windlass, with block and fall, to bring the victim up to where the Coroner was impatiently waiting to perform his duty. Presently, then, the energetic workers secured a firm hold with the tackle on the engine frame. It was hauled to the surface, bringing with it the attached body. The padlock was smashed, and the stiffened form released from its iron bonds. Forthwith, the body was removed in one of the small boats to the sandy beach of Captain Ichabod's Island. The Coroner would have preferred that it should be taken into the shack for the holding of the inquest. But when the official made his request to the fisherman, the reply was by no means favorable.
"It seems as how I might be just a leetle accomidatin', but I dunno, Mr. Coroner, I've already got that place to fumigate out on account o' thar havin' been sickness an' a woman present thar. An' now should ye see fitten to carry that poor murdered feller in thar, Uncle Icky would sure have to quit. It 'ould be just a leetle more'n he could stand. Don't think I'm feared o' hants an' sich fer I hain't. It's just this: The thoughts o' the poor devil, how he just lay thar on the bottom with his eyes wide-open, an' him murdered—them thoughts would keep a-comin' back. No, Mr. Coroner, you'd better not take him into the hut—not unless you aim to buy Ichabod's Island."
The Coroner yielded to the old man's whim. He ordered the sodden and twisted form laid out decently on the white smoothness of the beach. Then, with the other men grouped about him, the Coroner selected a jury, and a minute later the investigation was under way according to due form of law. The only witnesses who were examined were the man who had discovered the corpse, and Ichabod. There was small need of more. For while the account of the finding of the body was completed within a few minutes, Captain Ichabod's narrative continued for a full hour, during which he told everything he knew concerning the wreck ofThe Isabeland the subsequent events, including the kidnapping of Shrimp.
Most of the hearers, if not all, had heard previously broken bits of the narrative. But now as they received the account in detail from beginning to end they hung on the old fisherman's words, held by the weird spell of this mystery of the sea.
At the conclusion of the testimony, the Coroner charged the jury briefly, and sent them into the shack to agree upon a verdict. The decision was not long delayed. Within ten minutes, the jury returned to the beach and the foreman announced that they had agreed upon a verdict. This was to the effect that the man had come to his death at the hands of parties unknown, while confined against his will aboard the gasoline yachtIsabel.
The Coroner complimented the jury upon their verdict and then discharged the panel. He next arranged with one of the boatmen present for the removal of the corpse to Beaufort, where he meant to have it embalmed and held for a reasonable length of time before burial, for identification. When these formalities were concluded the crowd quickly scattered. Some hastened away to attend their nets, which had been neglected for many hours, while the others set sail or cranked engines for the voyage home.
Captain Ichabod and his friends from the life-saving station decided that they would run over to Shackleford's Banks, and thence sail along shore to approximately the point where Ichabod had seen the rockets of a ship that doubtless went to pieces in the surf during the night of the gale. Their particular destination was a place where the strip of sand was so narrow that they could easily cross it on foot in the expectation of locating the wreck of the unfortunate vessel. Very soon after the party had set out, Captain Ichabod's spirits lightened. The congenial company of the coast-guard crew, now that he was away from the gruesome association of the Coroner's Court, induced a reaction in his mood, and he was almost cheerful. His companions were anxious to remove the old man's depression and made kindly effort to divert his thoughts into pleasant channels by droll stories and rough banter. When, finally, the party went ashore at Core Banks and walked up the beach along the edge of the breaking surf in search for signs of the wrecked ship, it was Ichabod that walked in the lead with brisk steps and animated face. It seemed scarcely possible in view of his agility and vigor that the old fisherman was indeed living on borrowed time.
It was not long before they began to see huge timbers that had been twisted and rent asunder, which now strewed the beach. They saw, too, others to which were attached sections of the deck and the deck-house, which were lazily riding back and forth to the rhythm of the sea. Now, a wave would drop its bit of flotsam upon the hard sand; then, a moment later, one of greater magnitude would envelop the stranded spar or plank or piece of cargo, and with its backward flow bear away the wreckage, to be again tossed hither and yon, until perhaps finally the tide at its full would leave it on the shore, to become the spoil of beach-combers—those ghouls ever ready to take advantage of the hapless mariner's mischance.
It was a fact that the whole shore line for over a mile was littered with parts torn away from the foundered schooner. Amid the mass were many barrels of rum and of molasses out of the cargo. As the little squad of men from the station, together with Captain Ichabod, drew near the strip of beach, they saw two fellows working with feverish haste to roll a barrel of molasses over the top of a sand dune, and then down on the Sound side. Captain Ichabod scrambled to the pinnacle of a near-by hill of sand. From this vantage point, he beheld a good-sized two-masted sharpie lying near the shore. The sight made him immediately aware that the beach-combers from up the coast were already on the job, and that the boat on the Sound side of the Banks belonged to them. He knew, too, that the pair working so desperately to get the barrel away from the wreckage were thus toiling in haste to get their loot aboard the sharpie.
For certain reasons, Captain Ichabod Jones had taken a strong dislike to the professional beach-combers. He believed that a man who would rush to the wreckage of a ship thrown on a barren shore away from civilization, and would appropriate without investigation the valuable articles thus cast up by the sea, was in very sooth not a good citizen—just a plain thief. More than once, indeed, he had seen fit to report men of this stripe, and had caused them no little trouble in the courts over this matter of their pilfering. It is just possible that, had Captain Ichabod not been robbed of the woman he loved years before by one of this class, he might have looked on their depredations with a more lenient eye. Be that as it may, it remains certain that he maintained a very genuine and very bitter spite against all beach-combers.
Captain Ichabod often asserted that it was right for the natives to remove to a place of safety above high tide any articles of value from a wreck on their shores, and then to wait during a reasonable time for the lawful owners to make their claim. But he had no tolerance for the fellow who would hurriedly and secretly remove to his own premises goods of a salvable sort. He declared this to be no better than theft.
The Captain quickly realized now that here was his opportunity. He motioned to his friends from the station to go on toward the two men busy with the barrel. He, himself, hastened down the slope of sand, in order that he might slip close unseen, and station himself between the beach-combers and their boat. By this method of approach both he and the men from the station would make sure of recognizing the offenders. As the old man drew near the sharpie, which lay with her sails flapping idly in the scant breeze, his eyes took in the name roughly painted on the stern rail of the boat, and he stared at it in shocked amazement. He stopped short and spelled the words aloud:
"R-o-x-a-n-a L-e-e!"
At the sound of the name in his ears, a strange expression came over the fisherman's features. It was an expression compounded of many warring emotions, which it might well have puzzled an observer to interpret. But his muttered soliloquy made his feeling clear.
"Wall, I'll be plumb damned! Here it is, most twenty year since I has spoke them words an' God knows I didn't aim to now, but bein' a leetle slow on spellin', an' kinder beflustered over identifyin' these-here thievin' cusses they got out before I realized what I was sayin'. That boat's named fer my old gal!"
Captain Ichabod had no time for further musing. His attention was attracted by a crackling of twigs in the small brush on the side of the dune. As he looked in the direction of the sound he saw hurtling toward him the barrel of molasses. The two beach-combers had succeeded in topping the rise with their burden; then, suddenly excited and confused by the approach of the coast-guard men, they had turned it loose with a violent push. It shot downward at speed, nor did it stop until it had reached the very edge of the water of Core Sound, almost at Ichabod's feet. After the heavy barrel came the two plunderers, running rapidly. One of them was a mere lad, certainly not more than nineteen years of age, while the other was of advanced years as was proclaimed by his deeply lined face and gray hair.
As the two drew near, Captain Ichabod quickly concealed himself behind a haw bush, there to await developments. He had a particular reason for not wishing to be recognized by these men—at least not until he should have had time to get his bearings and to decide what course it were best to pursue in this unexpected situation. For that matter, he was half tempted to leave the place without showing himself and without denouncing the paltry thieves.
Ichabod's indecision was not of long duration. His course of action was decided more quickly than he had anticipated by the arrival of the coast-guard men. They had hurried after the fugitives with some apprehension lest the old fisherman might be roughly handled. Now the men descended the slope with a cheer, and in another moment had pounced on the two cringing wretches, who were eagerly clutching their ill-gotten barrel of "long sweet'nin'," as if loath to give it up.
This was not the first time that old Sandy Mason, for such was the name of the gray-haired man, had been driven away from his nefarious work by the boys from the station. Hitherto, he had been let off with a reprimand. He was sure that such would now be the case. Nevertheless, his heart was sore within him, for he knew that the coming of these servants of Uncle Sam must prevent him from taking away in his sharpie a whole winter's supply, and more, of fine old Porto Rico molasses—a treasure trove indeed. For the dwellers on the banks have little butter, and molasses, when it is to be had, serves in a measure as a substitute, at every meal.
There was only a short struggle, for the beach-combers offered no resistance, except at being separated from the precious barrel. The capture was chiefly an affair for merriment to the men of the coast guard, and, when they finally loosened their hold of Sandy and the lad, his son, they were laughing boisterously at the despair on the countenance of the father and the youngster's look of chagrin.
Then, before a word was spoken and while the men were still roaring with mirth, Captain Ichabod stepped forth from the shelter of the haw tree. He seemed to stand a little more erect than was his wont. There was a twinkle of delight in those kindly eyes, a little dimmed by age. He bore himself with an air of impressive manliness, despite the burden of his years. He passed around the group until he stood directly in front of the beach-comber with the gray hair. For a moment he did not speak, but stood motionless, gazing steadily at the fellow before him. But, presently, he raised his hand in a gesture commanding silence. The laughter of the coast guard ceased on the instant, and the fisherman spoke:
"Men," he said in a steady voice, evidently weighing each word, "as I clim over the top o' yonder dune an' come down the slope to the shore I saw that sharpie with her nose snug-up to the shore. As I came on further I saw an' read aloud her name—Roxana Lee. Right then was the fust time that name had passed my lips in twenty year. It hurt me to speak it, fer 'twas that o' the only woman I have ever loved—or ever lost until just lately. The words was on my lips afore I knowed it. That woman did not die, pass away like an honest woman, but she ran off with a low-down beach-comber, whose thieving face I hain't looked upon—like the name on the stern rail o' yonder boat—fer twenty year, until to-day. Neither have I spoke his name. Seein' as how so many things has been a-happenin' here lately that is a-changin' things with me, I will say to you men—that varmint, that low-down robber o' the dead an' o' the livin' whose clawlike hands you have unhooked from the chymes o' the barrel containin' the stolen 'lasses that he hoped to get home fer Roxana Lee to wallop her dodgers in, is no less or no other than Sandy Mason, the thief who stole my gal twenty year ago, an' if I hain't plumb wrong on family favorin', that striplin' is their son."
To all outward appearance, old Ichabod was perfectly calm. The men from the station regarded the speaker with faces grown suddenly stern as they realized the nature of the wrong done him. Neither Sandy Mason nor his son ventured to utter a syllable, as the fisherman continued:
"Sandy, you may think as how tain't none o' my affair, an' that I'd look a heap better to keep my lip out o' it. Maybe as how that's a fact, but God knows when I'll ever get another chance to rub it in hard on the likes o' you. I've heard, year after year, that you was still at the old tricks—too lazy to work, with your eye always turned to the sea hoping that some poor devil would misread his reckonin' an' put his ship where you can ransack its vitals fer an easy livin' fer you and yours. I'll lay my all agin a two pence that that wife o' your'n has wished many's the time that she had married an honest man an' not a thief. Judging from what I knew o' her years ago, I'll allow that it mighty nigh breaks her heart to see the man that infatuated her as a gal a-takin' her child an' a-bringin' him up in the ways o' a thief. Shame on ye, Sandy Mason! I'm goin' to ask the boys to turn ye loose, an' I hope to God that this will be a lesson that ye'll not soon forget, an' that ye'll straighten up an' be a man afore it's too late. If so be you an' the woman are past redemption, quit your thievin' an' beach-combin' for the sake o' the boy."
Ichabod then turned to the lad, and addressed him in a kindly voice.
"Young man, I'm sorry to have had to hurt your feelin's with the truth, an' I hope ye'll forgive me. Take this experience of to-day as a warnin'. Don't be a beach-comber. For when you are, to my mind, you are what folks call a grave-robber—a ghoul. Now go home to your mammy, who used to have some good thoughts. Unless they're all gone through livin' with that no-'count daddy o' your'n, she'll tell you that Captain Ichabod is right fer once. Yes, I say, quit it all! Be a man, an' show folks, that, after all, itispossible to make a silk purse out o' a sow's ear."
After this parting thrust, Ichabod turned on his heel without another word, and walked swiftly away down the shore. The men from the station added a few phrases of very trenchant advice to Sandy and his son. They waited until the beach-combers had entered the sharpie and set sail due north toward the hamlet of Portsmouth.
When the coast guard came up again with Captain Ichabod, they found him seated on the sand hard by the noisy breakers. Three Dominick hens clucked about him. The old fisherman was throwing them kernels of corn, which he took from his pocket. The men gazed somewhat somberly at the fowls. It was plain that these were the only creatures that had escaped alive from the three-master whose bones littered the beach.
Ichabod looked up at his friends with a wry smile, that was touched with grimness.
"Boys," he remarked whimsically, "it seems to me as if Icky had had about enough reminders fer one day without these pesky Dominick pullets a-buttin' in."
The door to the fisherman's shack stood ajar, and in the opening showed the form of a man. As the light from the newly risen moon fell full upon the wrinkled features of the face, a pleased, contented smile was to be seen as he placidly puffed his corncob pipe and blew rings before him in the quiet, heavy, midnight air. It was Captain Ichabod, home again after the momentous happenings of the day when the dead body was found in the wreck ofThe Isabel.
The Captain had been more or less methodical in his ways all his life, but he had never carried routine so far as to keep a diary. Probably during the past twenty years, living the life he had upon his lonely island, there had not been enough of incident to have suggested even the idea of such a record. But on this particular night, the fisherman, closeted within his shack, had been toiling through three long hours in order to set down a detailed narrative of the strange happenings in which he had been concerned since the coming of the great storm. He had ransacked his belongings until he found pencil and paper. Then, with his characteristically painstaking and deliberate manner, he had indited an itemized account of the various events. Now he had completed his work, and rested well content with his accomplishment. As he lounged in the doorway, he was taking a glimpse over the beautiful expanse of water, the while he smoked a final pipe before turning in. He felt that after the arduous endeavors of the day he was entitled to a sound and refreshing sleep. His usual calm had returned to him.
At daylight that very morning when he awakened in the life-saving station at old Fort Macon, he had felt that he could never again occupy his old cabin home. Yet, here he was at night, resting well satisfied, without any qualm whatsoever. The exciting happening of the day—perhaps especially the opportunity to tell his old rival just what he thought of the fellow—had proved a balm to his over-strained nerves. He had come back home with a firm resolve to continue on there in tranquillity, and to enjoy to the full the days that were before him. It is true that he missed Shrimp. But, after mature meditation on the matter of the fowl's going away, the fisherman had about come to the conclusion that in all probability he had gone of his own free will and accord. It occurred to the Captain as possible that the bird might have been peeved by his master's sailing away without him as he hurried to Beaufort Town in quest of Doctor Hudson. Ichabod believed that Shrimp had seen his opportunity to cross to the mainland with the strangers and had seized on it in the hope of being able at last to fight it out with his rooster rival, whose challenging salute had been tantalizing him for many a day. Ichabod chuckled as he expressed the wish that Shrimp's encounter with this rival might give him as much satisfaction as had his own with the beach-comber.
Now, under the flow of his meditations, the old man grew loquacious. He went into the shack, shut the door and lighted the lamp. Then he sprawled at ease in his favorite chair, and since there was no other auditor at hand, talked to himself.
"Wall! I reckon I have larned a heap this day. The most important fact is that Icky Jones has been a fool for over twenty year. Jest because a no-'count woman took a notion in her haid that she had rather marry a beach-combin' thief than an honest fisherman I have made myself hate all o' the rest o' the gender, or least-wise to keep away fr'm 'em, an' lead a miserable lonely life. Why! do ye know, I believe that when I spunked up an' told old Sandy Mason what I thought o' him an' his callin', an' rubbed it in some on the poor kid, that it did me more good than a dost o' medicine. It sure put sand in my craw an' made me feel like fightin' every mean thing livin'. If I hadn't been a narrow-fool, an' awful sot in my way, instead o' takin' the loss of Roxana Lee to heart, I'd 'a' braced up an' gone right ahead an' looked fer one o' the right sort. I've learned jest a short time back that I'd gone off on the wrong track. When I revived that fine-lookin' foreign woman an' she opened those eyes—such beautiful brown eyes!—an' looked at me so appealin'-like an' called me Doctor, I jest couldn't he'p but wish that she'd talk to me a leetle more, but fate was agin me, an' she was mum as an adder."
Captain Ichabod fell silent as he undressed for the night, extinguished the light and stretched himself luxuriously on his bed. As he snuggled down into the blankets with a capacious yawn, he drowsily spoke aloud yet once again.
"Wall, hanged if I 'lowed this mornin' when I woke up at the station, that to-night I'd be a-layin' here so peaceable-like an' jest a-pinin' fer sleep. This shack an' this bunk has had a woman in 'em, but I don't reckin it has hurt 'em none after all. I can sleep, you bet. Uncle Icky may dream a leetle might, but it won't be about Roxana Lee."
It was not until the sun was more than an hour high that the old fisherman opened his eyes again to the realization that another day had come. When he felt the warm rays of the summer sun upon his cheek he knew that he had slept beyond his usual time of waking, which stirred him to a fleeting anger against himself. He got up quickly, and while he dressed, admonished himself harshly.
"Betwixt the rust o' time an' a thievin' yachtsman, ye're plumb out o' time, Ichabod. If ye aim to be a successful fisherman in the future as in the past, you must either find ye another rooster, or buy a clock, an' I reckin that a clock, what will run, but can't run away, is the thing fer you."
Breakfast over, Ichabod busied himself in getting his nets and other fishing paraphernalia straightened out, for in his hurry to put them out of harm's way as the big blow came on, he had got them pretty badly tangled. It was mid-forenoon before he considered that things about the shack and door yard were about as they should be at the place of a first-class fisherman. Occasionally as he worked, he would glance toward the oyster rocks, where lay the remains ofThe Isabel, and he would wonder once again what could have been the occasion of the curious crime that had resulted in the death of the man chained to the engine. But all his musings brought only increased perplexity, until his wits were totally befuddled. He dare be sure only that the yachtsman he had rescued was either a villain or a maniac.
It was a custom in the Sound Country for the natives at frequent intervals to favor their preacher, their doctor and the editor of the gossipy local newspaper with a gift of something attractive, either grown in their vegetable gardens, or taken from the waters round about. In this respect, Ichabod was not different from his neighbors of the other islands and the mainland. Many a time and oft, after he had made a particularly good catch of the delicious stone crabs or scallops, he had set sail to carry an offering of the delicacies to friends in the town. To-day, after he had finally established order in his house and among his accoutrements, he shouldered his clam fork, and, carrying a large bucket to hold the catch, strode out on the point. The tide was extremely low, and Ichabod was aware that now was the time to reach the place where round clams grew in great abundance. The old man was an expert at locating these shell-fish. The keyhole sign made by them in the sand was so familiar to him that he could walk along at a smart pace, while peering alertly here and there in search of it. When his eyes caught the mark, he would strike quickly with his fork into the yielding sand, and so bring to the surface one of the luscious bivalves. On this occasion, Ichabod filled his bucket well within the hour, and then, content, returned to the shack for a midday meal.
When he was done eating, the fisherman washed the clams carefully and wrapped them in a neat bundle. He then took them on board the skiff, and made sail for Beaufort Town, to pay his promised visit to Doctor Hudson, and to present him with the morning's catch, which was of particularly good quality. In addition, he was prompted to the trip by anxiety to learn if anything had been heard in the town as to the identity of the yachtIsabel, or of those who voyaged in her.
On this occasion, the customary group of loungers was not present on the shore to welcome the little red skiff and her skipper. The quay was practically deserted. The fishing fleet had put to sea again in order to take advantage of as many days as possible with favorable weather for their labor. Ichabod made his boat fast, and then with his bundle of clams took his way at once to the physician's house. Doctor Hudson himself met the fisherman at the threshold with a warm handshake.
"Why, Ichabod!" he exclaimed, with a cheery smile. "Now, what in the world has come over you? In all my life I don't think I ever saw such a change for the better in a man's appearance within the few hours since I saw you last. I guess that wrecks and strange women and the finding of dead men in the sea agree with you."
Ichabod grinned assent.
"Yes, Doctor, I 'low that I'm improved a sight," he replied enthusiastically. "I come down to bring ye a few clams, an' to tell ye that since I saw ye I found a housekeepin' job fer life. An' so, while I'm obleeged to ye fer a-keepin' your weather eye open fer me, why, ye needn't no more, fer I've beat ye to it."
Doctor Hudson looked a little disconcerted.
"Why, Ichabod, are you really goin' to leave the Island?"
The fisherman shook his head solemnly.
"No, sir, I ain't a-goin' to leave the Island except on business, an' to call on my friends. I've took the job right thar. I've done hired out to the new Ichabod Jones, an' I cal'late I'll be the most satisfactory help ole Icky ever had."
"What in the world do you mean?" the Doctor questioned, with much perplexity. "I'd suppose you were clean crazy, if it weren't for a mischievous twinkle in your eye. Come on now, and tell me what really has happened. I am interested all right, for it must have been something important to make this remarkable change in you, which I can't understand."
Ichabod nodded sagely before he replied.
"Right you are, Doctor. But it took a heap more than a sudden scare like what cured the feller with the hiccoughs. Yes, it took more'n that to cure me. You know, Doc, I think now, as how I was diseased."
The physician perceived that nothing was to be gained by any attempt at hurrying the old man.
"Come on into the house," he urged, "and make yourself comfortable while you tell me the whole story."
As the two came into the reception-room, the Captain fumbled in his inside coat pocket for a moment, and then carefully drew forth his narrative of the events in which he had been concerned during the last few days. He handed this to the physician as the two seated themselves by the open window.
"Doctor," Ichabod declared with gravity, "I never did think as how I was a partic'lar good story-teller, an' knowin' as how you an' one or two other friends o' mine would have to know the story, I made up my mind last night that I'd put it into writ fer you-all, so then thar couldn't be no dispute as to the exact words of Ichabod. The story starts right from the beginning o' the blow. A part of it, the first part, you already know, so jest skip along until ye come to whar Sandy Mason shows up."
Doctor Hudson perused the document with great interest. The unconscious drollery of the old man's literary style gave piquancy to the account. At times, the fisherman's bits of humor were amusing enough; again, there was often pathos of a very genuine sort, in the paragraphs. But as the physician neared the end of the roughly written record, the Captain interrupted him.
"Say, Doc," he asked, "would ye mind a-readin' o' that last stanzy right out loud? I think it has got stuff in it that'll make my blood warm up a heap to hear it read."
The doctor nodded assent, for he at this moment reached the paragraph by which the old man set such store.
"I, Ichabod Jones," the words ran, "age unknown, bein' as how the family Bible was burnt up, announces to my friends, all an' sundry, that fer the past twenty year I've been a coward an' a fool, but was not a-knowin' of the same until to-day. I ain't been called to preach nor nothin' like that. I has jestwoke up! From this day on to the end o' me in this world, I aim to git all o' the honest enjoyment I kin out o' this life. An' I want my friends to know that the rule for twenty year as made and provided has been busted. From this day forward women, ole and young, will find a welcome on the shore an' in the shack at Ichabod's Island."