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Title: The Harbor of Doubt

Author: Francis William Sullivan

Illustrator: George W. Gage

Release date: August 27, 2009 [eBook #29817]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HARBOR OF DOUBT ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









[Illustration: "Oh let him go!" said a voice]




THE HARBOR OF DOUBT

BY

FRANK WILLIAMS

AUTHOR OF

THE WILDERNESS TRAIL

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

G. W. GAGE

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS




Copyright, 1915, by

W. J. WATT & COMPANY




CONTENTS

       I MALICIOUSLY ACCUSED                                         1
      II THE RED PERIL                                              10
     III THE TEST                                                   20
      IV REFUGEES                                                   29
       V STARTLING NEWS                                             37
      VI THE ISLAND DECIDES                                         49
     VII A STRANGER                                                 61
    VIII JIMMIE THOMAS'S STRATEGY                                   73
      IX ON THE COURSE                                              79
       X A MYSTERY                                                  87
      XI IN THE FOG BANK                                            95
     XII OUT OF FREEKIRK HEAD                                      110
    XIII NAT BURNS SHOWS HIS HAND                                  117
     XIV A DISCOVERY                                               124
      XV THE CATCH OF THE ROSAN                                    128
     XVI A STAGGERING BLOW                                         133
    XVII TRAWLERS                                                  143
   XVIII TREACHERY                                                 152
     XIX ELLINWOOD TAKES A HAND                                    161
      XX AMONG THE HOME FOLKS                                      171
     XXI A PRISONER                                                179
    XXII A RECOVERED TREASURE                                      189
   XXIII SURPRISES                                                 199
    XXIV THE SIREN                                                 212
     XXV THE GUILT FIXED                                           222
    XXVI WETTING THEIR SALT                                        241
   XXVII THE REWARD OF EVIL                                        249
  XXVIII THE RACE                                                  262
    XXIX A FATAL LETTER                                            278
     XXX ELSA'S TRIUMPH                                            294
    XXXI PEACE AND PROSPERITY                                      303




THE HARBOR OF DOUBT

CHAPTER I

MALICIOUSLY ACCUSED


"Let them think what they like. If I had died I would have been a
hero; because I lived I suppose there is nothing in the history of
crime that I have not committed."

Young Captain Code Schofield sprang out of the deep, luxurious chair
and began to pace up and down before the fire. He did not cast as much
as a glance at the woman near him. His mind was elsewhere. He had
heard strange things in this talk with her.

"Well, captain, you know how it is on an island like this. The tiny
thing of everyday life becomes a subject for a day's discussion. That
affair of six months ago was like dropping a tombstone in a
mud-puddle--everything is profoundly stirred, but no one gets
spattered except the one who dropped it. In this case yourself."

Schofield stopped in his tracks and regarded his hostess with a look
that was mingled surprise and uneasiness. She lay back in a
_chaise-longue_, her hands clasped behind her head, smiling up at the
young man. The great square room was dark except for the firelight,
and her yellow dress, gleaming fitfully in it, showed the curving
lissomeness of her young body.

"Mrs. Mallaby," he said, "when you say clever things like that I
don't know what to do. I'm not used to it." He laughed as though
half-ashamed of the confession.

"Appreciate them," she directed shortly with a fleeting glance from
her great dark eyes.

"Do you demand all my time?" he asked and flushed. The well-turned
compliment caught her unawares and she admitted to herself that
perhaps she had underrated this briny youth who was again beginning to
interest her extremely.

But with the sally he seemed to have forgotten it and recommenced
pacing the floor, his hands in his pockets and his brows knit. His
mind had gone off again to this other vastly important thing.

She noticed it with a twinge of vexation. She vastly preferred the
personal.

"What was it old Jed Martin said to you this afternoon?" he asked.

"That if the opinions of old sailors were of any account Nat Burns
could get up a pretty good case against you for the loss of the _May
Schofield_."

"I suppose he meant his own opinion. He's an old sailor now, but if he
lives to be a hundred and fifty he'll never be a good one. I could
beat his vessel if I was on a two-by-four with a pillow-case for a
mains'l. I can't understand why he has turned against me."

"It isn't only he, it's--"

"I know it!" he burst out passionately. "It's the whole island of
Grande Mignon from Freekirk Head to Southern Cross. Not a man nor
woman but has turned against me since that awful day.

"Great God! what do they think? That I wrecked the poor old _May_ for
the fun of the thing? That I enjoyed fighting for my life in that sea
and seeing the others drown with my very eyes? Don't they suppose I
will carry the remembrance of that all my life? My Heaven, Elsa, that
was six months ago and I have just begun to sleep nights without the
nightmare of it riding me!"

"Poor boy!"

Her voice calmed him like a touch on a restive horse, and yet he
unconsciously resented the fact that it did. "I haven't been blind,
Code, and I have heard and seen this thing growing. It is hard for a
fisherman to lose his ship and not suffer for it afterward at the
hands of inferior sailors. I've known you all my life, Code, and I
believe in you now just as I did that day in school you took the
whipping I should have got for passing you a note.

"You haven't heard the last of the _May Schofield_, and you won't
until you lay the ghost that has come out of its grave. But whatever
you do or wherever you are, I want you to remember that I stand ready
to help you in every way I can. All this"--she swept her arm about the
richly furnished room--"is worthless to me now that Jim is gone,
unless I can do some good for those I like. Please, Code, will you
feel free to call on me if you need help?"

The flush that had receded returned with a flood of color that made
his face beneath its fair hair appear very dark.

"Really, Elsa," he stammered, "that's awfully handsome of you, but I
hope things won't go so far as that. I can never forget what you have
said."

Elsa Mallaby had always been like that to him. Even when she married
"Hard-Luck" Jim Mallaby she had always seemed to regard Code Schofield
as the one man in Freekirk Head. But Jim, being too busy with his
strange affairs, had not noticed.

Jim it was who, after twenty years of horrible poverty and ill-luck,
had caught the largest halibut ever taken off the Banks and made
thousands of dollars exhibiting it alive. And it was this same Jim
who, for the remaining ten years of his life, turned to gold
everything he touched.

Mallaby House was his real monument, for here, on the great green hill
that overlooked the harbor, he had erected a mansion that made his
name famous up and down the Bay of Fundy. And here, seven years ago,
he had brought Elsa Fuller as his bride--Elsa Fuller who was the belle
of Freekirk Head, and had been to Boston to boarding-school.

It was to Mallaby House that Code Schofield had come to dinner this
night. He had not wanted to come and had only agreed when she bribed
him with a promise of something very important she might reveal.

The revelation was hardly a pleasure. Nothing had been a pleasure to
him since that day six months ago when his old schooner, dismasted and
leaking in a gale, had foundered near the Wolves, two sharp-toothed
islands near Grande Mignon. Four islanders had been lost that day, and
he alone had lived through the surf.

"What else did old Jed Martin say, Elsa?" he asked suddenly.

She knitted her brows and stared into the fire. Why would he always go
back to that?

"He said that the _May Schofield_ should have been able to live out
that gale easily if she had been handled right, old as she was. She
_was_ pretty old, wasn't she?"

"Fifty years. She was twenty when dad got her--he sailed her
twenty-eight and I had her for two."

"You got a good deal of insurance out of her, didn't you, Code?"

"Ten thousand dollars--her full value."

"And you bought the _Charming Lass_ with that, didn't you?"

"Yes--that and two thousand that dad had saved. Why?"

"Old Jed Martin said something about that, too."

Schofield's face paled slightly and his mouth closed tightly,
exhibiting the salience of his jaw.

"So that's it, eh? Thinks I ran her under for the insurance--the old
barnacle. Is that around the island, too?"

"I guess it must be, or I shouldn't have heard about it. You didn't,
of course, did you, Code?"

"I hardly expected you would ask that, Elsa. Why, I loved that old
schooner like I love--well, my mother."

"I believe you, Code; you don't need to ask that. I just wanted to
hear you deny it. But you know there were some queer things about her
sinking just then, when she was supposed to be in good condition. Nat
Burns--"

"Ha! So he is in it, too. What does he say?"

"He says that her insurance policy was just about to run out. Is that
so?"

"Yes."

There was a tone of defiance in his answer that caused her to look up
at him quickly. His blue eyes were narrowed and his face hard.

"And it wasn't such a hard gale, was it?"

"No. I've weathered lots worse with the _May._ I can't explain why she
sank."

"And Michael Burns, who was aboard of her, was the insurance
inspector, wasn't he?"

"Yes." The reply was more a groan than a spoken word. He laughed
harshly.

"I can see Nat Burns's hand in all this," he cried. "Why didn't I
think of it before? He will dog me till I die because his father lost
his life aboard my schooner. Oh, I had no idea it was as bad as
this!"

He sank down into the chair again and stared gloomily into the fire.

"I'm glad I came to-night," he said at last. "I didn't know all these
things. How long has this talk been going round?"

"Not long, Code." Her voice was all sympathy. "It is simply the result
of brooding among our people who have so little in their lives. I'm
sorry. What will you do? Go away somewhere else?"

He looked at her quickly--scorn written upon his face.

"Go away," he repeated, "and admit my own guilt? Well, hardly. I'll
stay here and see this thing through if I have to do it in the face
of all of them."

"Splendid, Code!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Just what I knew you
would say. And, remember, I will help you all I can and whenever you
need me."

He looked at her gratefully and she thrilled with triumph. At last
there was something more in his glance than the purely impersonal; he
had awakened at last, she thought, to what she might mean to him.

There followed one of those pauses that often occur when two people
are thinking intensely on different subjects. For perhaps five minutes
the cheerful fire crackled on uninterrupted. Then, suddenly
recollecting himself, Code sprang to his feet and held out his hand.

"Half-past ten," he said, glancing at the mahogany chime-clock on the
mantelpiece. "I must really go. It has been kind of you to have me up
to-night and tell me all these--"

"Inner secrets of your own life that you never suspected before?" she
laughed.

"Exactly. You have done me a service like the good old friend you
always were."

She took his hand, and he noticed that hers was a trifle cold. They
started toward the hallway.

From the broad veranda of Mallaby House the view extended a dozen
miles to sea. Beneath the hill on which the mansion stood the village
of Freekirk Head nestled against the green. Now the dim, yellow
lights of its many lamps glowed in the darkness and edged the crescent
of stony beach where washed the cold waters of Flag's Cove.

To the left at one tip of the crescent the flash of Swallowtail Light
glowed and died like the fire in a gigantic cigarette. To the right,
at the other, could be seen the faint lamps of Castalia, three miles
away.

For a minute they stood drinking in the superb beauty of it all. Then
Elsa left him with a conventional word, and Schofield heard the great
front door close softly behind her.

Silently he descended the steps, when suddenly from the town below
came the hideous, raucous shriek of a steam-whistle.

He stood for a minute, astonished, for the whistle was that of the
steamer _Grande Mignon_, that daily plied between the island and the
mainland. Now the vessel lay at her dock and Code, as well as all the
island, knew that her wild signaling at such an hour foreboded some
dire calamity.

Swiftly buttoning his coat, he started on a run down the winding,
rocky path that led from Mallaby House. He cast one more glance toward
the roofs of the village before he plunged among the pine and
tamarack, and in that instant caught a red glow from the general
direction of the fish wharfs.




CHAPTER II

THE RED PERIL


Five minutes of plunging and slipping brought him down to the main
road that gleamed a dim gray in the blackness. A quarter of a mile
east lay the wharfs, the general store, and some of the best dwellings
in Freekirk Head.

Ahead of him in the road he could see lanterns bobbing, and the
illuminated legs of the men who carried them running. Behind he heard
the muffled pound of boots in thick dust, and the hoarse panting of
others racing toward the scene of the trouble. The frantic screeching
of the steamer's whistle (that was not yet silent) had done its work
well. Freekirk Head was up in arms.

Instinctively and naturally Code Schofield ran, just as he had run
from his father's house since he was ten years old. His long, easy
stride carried him quickly over the ground, and he passed two or three
of those ahead with lanterns. They shouted at him.

"Hey, what's the trouble?" panted one. "Know anything about it?"

"No, but it might be the wharfs," he replied, without stopping. He
veered out to the edge of the road so as to avoid any more queries. He
looked with suspicion now on all these men.

Who of them, he wondered, was not, in his heart, convicting him of
those things Elsa Mallaby had mentioned? His straightforward nature
revolted against the hypocrisy in men that bade them treat him as they
had done all his life, and yet think of him only as a criminal.

Suddenly the dull red that had glowed dimly against the sky burst into
rosy bloom. A great tongue of fire leaped up and licked the heavens,
while floating down the brisk breeze came the distant mingling of
men's shouts. As he passed a white wooden gate he heard a woman on the
porch crying, and a child's voice in impatient question.

Then for the first time he lost sight of his own distress and thought
of the misery of his whole people. It was August, and the Indians
should soon be coming from the mainland to spear porpoises.

The dulce-pickers on the back of the island reported a good yield from
the rocks at low tide, but outside of these few there was wretchedness
from Anthony's Nose to Southern Cross.

The fish had failed.

A hundred years and more had the Grande Mignon fishermen gone out with
net and handline and trawl; and for that length of time the millions
in the sea had fed, clothed, and housed the thousand on the island.
When prices had been good there were even luxuries, and history tells
of men who, in one haul from a weir, have made their twenty-five
thousand dollars in an hour.

This was all gone now. The fish had failed.

Day after day since early spring the men had put to sea in their
sloops and motor-dories, trawling and hand-lining from twenty miles
out in the Atlantic to four and a half fathoms off Dutch Edge. The
result was the same. The fish were poor and few. Even at Bulkhead Rip,
where the sixty-pounders played among the racing tides, there was
scarcely a bite.

A fisherman lives on luck, so for a month there was no remark upon the
suddenly changed condition. But after that, as the days passed and not
a full dory raced up to Bill Boughton's fish stand, muttered whispers
and old tales went up and down the island.

It was recalled that the fish left a certain Norwegian coast once for
a period of fifty years, and that the whole occupation of the people
of that coast was changed. Was that to be the fate of Grande Mignon?
If so, what could they do? Extensive farming on the rocky island was
impossible, and not one ship had ever been built there for the trade.
Where would things end?

So it had gone until now, in the middle of August, the people of
Freekirk Head, Seal Cove, and Great Harbor, the main villages along
the front or Atlantic side of the island, were face to face with the
question of actual life or death.

So far the season's catch was barely up to that of a good month in
normal times; credit was low, and salting and drying were almost
useless, for the people ate most of their own catch. Things were at a
standstill.

And now the fire on top of all!

Captain Code Schofield thought of all these things as he ran along the
King's Road toward the fire. Now he was almost upon it, and could see
that the fish stand and wharf of the two wealthiest men in the village
were burning furiously. The roar of the flames came to him.

A hundred yards back from the water stood Bill Boughton's general
store, and next it, in a row, dwellings; typical white fishermen's
cottages with green blinds and a flower-filled dory in the front
yard.

The King's Road divided at Bill Boughton's store, the branch leading
down to the wharfs, while the main road went on to Swallowtail Light.
Schofield plunged down the branch into the full glare of the fire,
where a crowd of men had already gathered.

As good luck would have it there was not a vessel tied up to the
stand, the whole fleet being made fast to its moorings in the bay.
Code's first duty when he started running had been to make sure that
his _Laughing Lass_ was riding safely at her anchorage.

The burning wharfs faced south. The brisk breeze was southeast and
bore a promise of possible rain. The steamer _Grande Mignon_, after
giving the first warning, had steamed away from her perilous dockage
to a point half a mile nearer the entrance to the bay, and now lay
there shrieking until the frowning cliffs and abrupt hills echoed with
the hideous noise.

"How'd it happen?" asked Schofield of the first man he met.

"Dunno exactly. Cal'late some tanks in the oilroom caught first. Can't
do much with them wharfs, I guess."

"Who's in charge of things here?"

"The squire."

Schofield hurried away in search of Squire Hardy, head man of the
village, and local justice of the peace. He found him working like a
Trojan, his white whiskers ruffled into a circle about his face.

"Lend us a hand here, Code," yelled the squire, who with three other
men was attempting to get a great circular horse-trough under a huge
pump with a handle long enough for three men to lay hold of. Schofield
fell to with a will and helped move the trough into place. The squire
set the three men to the task of filling it and then went to Code.

"Any chance to save those wharfs, d'ye think?"

"No, squire. Better leave them and the fish-houses and work on
Boughton's store and the cottages. They're right in the path of the
wind. It'll be tough on Nailor and Thomas to lose their stand and
houses, but you know what will happen if the fire gets into the
dwellings."

"I thought so all along--curse me if I didn't!" yelled the judge, and
then, turning toward a crowd of men who were looking apprehensively
here and there, he shouted:

"All hands with the buckets now, lively!"

Suddenly the basement doors of Boughton's store were thrown open and a
huge, black-bearded man with a great voice appeared there.

"Buckets this way!" he bellowed, in a tone that rose clearly above the
roar and crackle of the fire. As the men reached him he handed out the
implements from great stacks at his feet--rubber buckets, wooden
buckets, tin and iron buckets, new, old, rusty and galvanized. It was
Pete Ellinwood, the fire marshal of the village and custodian of the
apparatus.

Because in the hundred or more years of its existence there has never
been water pressure in Grande Mignon, the fighting of a fire there
with primitive means has become an exact and beautiful science.

A few bold spirits had disputed the wisdom of Squire Hardy's orders to
let the wharf and fish-house burn, and had attempted to give them a
dousing. In less than five minutes they had retreated, singed and
hairless, due to a sudden explosion of a drum of oil.

"Play on Bill Boughton's store!" came the order.

Already an iron ladder reached to the eaves of the building. Two men
galloped up its length, dragging behind them another ladder with a
pair of huge hooks at the end.

Clinging like monkeys, they worked this up over their heads and up the
shingles until the hooks caught squarely across the ridge-pole of the
house. Then, on hands and feet, they trotted up this and sat astride
the ridge-pole. One of these was Code Schofield.

Other men now swarmed up the ladders, until there was one on every
rung from the ground to the top of the house.

Below, a line of men extended from the foot of the ladder to the great
circular horse-trough. Another line extended from the opposite side of
the store also to the horse-trough, where three men worked the great
pump.

Back twenty yards, along the King's Road, a white-faced row of women
and children stood, ready to rush home and move their furniture into
the fields.

Code, looking down, made out his mother and returned her friendly
wave. Their house was across the road not a hundred feet away.

With a muffled roar another drum on the pier exploded. A great wave of
molten fire shot out in the breeze, and the shingles on Bill
Boughton's store, parched with the drought of a month, burst into
quick flame.

The squire ran back to the water-trough.

"Dip!" he yelled. Big Pete Ellinwood, with the piles of buckets beside
him, seized one and twitched it full.

"Pass!" screamed the squire as it came up dripping. Ellinwood's great
arm swung forward to meet the arm of the man a yard away. The bucket
changed hands and went forward without losing a drop.

Up it went swiftly from one to another, to the eaves, to the two men
at the top.

Now the fire sent branches out from the burning wharf along the low
frames where some of the season's miserable catch was drying in the
open air after salting. The fish curled and blackened in the fierce
heat.

Only two men were not in the bucket brigade. They were Nailor and
Thomas, who stood watching the destruction of their whole property.
They knew the squire had done well in saving the village rather than
their own buildings. It was the tacit understanding in Freekirk Head
that a few should lose rather than the many.

Code Schofield, from his perch on the Boughton roof-tree, looked
down again to where he had last seen his mother. Once more he
distinguished the tall figure with its white face looking anxiously
up at him, and he waved his hand reassuringly. Then his eye was
caught by two other figures that lurked in the first shadows farther
up the King's Road. A moment later he made sure of their identity.

They were Nellie Tanner and Nat Burns.

For years there had been a dislike between the Burnses and the
Schofields. Old Jasper Schofield, Code's father, and Michael Burns had
become enemies over the same girl a quarter of a century before, and
the breach had never been healed. Old Captain Jasper had won, but he
had never forgotten, and Michael had never forgiven.

Quite unconsciously the feud had been passed on to the children of
both (for Michael had married within a few years), and from
school-days Code and Nat had been the leaders of rival gangs.

When they became young men they matched their season's catches and
raced their father's schooners. They were the two natural leaders of
the Freekirk Head young bloods, but they were never on the same side
of an argument.

Schofield wondered why Nat Burns was not at the fire, as usual
attempting to make himself leader of the battle without doing much of
the work, and now the reason was apparent. He preferred to pursue his
courting under the eyes of the village rather than to obey the
unwritten law of service. And he was with Nellie Tanner!

Unlike most youths, there had never been a time in Code's life when he
had passed the favor of his affections around. Since the time they
were both five Nellie Tanner had supplied in full all the feminine
requirements he had ever desired. And she did at this moment. But Nat
Burns had seen a great deal of her in the last three months, he
remembered, taking advantage of Code's desperate search for fish.

Once in this train his thoughts bore him on and on. Memories,
speculations, and desires crowded his mind, and he forgot that beneath
him the roof of Boughton's store was burning more and more briskly.

Suddenly the man beside him on the ridge-pole shook his arm.

"Say, Code!" he cried. "What's that burnin' over there? I didn't know
the fire had gone across the street."

Schofield looked up quickly and followed the direction of the other's
arm that pointed through the trees to the opposite side of King's Road
and a little to westward.

"Good Lord!" he cried excitedly; "it's my own place, and my mother is
all alone down there. Quick! Send somebody up here! I'm going!"




CHAPTER III

THE TEST


The man behind him climbed to the ridge-pole and Code began the
descent, necessarily slow and careful because the ladders were loaded
with men passing buckets. When he reached the ground he started for
home on the run.

Opposite Boughton's general store was another shop that made a
specialty of fishermen's "oilers," boots, and overalls. Two houses to
the westward of that was the old Schofield place, a low, white house
surrounded by a rickety fence and covered with ivy.

Once he reached the middle of the road Code saw that he had been
mistaken in the location of the fire, for his mother's place was
intact. The flame was coming, however, from the house next but
one--Bijonah Tanner's place.

A crowd was gathering in the yard that was overgrown with dusty
wire-grass, and the squire was pushing his way through to take charge.
Code knew that only two days before Captain Bijonah and his wife had
sailed in the _Rosan_ to St. John's for lumber, leaving Nellie alone
in charge of the three small Tanners. He wondered where they all were
now.

He found his mother on the edge of the crowd that was helping to save
the furniture, and learned that Nellie and young Burns had already
arrived and were doing what they could.

From the first it was apparent that the place was doomed, for although
there were plenty of men eager to form a bucket brigade, the supply of
water was limited, and most of the buckets were at the larger fire.

But the squire was working wonders, and enlisted Code to help him.

In fifteen minutes the whole roof and attic were ablaze, and the men
turned their attention to wetting down the near walls of the houses on
each side. All the valuables and most of the simple furniture had been
saved.

At the earliest moment Schofield escaped from the squire and sought
out Nellie. He found her, hysterical, surrounded by a group of women,
and hovered over by Nat Burns. With each hand she held a child close
to her.

"Bige! Where is little Bige?" she was crying as Code came up. "Tom and
Mary are here, but I've lost Bige. Oh, Nat! Where is Bige?"

"Bless me if I know," stammered Burns weakly. "Last I saw of him he
was under that cherry-tree where you told him to stay until you got
the others. It wa'n't more'n five minutes ago I seen him there. He
must be around somewheres. I'll look."

Without another word he hurried off in a frantic search, looking to
left and right, behind every bush, and among the crowd, bellowing the
boy's name at the top of his voice.

Code walked up to the frantic girl and went straight to the point.

"Hello, Nellie!" he said. "Where do you cal'late little Bige might be?
I hear you've lost him."

"Yes, I have, Code. I stood him under that cherry-tree and told him
not to move. When I got back he was gone. He was seven, and just old
enough to run around by himself and investigate things. Oh, I'm so
afraid he's gone--"

"Listen!" Code's sharp, masterful tone put a sudden end to her
sobbing. "Was there anything in the house he valued much?" Suddenly
she drew in her breath sharply.

"Yes, yes," she cried, "his mechanical train. He asked me if I had got
it and I said I had. He must have gone over to the furniture and found
it hadn't been brought down. Oh, Code, Code--"

"What's the matter, Nellie?"

It was Nat Burns's hard voice as he elbowed roughly past Code and bent
solicitously over the girl. He had heard her last words and the
pleading in them, and his brow was dark with question and anger.

"Did you find him, Nat?" queried Nellie in an agony of suspense.

"No, I don't know where the little beggar can be," he replied;
"I've--" The girl screamed and fainted.

"What's the matter here?" shouted Burns. "What's the matter with
her?"

"The boy went back into the house for his toy engine and hasn't come
out again," said Code, facing the other and regarding him with a level
eye.

There was a dramatic pause. After Nat's proprietary interest in Nellie
and her affairs it was distinctly his place to make the next move.
Everybody felt it, and Code, subconsciously realizing this, said
nothing.

It required another moment for the situation to become clear to Burns.
Then, when he realized what alternatives he faced, he gradually grew
pale beneath his deep tan and looked defiantly from one to another of
the group about him.

"Rot!" he cried suddenly. "The boy can't have gone back. It wasn't
five minutes ago I saw him under the cherry-tree. I haven't looked in
this direction. Wait! I'll be back in a minute!" And again he was off
in his frantic search, his voice rising above the roar of the fire.

Code waited no longer.

Snatching up a blanket from the ground, he raced toward the burning
house.

The lower floor was still almost intact, but the upper floor and the
roof were practically consumed. The danger lay not in entering the
house, but in remaining in it, for although the roof had fallen in,
yet the second floor had not burned through and was in momentary
danger of collapse.

The spectators did not know what was in Code Schofield's mind until he
had burst into the danger zone. Then, with the blanket wound about his
arm and shielding his face he plunged toward the open doorway. It was
as though he stood suddenly before the open door of a vast furnace.

The blast of heat seemed an impenetrable force, and he struggled
against it with all his strength.

One more look, a mighty effort, and he was in the temporary shelter of
the doorway. He drew a long breath and plunged forward.

He knew the plan of the Tanner house as he knew his own, and he
remembered that in the rear was a room where the children played. The
hall ran straight back to the door of this room; but there was no
egress from the rear except through the kitchen, which adjoined the
play-room.

The heat that beat down upon his head made him dizzy, and he could not
see for the smoke that filled the hall. Instinctively he went down on
his hands and knees, discarding the blanket, and crawled toward the
rear.

He had scarcely reached the closed door of the play-room when, with a
thunderous roar, the ceilings at the front of the house fell in,
cutting off any escape in that quarter. He knew that at any moment the
rest of the ceilings would collapse.

Half-strangled with the increasing smoke, he staggered to his feet and
lunged against the door, forcing it open. The dim light from the one
square-paned window showed a small form huddled on the floor, the
mouth open, and a tiny locomotive gripped in one hand.

A rush of smoke and flame followed the violent opening of the door,
and Code felt himself growing giddy. A swift glance behind showed a
wall of fire where the hall had once been, and for the first time he
realized the seriousness of the task he had taken upon himself. But
there was no fear. Rather there came a sense of gladness that a
fighter feels when the battle has at last come to close grips.

He swept the small form of Bige up into his arms and leaped to the
window that was built low in the wall and without weights. To raise it
and manipulate the catch was out of the question. With all his
strength he swung his foot against the pane squarely in the middle.
Panes and frame splintered outward, leaving the casement intact
except for a few jagged edges of glass.

Then, suddenly, as he dropped the boy to the ground outside, there
came a blast of fire on the back draft created by the opening. Singed
and strangling, with a last desperate effort he threw himself outward
and fell on his shoulders beside little Bige.

Men who had heard the crash of glass when the window went out rushed
forward and dragged man and boy to safety.

A quarter of an hour later, his head and neck bandaged with sweet-oil,
Code made his way weakly to where Nellie sat among her belongings
cradling in her arms the boy whom the doctor had just brought back to
consciousness.

"He's all right, is he?" asked Schofield.

She smiled up at him through her tears.

"Yes, the doctor says it was just too much smoke. Oh, Code, how can I
thank you for this? And you are hurt! Is it bad? Can't I do
anything?"

She struggled to her feet, solicitude written on her face, for the
moment even forgetting little Bige, who had begun to howl.

"No," said Schofield, "you can't do anything. It isn't much. I'm only
glad I succeeded. Don't think anything about it."

"Father and mother will never forget this, and I'm sure will do what
they can to make it right with you."

He looked at her as though she had struck him. Never in his life had
she used that tone. Before the mute query of his eyes she turned her
head away.

"What do you mean--by that?" he faltered, hardly knowing what he
said.

"Nothing, Code, only--only--" She could not finish.

"What has happened, Nellie?" he began, and then halted, his gaze
riveted upon her hand. A single diamond glittered from the dirt and
grime that soiled her finger.

"That?" he gasped, stunned by a feeling of misery and helplessness.

"Nat and I are engaged," she said in a low voice without answering his
question. "Just since last night."

There was nothing more to be said. The banal wishes for happiness
would not rise to his lips. He looked at her intently for a moment,
saw her eyes again drop, and walked away. He was suddenly tired and
wanted to go home and rest. The reaction of his nervous and physical
strain had set in.

The hundred yards to his own gateway was a triumphal procession, but
he scarcely realized it. Somehow he answered the acclamations that
were heaped upon him. He smiled, but he did not know how.

At the gate some one was waiting for him. At first he thought it was
his mother, but he suddenly saw that it was Elsa Mallaby. He told
himself that she must have come down to the village to watch the fire,
and wondered why she was in that particular place.

"Code," she cried, her face flushed with glad pride, "you were
splendid! That was the bravest thing I ever heard of in my life. I
knew you would do it!"

He smiled mechanically, thanked her, and passed on while she gazed
after him, hurt and struck silent by the cold misery in his face.

"I wonder," she said to herself slowly, "whether something besides
what I told him has happened to him to-night?"




CHAPTER IV

REFUGEES


It was almost one o'clock in the morning when Code went into the
parlor of his mother's cottage and sank down upon the ancient plush
sofa. His eyes ached, and the back of his head and neck, where the
fire had singed him, were throbbing painfully.

There was apparently no one at home.

Even little Josie, the orphan that helped his mother, seemed to have
been drawn out into the road by the excitement of the night, and the
house, except for a single lamp burning on the table, was in
darkness.

He thought of going up-stairs to bed, but remembered that his mother
was not in, and decided he would rest a little while and then go out
and find her. Suddenly it seemed very luxurious and grateful to be
able to stretch at full length after so much labor, and within a few
minutes this sense of luxury had become a pleasant oblivion.

Voices and a bright light woke him up. Dazed and alarmed, he struggled
to a sitting posture, but a gently firm hand pushed him down again
and he heard his mother's voice.

"Lay down again, Code," she said. "You must be pretty well beat out
with all you've done to-night. We've just got some friends for the
night. Poor boy, let me see your burns!"

Schofield, who had guided schooners for years through the gales and
shoals of the Bay of Fundy without a qualm, became red and ashamed at
his mother's babying. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he sat up again
determinedly and made an effort to greet the company who, he knew, had
come into the room with his mother.

Across the room, near the old melodeon, sat Nellie Tanner, holding
little Bige and smiling wanly at him. The other two children leaned
against her, asleep on either side.

"Don't get up, Code," she said. "You've earned your rest more than any
man in Freekirk Head to-night. I'm afraid, though, we're going to make
more trouble for you. Ma Schofield wouldn't let me go anywhere else
but here till the _Rosan_ gets back from St. John's.

"Oh, I hate to think of their coming! They'll sail around Flag Point
and look for the kiddies waving in front of the house. And they won't
even see any house; but, thanks to you, Code, they'll see the
kiddies."

He knew by the tense, strained tone of her voice that she was very
near the breaking-point, and his whole being yearned to comfort her
and try to make her happy.

Cursing himself for a lazy dolt, he sprang up and walked over toward
her.

"Now, you just let me handle this, Nellie," he said, "and we'll soon
have Tommie and Mary and Bige all curled up on that sofa like three
kittens."

With a sigh of ineffable relief she resigned the dead weight in her
weary arms to him, and he, stepping softly, and holding him gently as
a woman, soon had the boy more comfortable than he had been for hours.
Mary and Tommie followed, and then Nellie, free of her responsibility
at last, bent forward, put her elbows on her knees, and wept.

Code, racked and embarrassed, looked around for his mother, but that
mainstay was nowhere in sight. He thought of whistling, so as to
appear unconscious of her tears, but concluded that would be merely
rude. To take up a paper or book and read it in the face of a woman's
weeping appeared hideous, although for the first time in many months,
he felt irresistibly drawn to the ancient and dusty volumes in the
glass-doored bookcase.

He compromised by turning his back on the affecting sight, thrusting
his hands in his pockets, and studying the remarkably straight line
formed by the abrupt junction of the wall and the ceiling.

"Do you mind if I cry, C--Code?" sobbed the girl, apparently realizing
their position for the first time.

"No! Go right ahead!" he cried as heartily as though some one had
asked for a match. He was intensely happy that the matter was settled
between them. Now the harder she cried the more he liked it, for they
understood one another. So she cried and he walked softly about, his
hands in his pockets and his lips puckered for the whistle that he did
not dare permit himself.

Ma Schofield interrupted this near-domestic scene by her arrival,
carrying a tray, on which were several glasses covered with a film of
frost and out of which appeared little green forests. Code ceased to
think about whistling.

"Oh, Ma Schofield, what have you done?" cried Nellie, her tears for
the moment forgetting to flow as her widening eyes took in the
delights of the frosted glasses and piles of cake behind them.

"Done?" queried ma. "I haven't done anything but what my conscience
tells me ought to be done. If yours cal'lates to disturb you some you
can go right on up to your room, lamb, for you must be dead with
lugging them children around."

Nellie's tears disappeared not to return. She shook her head.

"No, ma," she said; "my conscience is just like them children--sleeping
so hard it would take Gabriel's trumpet to wake 'em up. It's more
tired than I am."

"All right," said ma, with finality; "we will now proceed to refresh
ourselves."

It was two o'clock before they separated for the remainder of the
night.

Code's room, with its big mahogany double bed, was given over to
Nellie and the children while he gladly resigned himself to the humpy
plush sofa.

By this time they had received news from half a dozen neighbors that
Bill Boughton's general store had been only half destroyed and that
the contents had all been saved. The wharfs and fish-houses were at
last burning and property on the leeward side of the flames was
declared to be safe.

A general exodus began along the King's Road.

Men who had galloped up from Great Harbor, with an ax in one hand and
a bucket in the other, mounted their horses and rode away. Others from
Hayward's Cove and Castalia, who had driven in buggies and buckboards,
collected their families and departed. The King's Road was the scene
of a long procession, as though the people of Freekirk Head were
evacuating the town.

A detachment of men under Squire Hardy's orders remained about the
danger zone ready to check any further advance of the flames or to
rouse the town to further resistance should this become necessary. But
for the most part the people of the village returned to their homes.

Wide-awake and nervous, Schofield lay open-eyed upon the couch while
unbidden thoughts raced through his brain.

The very fact of his sleeping on the plush couch was enough to bring
to his mind the memory of one whom he had irretrievably lost on this
memorable night. Was she not at this moment under his own roof,
miserable and nearly destitute? He knew that, as long as he might
live, his humble room up-stairs would never be the same again.

It had been made a place sweet and full of wonder by the very fact
that she was in it. Never again, he knew, could he enter it without
its being faintly fragrant of her who, all his life, he had considered
the divinest created thing on earth. By her presence she had
sanctified it and made of it a shrine for his meditative and wakeful
hours.

Ever since they had gone to school together, hand in hand, the names
of Nellie Tanner and Code Schofield had been linked in the mouths of
Grande Mignon busybodies. Living all their lives two doors away, they
had grown up in that careless intimacy of constant association that
is unconscious of its own power until such intimacy is removed.

To-night the shock had come.

It was not that Code had taken for granted that Nellie would marry
him. Never in his life had he told her that he loved her. It is not
the habit of men who rove the seas to keep those they love constantly
supplied with literature or confectionery, or to waste too many words
in the language of devotion.

He admitted frankly to himself that he had always hoped to marry her
when he had acquired the quarter interest in Bill Boughton's fishstand
that had been promised him, but he had not told her so, nor did he
know that she would accept him. The idea had been one to be thought of
only at times of quietness and confidence in his future such as come
to every man.

But he had not reckoned on Nat Burns. He had not realized quite to
what an extent Burns had made progress. He recalled, now that it was
brought forcibly home to him, that Nat had been constantly at the
Tanners' for the last four or five months. But Code had thought
nothing of this, for Nat had paid similar court at times to others of
the girls of Freekirk Head. He was, in fact, considered the village
beau.

And Nellie herself had told him nothing. There had been a modest
shyness about her in their relations that had kept him at an
exasperating and piquant distance.

Well, everything was over now, he told himself. He could take his
defeat since Nellie did not care for him.

Then he suddenly recalled Burns's actions and manner of speaking
during the harrowing moments of the fire.

"I wonder if Nat really loves her?" he asked himself. "And if not, why
did he become engaged?"




CHAPTER V

STARTLING NEWS


The home-coming of Captain Bijonah Tanner and his wife did not provide
the thrill looked for by the more morbid inhabitants of Freekirk Head.
In the excitement of the fire all hands had forgotten that cable
communication between Mignon and the mainland was unbroken.

The operator, in the pursuance of his duty, had sent word of the fire
to Eastport, and then concocted some cable despatches for Boston and
Portland papers that left nothing to be desired from the viewpoint of
sensationalism. In his zeal for filling space and eking out his
slender income, the operator left nothing standing on Grande Mignon
except the eternal rocks and the lighthouse.

It was such an account that Bijonah Tanner fed upon that morning in
the tiny cabin of the _Rosan_, and half an hour after he had read it
he was under way. Special mention had been made of Code Schofield's
rescue of little Bige, with a sentence added that the Tanner place had
been wiped out.

With their minds filled with desperate scenes of cataclysm and ruin,
the Tanners raced the complaining _Rosan_ around Flag Point six hours
later, only to fall upon one another and dance for joy at the sight of
the village nestling as of yore against the green mountains and
gleaming white in the descending sun.

An acrid smell and a smudge of smoke told of what had really been, and
a black heap of ruins where the familiar house had stood for so long
confirmed their fears for their own property; but to see the village
content and smiling, except for a poor building or two, was joy enough
to overbalance the personal loss.

So those who expected a tearful and emotional home-coming were
disappointed.

Code met the dory that rowed ashore after Bijonah had made fast to his
mooring in the little cove that was the roadstead for the fishing
fleet. He had half expected to share the duty with Nat Burns since the
recent change in his relations to the Tanners, but Burns did not put
in an appearance, although it was three o'clock in the afternoon.

Bijonah shook hands with him, and Ma Tanner kissed him, the latter
ceremony being a baptism of happy tears that all were safe and alive.
Bijonah cleared his voice and pulled hard at his beard.

"Understand you're quite a hero, Code," he ventured bluffly, careful
to conceal any emotion, but resolved to give the occasion its due.

"Oh, rot, captain!" said Code equally bluffly, and the ceremony was
over.

But not so with Ma Tanner. She wept and laughed over the preserver of
her offspring, and called him so many exalting names that he was glad
to turn her over to Nellie and his mother at the Schofield gate.

Hot and flushed with the notoriety she had given him along the main
road, he retired to the corner shop and drank wonderful cold
ginger-beer out of a white stone jug until his temperature had
returned to normal.

But later he returned to the house, and found the Tanners about to
depart. The widow Sprague, near the Odd Fellows' Hall, who lived, as
she expressed it, "all deserted and alone," had agreed to take the
family into her rambling cottage. Luke Fraser had brought his
truck-cart up alongside the rescued Tanner belongings, and they were
already half loaded.

"Can you come down to the widdy's to-night, Code?" asked Bijonah. "I've
got somethin' to tell ye that ought to int'rest ye consid'able."

"Yes, I'll be there about eight," was the reply as Schofield joined in
loading the truck.

He found the captain that night smoking a pipe on the low front porch
of the Widow Sprague's cottage, evidently very much at home. Bijonah
motioned him to a chair and proffered a cigar with a slightly
self-conscious air. Inside the house, Code could hear the sound of
people moving about and the voice of a woman singing low, as though to
a child. He told himself without question that this was Nellie getting
the kiddies to sleep.

"A feller hears queer things over in St. John's sometimes," announced
Bijonah suddenly, sucking at his pipe.

"Yes."

"An' this time I heard somethin' about you."

"Me? I don't know three people in St. John's."

"Guess I met one of the three, then."

"Where? How? Who was it?"

Bijonah Tanner coughed and shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Wal," he said, "I was takin' a little turn along the water-front,
just a _leetle_ turn, as the wife will tell you, when I dropped into
a--er--that is--a rum-shop and heard three men at the table next to
mine talking about you."

Schofield smiled broadly in the darkness. Bijonah's little turns along
the water-front of St. John's or any other port had been the subject
for much prayer and supplication in the hearts of many devout persons
thoroughly interested in their neighbor's welfare. And of late years
Ma Tanner had been making trips with him to supply stimulus to his
conscience.

"What were they talking about?" So far from being suspicious, Code was
merely idly curious of the gossip about him.

"My boy," said Tanner, suddenly grave, "I was the best friend your
father had for forty years, and I'm goin' to try and be as good a
friend to his son. But you mustn't mind what I tell ye."

"I won't, captain. Go ahead," said Code, his interest awakening.

"Wal, them men was talkin' about the loss of the old _May Schofield_,
and one of 'em in particular allowed as how he didn't think it should
have foundered when it did. What d'ye think of that?"

Schofield had stiffened in his chair as though undergoing a spasm of
pain. The sentences smote him between the eyes of his sensibilities.
Had it come to this, that his name was being bandied dishonorably
about the barrooms of St. John's? If so, how and why?

"Then I suppose you've heard the talk in Grande Mignon before this?"

"Yes, Code, I have; and I've called every man a liar that said
anything definite against you. I'm gettin' old, but there ain't very
many men here able enough to shove that name back down my throat, an'
I notice none of 'em tried. It's all idle talk, that's all; an' there
ain't a soul that can prove a single thing against you, even
cowardice. An' that's more'n can be said o' some men in this
village."

Code was grateful, and he said so. It was something to find a friend
so stanch and loyal that suspicion had never even found soil in his
mind where it might take root. Two such he had now: Elsa Mallaby and
Bijonah Tanner.

"What else did those men say?" he asked in conclusion.

"If I remember right, an' I was perfectly clear at the time, this is
what one said: 'Fellers,' sez 'e to the other two, 'e sez--'fellers,
that young Captain Schofield in Freekirk Head is goin' on the rocks,
or I don't hear what's goin' on in my office.'

"'Then they're goin' to sue him to recover part of his insurance on
the old schooner _May Schofield_?' asks the second.

"'If I didn't hear the chief say that this mornin' you can shoot me on
sight!' the first answers. An' then for a while I couldn't hear any
more, an' you can bet I was watchin' the door somethin' awful for fear
ma would come in an' spoil it all by draggin' me off."

"But who were these men?" asked Code. "Whom did they mean by the
chief?"

"I was just gettin' to that. After a while, from a little bit here an'
a little there, I made out that the first young feller was private
secretary to the president of the Marine Insurance Company. That's
the firm that carried the old _May_, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. They've got my _Rosan_, too, though I wish mightily now
that they hadn't. This feller is the private secretary to the
president, an' the other two are clerks or something in the office.
They may have been up to something crooked, and then again they may
have just been talkin' things over as young fellers often do when
they're interested in their work. Anyway, there's enough in what they
said to set you thinkin', I cal'late."

"Yes," said Code slowly and grimly, "it is. I've only known that the
island was talking since last night, and now I find St. John's is,
too. It's spreading pretty fast, it seems; and I wonder where it will
end?" He pondered silently for a while.

"If they sue to recover, what'll you do?" ventured Tanner hesitatingly.

"God knows!" answered Schofield and laughed bitterly. "I haven't got a
thing on earth but the _Charming Lass_, an' this year I haven't caught
enough fish to pay for my new mains'l. My credit is still good at Bill
Boughton's, but that's all."

"But the cottage--"

"That is my mother's, and they could never get that. If they sue and I
lose they must take the _Lass_, and after they've subtracted the
judgment from the sale price I suppose I'll get the rest--maybe
enough to buy a second-hand sloop."

"Yes, but that isn't the worst part of it, Code. As soon as they bring
suit they will attach the schooner, so that even if the trial doesn't
come up for weeks you still can't use her, and will have to sit around
idle or go hand-lining in your dory. And you know what that means with
winter comin' on."

"I know." He had seen hard winters that had tried the resources of the
village to the utmost, but he had never faced one that promised to be
like the next.

"Well, what would you advise me to do, captain?"

"Get out!" snapped Tanner. "Get a crew and take the _Lass_ to sea.
There's one thing sure, a lawyer can't serve you with a summons or
anything else if he has to look for you on the Atlantic Ocean."

Schofield smiled. The remedy called for was heroic, truly; but was it
honorable?

"I wonder if they can do that, anyway?" he asked. "After the _May_ was
lost the insurance people settled without a complaint. Can they rake
up that matter again now?"

"By Jove! That reminds me. Them fellers discussed that very thing; an'
the secretary said that if the law had been broke at the time of the
sinkin'--I mean, if the schooner wasn't fit or had been tampered
with--that it was within the law. But, o' course, somebody's got to
make the complaint."

"That's just it," cried Code, springing up and throwing away the stump
of his cigar; "somebody has got to make the complaint! Well, now, from
what I can see, somebody's made it. All this talk could not have gone
on in the island unless it started from somewhere. And the question
is, where?"

They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. In the darkness the
figure of a man appeared approaching the house. A moment later the
newcomer stepped on the low veranda, and both men recognized him.

It was Nat Burns.

"Is Nellie here?" he asked without the formality of the usual
greetings.

"I cal'late she is, Nat," replied Tanner, rising to his feet. "Wait a
minute an' I'll call her."

But he had not reached the door before the girl herself stepped out on
the porch. She ran out eagerly, but stopped short when she saw Code in
the darkness. Their meeting was obviously reserved.

In the interim Tanner walked to where Schofield stood, silent.

"I cal'late I can give you a pretty good idea where all this trouble
started from," he growled in a low tone; but before he could go on
Nellie interrupted him.

"Father," she said, coming forward with Nat, "I want to tell you
something that we've all been too busy to discuss before this. Nat and
I are engaged. He gave me the ring night before last when you were in
St. John's. I hope you are pleased, father."

Bijonah Tanner remained silent for a moment, plainly embarrassed by
the duty before him. Between most men who follow the sea and their
daughters there is much less intimacy than with those who are in other
walks of life. Long absences and the feeling that a mother is
responsible for her girls are reasons for this; while in the case of
boys, who begin to putter round the parental schooner from their
earliest youth, a much closer feeling exists. Tanner could not bridge
the chasm between himself and his daughter.

"Did you tell your mother?" he asked finally.

"Yes."

"And was she satisfied?"

"Yes, indeed; she was very happy about it, and told me to come right
down and tell you."

"Wal, if it suits her it suits me," was the dry conclusion. "I hope
you'll be happy. You've got a fine gal there, Nat."

"I know I have, captain," said Burns warmly; "and I'll try to make her
happy."

"All right," grunted Bijonah, and sank back into his chair. Between
praising one man who saved his youngest boy, and congratulating
another who was to marry his eldest girl, Captain Tanner's day had
been over full of ceremonial.

Face to face with the inevitable, Code Schofield offered sincere but
embarrassed congratulations; and he was secretly glad that, when
opportunity offered for him to shake Nat Burns's hand, that young
gentleman was busy lighting a cigarette.

The lovers went inside, and Code stood dejectedly, leaning against the
railing. Tanner removed his pipe and spat over the railing.

"It's too blamed bad!" he muttered.

"What?" asked Code, almost unconsciously.

"It's too bad, I say. I used to think that mebbe Nellie would like
you, Code. I've counted on it consid'able all my life. But it's too
late now. Young Burns'll have to be one of the family from now on."

"Thanks, captain," said Schofield with forced cheerfulness. "I had
hoped so, too. But that's all past now. By the way, who was it you
thought started all this trouble? I'd like to know that."

"One of the family," muttered Tanner, his thoughts still busy. Then,
recollecting Schofield's question, he appeared about to speak,
hesitated, and at last said:

"Bless my soul and body if I know! No, I wouldn't want to say what I
thought, Code. I never was one to run down any man behind his back!"

Code looked in amazement at the old man, but not for long. A moment's
thought concerning Tanner's recently acquired relation made his
suspicion doubly sure that Nat Burns's name had been on Bijonah's
tongue.

He immediately dropped the subject and after a little while took his
departure.




CHAPTER VI

THE ISLAND DECIDES


In Freekirk Head, next morning, painted signs nailed to telegraph-poles
at intervals along the King's Road as far as Castalia read:

                         MASS-MEETING TO-NIGHT
                            ODD FELLOWS HALL
                       8 O'CLOCK        ALL COME

Who had issued this pronunciamento, what it signified, and what was
the reason for a town meeting nobody knew; and as the men trudged down
to their dories drawn up on the stony beach near the burned wharfs,
discussion was intense.

Finally the fact became known that a half-dozen of the wealthiest and
best-educated men in the village, including Squire Hardy and the Rev.
Adelbert Bysshe, rector of the Church of England chapel, had held a
secret conclave the night before at the squire's house.

It was believed that the signs were the result, and intimated in
certain obscure quarters that Pete Ellinwood, who had always claimed
literary aspirations, had printed them.

Odd Fellows' Hall was the biggest and most pretentious building in
Freekirk Head. It was of two stories height, and on its gray-painted
front bore the three great gilt links of the society. To one side of
it stood a wreck of a former factory, and behind it was the tiny
village "lockup."

It marked the spot where the highway turned south at right angles on
its wild journey southwest, a journey that ended in a leap into space
from the three hundred foot cliffs of gull-haunted, perpendicular
Southern Head.

The interior of the hall was in its gala attire. Two rows of huge
oil-lamps extended down the middle from back to front; others were in
brackets down the side walls, and three more above the low rostrum at
the far end. The chairs were in place, the windows open, and the two
young fishermen who acted as janitors of the hall stood at the rear,
greeting those that arrived with familiar jocularity.

Into the hall, meant to accommodate two hundred, three hundred people
were packed. The men in their rusty black, the women in their simple
white or flowered dresses, the children brushed and pig-tailed, had
all brought their Sunday manners and serious, attentive faces.

On the low platform presently appeared the Rev. Adelbert Bysshe
and Squire Hardy. The rector was a young man with a thin, ascetic
face. His mouth was pursed into a small line, and he wore large,
round spectacles to aid his faded blue eyes. His clerical garb
could not conceal the hesitating awkwardness of his manner, and
the embarrassment his hands and feet caused him seemed to be his
special cross in life.

When the audience had become quiet he rose and took his stand before
them, lowering his head and peering over his glasses.

"Friends," he said, "we have gathered here to-night to discuss the
welfare of Grande Mignon Island and the village of Freekirk Head."

A look of startled uncertainty swept over the simple, weather-beaten
faces in front of him.

"You know that I am not exaggerating," he continued, "when I say that
we are face to face with the gravest problem that has ever confronted
us. It has pleased God in His infinite Providence so to direct the
finny tribes that the denizens of the deep have altered the location
of their usual fishing-grounds.

"Day after day you men have gone forth with nets and lines like the
fishers of old; day after day, also like some of the fishers of old,
you have returned empty-handed. The salting-bins are not filled, the
drying-frames are bare, the shipments to St. John's have practically
ceased.

"I do not need to tell you that this spells destitution. This island
depends on its fish, and, since cod and hake and pollock have left us,
we must cast about for other means of support.

"This meeting, then, after due deliberation last night and earnest
supplication of the Almighty for guidance, has been called to
determine what course we shall pursue."

Mr. Bysshe, warm now and perspiring freely, retired to his seat and
mopped his face. Across the audience, which had listened intently,
there swept a murmur of low speech.

It is not given to most fisherfolk to know any more than the bare
comforts of life. Theirs is an existence of ceaseless toiling,
ceaseless danger, and very poor reward. Hardship is their daily lot,
and it requires a great incentive to bring them to a full stop in
consideration of their future.

Here, then, in Freekirk Head were three hundred fishermen with their
backs against the wall--mutely brave because it is bred in the
bone--quietly preparing for a final stand against their hereditary
enemies, hunger and poverty.

The low murmur of awestruck conversation suddenly stopped, for Squire
Hardy, with his fringe of white whiskers violently mussed, had risen
to speak.

"Mr. Bysshe has just about got the lobster in the pot," he declared,
"but I want to say one thing more. Things were bad enough up to a week
ago, but since the fire they have been a great deal worse. Mr. Nailor
and Mr. Thomas, who owned the fish stand that burned, have been
cleaned out. They gave employment to about twenty of you men.

"Those men are now without any work at all because the owners of the
other fish stands have all the trawlers and dorymen they need. Even if
they didn't have, there are hardly enough fish to feed all hands on
the island.

"More than that--and now I hope you won't mind what I am going to say,
for we've all been in the same boat one time or another--Mr. Boughton
can't be our last hope much longer. You and I and all of us have got
long-standing credit at his store for supplies we paid for later from
our fishing. The fire of the other night cost Mr. Boughton a lot, and,
as most of his money is represented in outstanding credit, he cannot
advance any more goods.

"Mr. Boughton is not here himself, for he told me he would never say
that word to people he has always trusted and lived with all his life.
But I am saying it for him because I think I ought to, and you can see
for yourselves how fair it is.

"Now, that's about all I've got to add to what Mr. Bysshe has said to
you. Yes, there's one thing more. Great Harbor and Seal Cove below us
here are as bad if not worse off than we are. We cannot look for help
in that direction, and I will be a lot thinner man than I am now
before I ever appeal to the government.

"We're not paupers, and we don't want city newspapers starting
subscription-lists for us. So, as Mr. Bysshe has said, the only thing
for us to do is to get our eyes out of the heavens and see what we can
do for ourselves."

The squire sat down, pulling at his whiskers and looking apprehensively
at the rector, of whose polished periods he stood in some awe.

The audience was silent now. The squire had brought home to these men
and women some bald, hard facts that they had scarcely as yet admitted
even to themselves. There was scarcely one among them whose account
with Bill Boughton was fully satisfied, and now that this mainstay was
gone the situation took on an entirely different aspect.

For some minutes no one spoke. Then an old man, bearded to the waist,
got upon his feet.

"I've seen some pretty hard times on this island," he said, "but none
like this here. I've thought it over some, and I'd like to make a
suggestion. My son Will is over on the back of the island pickin'
dulce. The market fer that is good--he's even got ten cents a pound
this summer. This is the month of August and winter is consid'able
ways off. How about all hands turnin' to an' pickin' dulce?"

This idea was received in courteous silence. There were men there who
had spent their summers reaping the harvest of salty, brown kelp from
the rocks at low tide, and they knew how impractical the scheme was.
Although the island exported yearly fifteen thousand dollars' worth of
the strange stuff, it was plain that should all the men devote
themselves to it the return would by no means measure up to the
labor.

One after another, then, the fishermen got to their feet and discussed
this project. In this cause of common existence embarrassment was
forgotten and tongues were loosed that had never before addressed a
public gathering.

A proposition was put forward that the islanders should dispute the
porpoise-spearing monopoly of the Quoddy Indians that were already
sailing across the channel for their annual summer's sport, but this
likewise met with defeat.

A general exodus of men to the sardine canning-factories in Lubec and
Eastport was suggested, and met with some favor until it was pointed
out that the small sardine herring had fallen off vastly in numbers,
and that the factories were hard put to it to find enough work for
their regular employees.

Self-consciousness and restraint were forgotten in this struggle for
the common preservation, and above the buzz of general intense
discussion there rose always the voice of some speaker with an idea or
suggestion.

Code Schofield had come to the meeting with Pete Ellinwood and Jimmie
Thomas, both dory mates at different times. They sat fairly well
forward, and Code, glancing around during the proceedings, had caught
a friendly greeting from Elsa Mallaby, who, with some of her old
girlhood friends, sat farther back.

The solemn occasion for and spirit of the meeting had made a deep
impression on him; but, as the time passed and those supposedly older
and wiser delivered themselves merely of useless schemes, a plan that
had come into his mind early in the evening began to take definite
shape. As he sat there he pondered the matter over until it seemed to
him the only really feasible idea.

Finally, after almost two hours of discussion with no conclusion
reached, a pause occurred, and Code, to the amazement of his
companions, got upon his feet. As he did so he flushed, for he
wondered how many of those eyes suddenly fixed upon him were eyes of
hostility or doubt. The thought stung him to a greater determination.

"I don't want to be considered bold after so many older men have
spoken," he said, looking at the squire, "but I have a suggestion to
make."

"Go ahead, make it," bellowed the squire cordially. "I wish more young
men would give us their ideas."

"Thinking it over, I have come to this conclusion," proceeded
Schofield. "There is only one thing the men on this island do
perfectly, and that is fish. Therefore, it seems only common sense to
me that they ought to go on fishing."

A ripple of laughter ran around the room that was now hot and stuffy
from the glare and smell of the great oil-lamps. Code heard the laugh,
and his brows drew down into a scowl.

"Of course, they cannot go on fishing here. But there are any number
of places north and east of us where they can go on. I mean the Grand
Banks and the Cape Shore in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. We have
schooners and sloops, we have dories, and men, and can get provisions
on credit, I should think, for such a cruise.

"That, then, is my idea--that the captains of Grande Mignon fit out
their vessels, hire their crews on shares, and go out on the Banks for
fish like the Gloucester men and Frenchmen. If we do it we're going
against the best in the world, but I don't believe there is a
fisherman here who doesn't believe we can hold our own."

Suddenly far back in the room a woman arose.

She was young, and her face showed that once it might have been
beautiful. Her frame was large and angular, and her rusty black
clothes sat awkwardly upon it. But youth and beauty and girlish charm
had gone from her long since, as it does with those whose men battle
with the sea. She was a widow, and a little girl clung sleepily to her
dress.

"Code Schofield," she cried, "what about the women? Ye ain't goin' off
to leave us fight the winter all alone, are ye? Ye ain't goin' to sail
them winter gales on the shoals, are ye? How many of ye do you s'pose
will come back?" She shook off those near her who tried to pull her
down into her seat.

"Last year they lost a hundred an' five out o' Gloucester, an' every
year they make widders by the dozen. If it was set in India's coral
strand ye'd know it was a fishin' town by its widders; an' Freekirk
Head'll be just like it. I lost my man in a gale--" Her voice broke
and she paused. "D'ye want us all to be widders?

"How can ye go an' leave us? It's the women the sea kills with misery,
not the men. What can we do when you're gone? There ain't any money
nor much food. If there come a fire we'd all be cleaned out, for what
could we do? If you'll only think of us a little--us women--mebbe you
won't go." She sank down amid a profound silence.

"Poor thing!" rumbled Pete Ellinwood. "She shouldn't have come. Al
Green was her man." Sobbing sounded in another quarter of the hall,
and the men looked at one another, disconcerted. Still no one spoke.
The matter hung in the balance, for all saw instantly that could the
women be provided for this was the solution of the problem.

Though taken aback, Code stood to his guns and remained on his feet.

Suddenly in the middle of the hall another woman rose. Her motion was
accompanied by the rustle of silk, and instantly there was silence,
for Elsa Mallaby commanded considerable respect.

Code saw her with surprise as he turned. She noted his puzzled
expression and flashed him a dazzling smile that was not lost, even in
that thrilled and excited crowd. He answered it.

"I consider that Captain Schofield has solved the problem," she said
in a clear, level tone. "There is no question but that the men of
Grande Mignon should fit out their ships and fish on the Banks. There
is also no question but that the objection Mrs. Green raised makes
such a thing impossible. Now, I want to tell you something.

"I belong in Freekirk Head, and you have all known me since I was
little. Hard-luck Jim Mallaby belonged in Freekirk Head and made his
money out of the island. Jim's money is mine now, and you can rest
assured that while the men are away fishing no woman or child on
Grande Mignon shall go hungry while I am alive to hear of it.

"Some people hate me because I live in a big house and have
everything. It is only natural and I expect it, but ever since Jim
left me I have wondered how I could do the most good with his money
here. I would like to _give_ it; but if you won't have that, you can
borrow it on a long-time loan without interest or security. Now I will
go out and you can talk it over freely."

With a companion she walked up the aisle and to the door, but before
she reached it Code Schofield was standing on a chair, his hat in his
hand.

"Three cheers for Mrs. Mallaby!" he yelled, and the very building
shook with the tumultuous response.

It was five minutes before the squire, purple with shouting for order,
could be heard above the noise. Then, with hand upraised, he shouted:

"All in favor of Schofield's plan say ay!"

And the "ay" was the greatest vocal demonstration ever given in
Freekirk Head.




CHAPTER VII

A STRANGER


The ensuing week was one such as the village had never beheld. A
visitor to the island might have thought that war had been declared
and that a privateering expedition was being fitted out.

On the railroad near Flag Point there was always some vessel being
scraped or painted. Supplies brought over from St. John's by the
steamer _Grande Mignon_ were stowed in lazarets and below. Rigging was
overhauled, canvas patched or renewed, and bright, tawny ropes
substituted for the old ones in sheet and tackle.

Every low tide was a signal for great activity among the vessels made
fast alongside the wharfs, for the rise of the water was nearly twenty
feet, and when it receded the ships stood upright on their keels and
exposed their bottoms to scraper, calking mallet, and paint-brush.

In every house where father or son was expecting soon to sail the
women were busy with clothing and general outfit. There was a run on
the store carrying oilskins, sea-boots, oil-lamps, stoves, and
general paraphernalia.

All these things were gotten on credit, for there is no such thing as
a vessel returning empty-handed from the Banks, and Bill Boughton
stood sponsor for most of them.

The owners of vessels divided their time between provisioning and
overhauling their ships and the securing of crews. One rainy
afternoon, when work had been generally suspended, a number of the men
gathered inside Bill Boughton's store to wait for a let-up in the
downpour, and the subject of crews was broached.

"How you comin' with your crew, Bige?" asked a tall, lanky man of
Captain Tanner.

"First rate. Got a dozen men now an' that's about all the _Rosan_ can
take care of. At that somebody'll have to sleep on a locker, I
cal'late."

"You're doin' well, Bige. I hear Jed Martin can't round up more'n
eight, an' he's been as fur south as Great Harbor."

"D'ye wonder?" put in a third. "Jed ain't never set up grub that a
shark would eat. I sailed with him once five year ago, an' that was
enough fer me."

"Twelve men ain't much," put in Tanner. "Them Gloucester men sail with
sixteen or eighteen right along, and I've heard o' one feller put out
of T-Wharf, Boston, carryin' twenty-eight dories. Of course, them
fellers lays to fill up quick and make short trips fer the fresh
market. Ain't many of them briners."

"Don't believe there's anybody'll carry sixteen men out of here, is
they?" came a voice from over in the corner.

"Sure!" The rumble and bellow of the reply denoted Pete Ellinwood
where he sat on a cracker-box, his six and a half feet of length
sprawled halfway from one counter to the other. "There's Nat Burns's
_Hettie B._ She'll carry sixteen, and so will Code Schofield's
_Laughing Lass_--mebbe more."

"Huh! Yes, if he can git 'em," sneered a voice.

"Git 'em! O' course he'll git 'em. Why not?" demanded Ellinwood,
turning upon the other belligerently.

"Wal," replied the other, "they do say there's men in this village,
and farther south, too, that wouldn't sail with Code, not fer a
thousand dollars and all f'und."

"Them that says it are fools," declared Ellinwood.

"An' liars!" cut in Bijonah Tanner hotly. "Why won't they sail with
the lad? He can handle a schooner as well as you, Burt, and better."

"Yas," said the other contemptuously; "nobody's ever forgot the way he
handled the old _May Schofield_. Better not play with fire, Bige, or
you'll get your hands burned."

Pete Ellinwood got upon his feet deliberately. He was the biggest and
most powerful man in the village, despite his forty-five years, and
his "ableness" in a discussion--physical or otherwise--was universally
respected.

"Look here you, Burt, an' all the rest of you fellers. I've got
something to say. Fer consid'able time now I've heard dirty talk about
Code and the _May Schofield_--dirty talk an' nothin' more. Now, if any
of you can prove that Code did anything but try and save the old
schooner, let's hear you do it. If not, shut up! I don't want to hear
no more of that talk."

There was silence for a while as all hands sought to escape the gray,
accusing eye that wandered slowly around the circle. Then from back in
the shadow somewhere a voice said sneeringly:

"What ax you got to grind, Pete?"

A laugh went round, for it was common talk that, since the death of
Jasper Schofield, Pete had expressed his admiration for Ma Schofield
in more than one way.

"I got this ax to grind, Andrew," replied Ellinwood calmly, "that I'm
signed on as mate in the _Charming Lass_, an' I believe the boy is as
straight and as good a sailor as anybody on the island." This was
news to the crowd, and the men digested it a minute in silence.

"How many men ye got sailin' with ye?" asked one who had not spoken
before.

"Five outside the skipper an' me," was the reply, "an' I cal'late
we'll fill her up in a day or so. Seven men can sail her like a witch,
but they won't fill her hold very quick. She'll take fifteen hundred
quintal easy, or I judge her wrong."

A prolonged whistle from outside interrupted the discussion, and one
man going to the door announced that it had stopped raining. All hands
got up and prepared to go back to work. Only Bijonah Tanner remained
to buy some groceries from Boughton.

"Steamer's early to-day," said the storekeeper, glancing at his watch.
"She's bringin' me a lot of salt from St. John's, and I guess I can
get it into the shed to-night."

Having satisfied Tanner, he went out of the store the back way and
left the captain alone filling his pipe. A short blast of the whistle
told him that the steamer was tied up, and idly he lingered to see who
had come to the island.

The passengers, to reach the King's Road, were obliged to go past the
corner of the general store, and Bijonah stood on the low, wooden
veranda, watching them.

Some two dozen had gone when his eye was attracted by a pale, thin
youth in a light-gray suit and Panama hat. He thought nothing of him
at first except to remark his clothes, but as he came within short
vision Tanner gave a grunt of astonishment and bit through the reed
stem of his corn-cob pipe.

He recognized the youth as the one he had seen in St. John's and had
referred to as the secretary to the president of the Marine Insurance
Company.

Instantly the old man's mind flashed back to what he had heard only a
week before, which he had told Code. He stood looking after the
stranger as though spell-bound, his slow mind groping vainly for some
explanation of his presence in Freekirk Head.

He felt instinctively that it must be in connection with the case of
Code Schofield and the _May_, and his feeling was corroborated a
moment later when, from behind the trunk of a big pine-tree, Nat Burns
stepped forward and greeted the other. They had apparently met before,
for they shook hands cordially and continued westward along the King's
Road.

A few steps brought them opposite the gate to the Schofield cottage,
and Bijonah, following their motions like a hawk, saw Nat jerk his
thumb in the direction of the house as they walked past.

That was enough for Tanner. He was convinced now that the insurance
man had come to carry out the threat made in St. John's, and that Nat
Burns was more intimately connected with the scheme than he had at
first supposed.

Bijonah set down his package of groceries on the counter inside and
turned away toward the wharf where the _Charming Lass_ was tied up for
a final trimming. She already had her salt aboard and most of her
provisions and was being given her final touches by Pete Ellinwood,
Jimmie Thomas, and the other members of the crew that had signed on to
sail in her.

Tanner hailed Ellinwood from the wharf and beckoned so frantically
that the big man swarmed up the rigging to the dock as though he were
going aloft to reef a topsail in a half a gale.

"Code's in a pile of trouble," said the old man, and went on briefly
to narrate the whole circumstance of the insurance company's possible
move. "That feller came on the steamer this afternoon, an' if he
serves Code with the summons or attachment or whatever it is, it's my
idea that the _Lass_ will never round the Swallowtail for the Banks.
Where is the boy?"

"Went up to Castalia to see a couple of men who he thought he might
get for the crew, but I don't think Burns or any one else knows it. He
wanted to make the trip on the quiet an' get them without anybody's
knowing it if he could. But what do you cal'late to do, Bige?"

"By the Great Snood, I don't know!" declared Tanner helplessly.

"Wal," said Pete reassuringly, "you just let me handle this little
trouble myself. We'll have the skipper safe an' clear if we have to
commit murder to do it. Now, Bige, you just keep your mouth shut and
don't worry no more. I'll do the rest."

Feeling the responsibility to be in capable hands and secretly glad to
escape events that might be too much for his years, Captain Tanner
walked back to the road, secured his package of groceries at the
store, and made his way home to the widow Sprague's house.

For five minutes Pete Ellinwood lounged indolently against a spile,
engrossed in thought. Then he put on his coat and crossed the King's
Road to the Schofield cottage.

He had hardly opened the gate when a strange youth in a gray suit and
Panama hat came out of the front door and down the path. Pete
recognized the newcomer from St. John's, and the newcomer evidently
recognized him.

"Ha! Captain Code Schofield, I presume," he announced, thrusting his
hand nervously into his pocket and bringing out a fistful of papers.
So eager and excited was he that, unnoticed, he dropped one flimsy
sheet, many times folded, into the grass.

"No, I'm not Schofield," rumbled Ellinwood from the depths of his
mighty chest. "Get along with you now!"

"Please accept service of this paper, Captain Schofield," said the
other, extending a legal-looking document, and shrugging his shoulders
as though to say that Pete's denial of identity was, of course, only
natural, but could hardly be indulged.

"I'm not Schofield!" bellowed Pete, outraged. "My name's Ellinwood,
an' anybody'll tell you so. I won't take your durned paper. If you
want Schofield find him."

The young man drew back, nonplussed, but might have continued his
attentions had not a passer-by come to Pete's rescue and sworn to his
identity. Only then did the young lawyer--for he was that as well as
private secretary--withdraw with short and grudged apologies.

Pete, growling to himself like a great bear, was starting forward to
the house when his eye was caught by the folded paper that had dropped
from the packet in the lawyer's hand. He stooped, picked it up, and,
with a glance about, to prove that the other was out of sight, opened
it.

As he read it his eyes widened and his jaw dropped with astonishment.
Twice he slowly spelled out the words before him, and then, with a low
whistle and a gigantic wink, thrust the paper carefully into his
pocket and pinned the pocket.

"That will be news to the lad, sure enough," he said, continuing on
his way toward the house.

The little orphan girl Josie admitted him. He found Mrs. Schofield on
the verge of tears. She had just been through a long and painful
interview with the newcomer, and had barely recovered from the shock
of what he had to tell.

Code, since learning of what was in the air, had not told his mother,
for he did not wish to alarm her unnecessarily, and was confident he
would get away to the Banks before the slow-moving St. John firm took
action.

Pete, smitten mightily by the distress of the comely middle-aged
widow, melted to a misery of unexpressible tenderness and solicitude.
In his words and actions of comfort he resembled a great, loving St.
Bernard dog who had accidentally knocked down a toddling child and is
desirous of making amends. Ma Schofield took note of his desire to
lighten her burden, and presently permitted it to be lightened.

Then they talked over the situation, and Pete finally said:

"I'm sending Jimmie Thomas down to Castalia in his motor-dory to find
Code. Of course, the skipper took his own dory, and we may meet him
coming back. What we want to do is head him off an' keep him away from
here. Now, there's no tellin' how long he might have to stay away, an'
I've been figgerin' that perhaps if you was to take him a bundle of
clothes it wouldn't go amiss."

"I'll do it," announced ma sturdily. "Just you tell Jimmie to wait a
quarter of an hour and I'll be along. Now, Pete Ellinwood, listen
here. What scheme have you got in your mind? I can see by your eyes
that there is one."

"May!" cried Pete reproachfully. "How could I have anythin' in my mind
without tellin' you?"

Nevertheless, when he walked out of the cottage door it was to chuckle
enormously in his black beard and call himself names that he had to
deceive May.

He called Jimmie Thomas up from the duties of the paint-pot and brush,
and gave him instructions as to what to do. They talked rapidly in low
tones until Mrs. Schofield appeared; then Jimmie helped her into the
motor-dory and both men pushed off.

"I cal'late I'll have it all worked out when you come back, Jim," said
Pete as the engine caught the spark and the dory moved away.

Mrs. Schofield turned around and fixed her sharp, blue eyes upon the
giant ashore.

"Peter!" she cried. "I knew there was some scheme. When I get back--"

But the rest was lost, for distance had overcome her voice. Ellinwood
stood and grinned benignly at his goddess. Then he slapped his thigh
with an eleven-inch hand and made a noise with his mouth like a man
clucking to his horse.

"Sprightly as a gal, she is," he allowed. "Dummed if she ain't!"




CHAPTER VIII

JIMMIE THOMAS'S STRATEGY


On a chart the island of Grande Mignon bears the same relation to
surrounding islands that a mother-ship bears to a flock of submarines.
Westward her coast is rocky and forbidding, being nothing but a
succession of frowning headlands that rise almost perpendicularly from
the sea. It is one of the most desolate stretches of coast in moderate
latitudes, for no one lives there, nor has ever lived there, except a
few hermit dulce-pickers during the summer months.

Along the east coast, that looks across the Atlantic, are strung the
villages, nestled in bays and coves. And it is out from this coast
that the dozen little islands lie. First, and partially across the
mouth of the bay where the fishing fleet lies, is Long Island. Then
comes High Duck, Low Duck, and Big Duck. Farther south there are
Ross's, Whitehead, and Big Wood islands, not to mention spits, points,
and ledges of rock innumerable and all honored with names.

It was the fact of so many treacherous ledges and reefs to be
navigated safely in a four-knot tide that was agitating the half-dozen
"guests" at Mis' Shannon's boarding-house. It need hardly be said that
Mis' Shannon was a widow, but her distinction lay in being called mis'
instead of ma.

She made a livelihood by putting up the "runners" who made periodical
trips with their sample cases for the benefit of the local tradesmen,
and took in occasional "rusticators," or summer tourists who had
courage enough to dare the passage of the strait in the tiny steamer.

The principal auditor of the harrowing tales that were flying about
the table over the fish chowder was Mr. Aubrey Templeton, the young
lawyer from St. John's who had arrived on the steamer that afternoon.
Just opposite to Mr. Templeton at the table sat Jimmie Thomas, who,
being a bachelor, had made his home with Miss Shannon for the last
three years. And it was Jimmie who had held the table spell-bound with
his tales of danger and narrow escapes.

He had just concluded a yarn, told in all seriousness, of how a shark
had leaped over the back of a dory in Whale Cove and the two men in
the dory had barely escaped with their lives.

"And I know the two men it happened to," he concluded; "or I know one
of 'em; the other's dead. Ol' Jasper Schofield never got over the
scare he got that day."

The lawyer sat bolt upright in his chair.

"Do you know the Schofields?" he demanded of Thomas.

"Guess I ought to. I've been dorymate with Code when the old man was
skipper. A finer young feller ain't on this island."

"Do you happen to know where he is?" asked Templeton. "I came to
Grande Mignon on several important matters, and one of them was to
see him. I've tried to locate the fellow, but he seems to have
disappeared."

"Why, I seen him to-day myself in Castalia!" cried Thomas. "He's up
there hirin' men to ship with him. Said he was goin' to stay all
night. I know the very house he's in."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Do you think I could get there to-night?"

"You might." Jimmie looked at his watch. "The Seal Cove mail-wagon's
gone long ago, but I'll take you down in my motor-dory if you'll come
right now."

Templeton did not even wait to finish his supper, but went out with
Thomas immediately. A few minutes' walk brought them to the little
beach where the dory was drawn up and they were soon on their way. But
before they left, Templeton scribbled a message on a piece of paper
and left it with Mrs. Shannon to be given to Nat Burns, who, he said,
was to call for him at half-past seven.

Thomas kept the nose of his dory pointed to the lights of several
houses that gleamed across the bay. They were not, however, the lights
of Castalia, which were almost invisible farther south. But Templeton,
who had never been on Grande Mignon before, sat blissfully ignorant of
this circumstance.

Later, however, he remembered that his accommodating guide had
chuckled inexplicably during most of the trip.

Twenty minutes' ride in the chill night air brought them to a long,
low pier that extended out into the black water. Above on the hillside
the windows of the big fishing settlement on Long Island gleamed
comfortable and yellow.

Thomas ran his dory close to the landing-stage and then reversed the
engine so that at the time most convenient for Templeton to step off
the boat had lost all motion. The lawyer landed, but Jimmie did not
shut off his engine. Instead he turned it on full speed and backed
away from the dock.

"Hey, you, where are you going?" called Templeton, vaguely alarmed for
the first time.

"Back to the village," answered Thomas, sending his motor into the
forward speed. "I got something very important to do there."

"But in which house is Schofield?" cried the other. "You said you
would show me."

There was no reply, and it is possible that, due to the noise of the
engine, Thomas had not heard the protest at all.

Nat Burns arrived at Shannon's boarding-house slightly in advance of
the time named, and read Templeton's note saying that he had gone to
Castalia to nab Code while he had the chance.

"Who did Templeton go with?" he asked fearfully of the landlady.

"Mr. Thomas," replied that worthy.

"My God!" rapped out Burns in such a tone of disgust and defeat that
she shrank from him with uplifted hands. But he did not notice her.
Instead he rushed out of the house and along the road toward Freekirk
Head.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The boarding-house was a full half-mile from the wharfs of the
village, and after a hundred yards Burns slowed down into a rapid
walk.

"The fool took the bait like a dogfish," he snarled. "Lord knows where
he is by this time. I'll bet Schofield is at the bottom of this."

He had not as yet found out where Code was, and his first step when he
reached the village was to go to the Schofield cottage and verify
Templeton's note.

Josie, the orphan girl, was there alone, and was on the point of tears
with having been left alone so long with night coming on.

When questioned the girl admitted readily enough that Mrs. Schofield
had taken a bundle of Code's clothing and gone to Castalia in the
afternoon, she having overheard the conversation that took place
between her mistress and Pete Ellinwood.

When he had gained this information Burns hurried from the house and
toward the spot on the beach between the wharfs where his dory lay.

He had not the remotest idea what had become of Templeton, but he was
reasonably sure that if Thomas had taken him to Castalia, Schofield
was no longer there.

What Thomas had really done did not occur to him, and his one idea was
to get to the neighboring village as soon as possible and ascertain
just what had taken place.

His dory was beached alongside the pier where the _Charming Lass_ had
lain for the past week. Now, as he approached it, he suddenly stopped,
rooted in his tracks.

The _Charming Lass_ was gone.




CHAPTER IX

ON THE COURSE


"All dories aboard? All hands set tops'ls! Jimmie Thomas, ease your
mainsheet! Now, boys, altogether! Yo! Sway 'em flat! Yo! Once more!
Yo! Fine! Stand by to set balloon jib!"

It was broad daylight, and the early sun lighted the newly painted,
slanting deck of the _Charming Lass_ as she snored through the gentle
sea. On every side the dark gray expanse stretched unbroken to the
horizon, except on the starboard bow. There a long, gray flatness
separated itself from the horizon--the coast of southern Nova Scotia.

There was a favorable following wind, and the clean, new schooner
seemed to express her joy at being again in her element by leaping
across the choppy waves like a live thing.

While the crew of ten leaped to the orders, Code Schofield stood
calmly at the wheel, easing her on her course, so as to give them the
least trouble. Under the vociferous bellow of Pete Ellinwood, the crew
were working miracles in swiftness and organization.

The sun had been up two hours, and now, as Schofield glanced back at
the wake that foamed and bubbled behind them, his eyes fell upon the
white sails of a vessel far astern. Even at the distance, it was plain
that she was of schooner rig, and probably a fisherman.

"Wonder who she is?" asked Code, pointing her out to Ellinwood.

"Don't know. Thought perhaps you'd seen her before, skipper. I've had
my eye on her for an hour. Fisherman, likely; you'll see 'em in all
directions every day afore we're through."

The explanation was simple and obvious, and it satisfied Schofield. He
promptly forgot her, as did every one else aboard the _Lass_. And
reason enough. The cook, sticking his head out of the galley, bawled:

"Mug-up! First ta-a-able!" and the first table made a rush below.

When the five men sat down it was the first time they had been able to
relax since the evening before, when, without lights, and under
headsails only, the _Charming Lass_ had stolen out between the reefs
of Freekirk Head to sea.

"Wal, boys, I cal'late we're safe!" ejaculated Ellinwood with great
satisfaction. "The _Lass_ is doin' her ten knot steady, an' I guess
we'll have left Cape Sable astern afore the sleepy heads at home find
out what's become of us."

"You saved the day, Pete. If it hadn't been for you I would never have
got beyond St. John's." It was Code who spoke.

"And you pretty near spoiled what I _did_ do," rumbled Pete.

"How's that?" interrupted Thomas interestedly. "I don't know
everything that happened to you fellers. I was busy at the time givin'
a friend of ours a joy-ride. Tell me about it!"

"It wasn't me that nearly broke up the show, Pete," protested Code.
"It was mother. Of course, when Jimmie was taking her over to Castalia
in his dory he told her what was in the wind. They found me at the
Pembroke place, and we all went into Pembroke's ice-house, where I was
to stay until after dark. Then ma started in to find out everything.

"She allowed it wasn't honorable for me to run away when the officer
or lawyer was after me. She said it proved that I was guilty, and
thought I ought to stay and be served with his paper. If I wasn't
guilty of anything, it could be proven easily enough, she said. Poor,
honest mother! She forgot that the whole matter would take weeks, if
not months, and that all that time I would be idle and discontented,
and spending most of my time before boards of inquiry.

"I suppose it _will_ look queer to a lot of people at the Head
because I've gone. They'll say right off: 'Just as we thought! All
this talk that has been going around is true,' and put me down for a
criminal that ought to go to jail. That's what mother said, and the
worst part of leaving her now is that she will have to stay and face
the talk--and the looks that are worse than talk.

"But, Jimmie, I couldn't do it. Grande Mignon is in too bad a hole.
She needs every man who owns a schooner or a sloop or a dory to go out
and catch fish and bring 'em home. The old island's got her back
against the wall, and I felt that when all the trouble and danger were
over for her I would go to St. John's, and let those people try and
prove their case.

"They can't prove anything! But that doesn't say they won't get a
judgment. I'm poor and unknown, and ignorant of law. The company is a
big corporation, with lawyers and plenty of money. If somebody there
is after me I haven't a chance, and they will gouge me for all they
can get. You, Jimmie, and Pete know that this is so, and it was for
all these reasons that I wouldn't stand my ground and let that feller
serve me.

"Ma is dependent on me, and when I have sold fifteen hundred quintals
of fish she will have enough to carry her along until that trouble is
over. So I'm going out after the fifteen hundred quintals. Now,
that's my story. We've heard Jimmie's; but how did you manage
everything so well, Pete?"

Ellinwood was flattered and coughed violently over the last of his
victuals.

"Hey!" yelled some hungry member of the second half. "If you fellers
eat any more you'll sink the ship. Get up out o' there an' give yer
betters a chance!" Ellinwood rolled a forbidding eye toward the
companionway.

"Some clam-splitter on deck don't seem to know that in this here
packet the youth an' beauty is allus considered fust," he rumbled
ominously. No reply being forthcoming, he turned to Code.

"When ol' Bige Tanner come to me shakin' like a leaf an' said they was
a feller on the steamer that would attach yer schooner an' all that ye
had, because of some business about the sinkin' of the ol' _May_, I
says to myself, sez I:

"'Pete,' I sez, 'we don't allow nothin' like that to spoil our cruise
an' keep the skipper ashore.' Now, Mignon isn't very big, an' I knew
he would git you in a day or two if you didn't go back into the forest
and hide. But I cal'lated you wouldn't want to do that, an' so I
figgered the only way to beat that lawyer was to fool him before he
got fair started on his search.

"I knowed you was in Castalia, an' so I thought your mother better get
you some clothes an' bring 'em there. I found out that Nat Burns had
taken the feller to Mis' Shannon's boardin'-house, an', knowin' that
Jimmie was livin' there, I got an idee. Jimmie's told about that
already. The feller bit, an' that was the end of him.

"But that wasn't the wust of it. I knew we had to get out the same
evenin' if we was to git out at all, so what did I do but get Bill
Rockwell here to hitch up his big double buckboard an' go out after
the five men that weren't on the job.

"He had to drive clear to Great Harbor for one, but he got back with
all hands about seven o'clock. Everybody in town was at supper, an'
didn't see us when we clumb aboard the _Lass_. When it was pitch-black
we cast off the lines, an' she drifted out on the ebb tide, which just
there runs easy a knot an' a half. Then we got up our headsails so as
to get steerage-way on her, and bless my soul if the blocks made a
creak! Might have been pullin' silk thread through a fur mitten, for
all the noise.

"I was afraid fer a minute that the flash of Swallowtail Light would
catch her topm'sts, but it didn't, and after an hour we were outside
and layin' in sixteen fathom off Big Duck. The tide there runs three
knot, and, with our headsails an' the light air o' wind, we just
managed to hold her even.

"Of course, you fellers know the rest. As soon as Jimmie landed his
passenger on Long Island he came out an' straight south to where we
was. I had told Jimmie to tell Code in the afternoon where to meet us;
and so, when it was black enough, the skipper got into his motor-dory
and came out, too.

"When they climbed aboard we got up sail and laid a southwest course
to round Nova Scoshy; an' here we are, nearin' Cape Race already, and
dummed proud of ourselves, if I do say it."

"Proud of you, Pete, you old fox," said Schofield, getting up from the
table with a sigh of immense relief. "Come on; let the second half
in."

"All right, skipper," said Pete, rising to his great height and wiping
his mouth with the back of his huge hand. "But wait! I almost fergot
this!"

He unpinned the pocket of his waistcoat and drew forth the flimsy
sheet of paper that he had picked up when Templeton had mistakenly
tried to serve him.

Briefly he told the skipper its history and handed it to him.
Schofield's eyes opened wide as he saw that the paper was that of the
Dominion Cable office in Freekirk Head, and he read:

  "To A. TEMPLETON,
    "Marine Insurance Company,
      "St. John's, N.B.

  "Come at once with summons for Cody Albert Schofield and
  attachment for schooner Charming Lass, as per former arrangements.

                                                          "BURNETT."

For a moment the signature puzzled him, and Ellinwood, grinning, stood
watching his puzzled efforts to solve it.

"Skipper, if it was a mule it would kick you in the face," he
remarked. "If you can't see Nat Burns in that, I can. And now you've
got an idea just who's at the bottom of this thing."

Code Schofield went aft to his cabin companionway, and prepared to go
below and open his log. Kent took the wheel, and Ellinwood lurched
about with a critical eye upon the lashings, sheets, and general
appearance of the deck.

Schofield, remembering the schooner that had attracted his eye before,
looked astern for her. She had gained rapidly upon them in the
half-hour he had been below. Now he could see her graceful black hull,
the shadows in the great sails, and the tiny men here and there upon
her deck.

"What a sailer!" he cried in involuntary admiration. "She must be an
American!"

It was clear that the other schooner, even in that moderate breeze,
must be making the better side of twelve knots. Schofield gave her a
final admiring glance and went below.




CHAPTER X

A MYSTERY


"AUGUST 29:

"Clear. Wind W.S.W., canting to W. Moderate breeze. Knots logged to
twelve, noon, 153. Position, 20 miles south, a little east of Cape
Sable. End of this day."

Code closed the dirty and thumb-worn, paper-covered ledger that was
the log of the Charming Lass and had been the log of the old May
Schofield for ten years before she went down. It was the one thing he
had saved. He had been on deck, taken his sextant observation, and
just completed working out his position.

As he closed the old log his eye was caught by a crudely penned name
near the bottom of the paper cover. The signature was Nellie Tanner's,
and he remembered how, a dozen years ago, while they were playing
together in the cabin of the old May, she had pretended she was
captain and owned the whole boat, so that Code would have to obey her
orders.

As he looked he caught the almost obliterated marks of a pencil
beneath Nellie's name, and, looking closer, discovered "Nat Burns" in
boyish letters.

For a moment he scowled blackly at the audacious words, and then,
laughing at his foolishness, threw the book from him. Then slowly the
scowl returned, and he asked himself seriously why Nat hated him so.

That there had always been an instinctive dislike between them as
boys, everybody in Freekirk Head knew, and several vicious fights to a
finish had emphasized it.

But since coming to manhood's estate Code had left behind him much of
the rancor and intolerance of his early youth, and had considered Nat
Burns merely as a disagreeable person to be left heartily alone.

But Burns had evidently not arrived at this mature point of
self-education. In fact, Burns was a good example of a youth brought
up without those powers of self-control that are absolutely necessary
to any one who expects to take a reasonable position in society even
as simple as that of Freekirk Head.

Code remembered that Nat and his father had always been inseparable
companions, and that it was due to this father more than any one else
that the boy had been spoiled and indulged in every way.

Michael Burns had risen to a position of considerable power in the
humble life of the island. From a successful trawler he had become a
successful fish-packer and shipper. Then he had felt a desire to
spread his affluent wings, gone in for politics, and been appointed
the squire or justice of the peace.

In this position he was commissioned by the Marine Insurance Company
of St. John's as its agent and inspector on Grande Mignon Island. In
his less successful days he had been a boat-builder in Gloucester and
Bath, and knew much of ship construction.

For more than half a year now Code had been unable to think of Michael
Burns or the old _May Schofield_ without a shudder of horror. But now
that Nat was suddenly hot on the trail of revenge, he knew he must
look at matters squarely and prepare to meet any trap which might be
laid for him.

It seemed evident that the first aim in Nat's mind was the hounding of
the man who had been the cause of his father's death; for that death
had occurred at a most opportune time for the Schofields.

The heavy insurance on the fifty-year-old _May_ was about to run out,
and it was almost a certainty that Burns would not recommend its
renewal except at a vastly increased premium.

As a matter of fact, on a hurried trip that Code had taken, he had
picked up Burns himself at St. John's, the inspector coming for the
purpose of examining the schooner while under sail in a fairly heavy
seaway.

All the island knew this, and all the island knew that Code was the
only one to return alive. The inference was not hard to deduce,
especially as the gale encountered had been one such as the _May_ had
lived out a dozen times.

Had not all these things been enough to fire the impulsive, passionate
Burns with a sullen hatred, the next events would have been. For Code
received his insurance without a dispute and, not long afterward,
while in Boston for the purpose, had picked up the almost new
_Charming Lass_ from a Gloucester skipper who had run into debt.

Code now saw to what Nat's uncontrolled brooding had brought him, and
he realized that the battle would be one of wits.

He got up to go on deck. He had only turned to the companionway when
the great voice of Pete Ellinwood rumbled down to him.

"Come on deck, skipper, an' look over this schooner astern of us.
There's somethin' queer about her. I don't like her actions."

Code took the steps at a jump, and a moment later stood beside
Ellinwood. The _Lass_ was snoring along under full sail.

The stranger, which at eight o'clock had been five miles astern, was
now, at noon, less than a mile away.

Code instinctively shot a quick glance at the compass. The schooner
was running dead east.

"What's this, Ellinwood?" demanded the skipper sharply. "You're away
off your course."

"Yes, sir, and on purpose," replied the mate. "I've been watchin' that
packet for a couple of hours back and it seemed to me she was a little
bit too close on our track for comfort. 'What if she's from St.
John's?' I sez to myself. 'Then there'll be the devil to pay for the
skipper.'

"So, after you'd got your observation and went below I just put the
wheel down a trifle. I hadn't been gone away from her five minutes
when she followed. It's very plain, Code, that she's tryin' to catch
us."

A sudden feeling of alarm took possession of Schofield. That she was a
wonderful speed craft she had already proven by overhauling the _Lass_
so easily. The thought immediately came to him that Nat Burns, on
discovering his absence, had sent the lawyer with the summons to St.
John's, hired a fast schooner, and set out in pursuit.

"Maybe it was only an accident," he said. "She may be on the course to
Sable Island. Give her another trial. Come about and head for
Halifax."

"Stand by to come about," bawled Ellinwood.

Two young fellows raced up the rigging, others stood by to prevent
jibing, and the mate put the wheel hard alee. The schooner's head
swung sharply, there was a thunder and rattle of canvas, a patter of
reef points, and the great booms swung over. The wind caught the
sails, the _Charming Lass_ heeled and bore away on the new course.

The men in the stern watched the movements of the stranger anxiously.

Ten minutes had hardly elapsed when she also came about and headed
directly into the wake of the _Lass_. Schofield and Ellinwood looked
at each other blankly.

"Are you goin' to run fer it, skipper?" asked the mate. "I'll have the
balloon jib and stays'l set in five minutes, if you say so."

Code thought for a minute.

"It's no use," he said. "They'd catch us, anyway. Let 'em come up and
we'll find out what they want. Take in your tops'ls. There's no use
wasting time on the wrong course."

Under reduced sail the _Lass_ slowed, and the pursuing vessel
overhauled them rapidly. With a great smother of foam at her bows she
ducked into the choppy sea and came like a race horse. In half an hour
she was almost abreast on the port quarter. A man with a megaphone
appeared on her poop deck and leveled the instrument at the little
group by the wheel.

"Heave to!" he bawled. "We want to talk with ye."

"Heave to!" ordered Code, and the _Charming Lass_ came up into the
wind just as the stranger accomplished the same maneuver. They were
now less than fifty yards away and the man again leveled his
megaphone.

"Is that the _Charming Lass_ out of Freekirk Head?" he shouted.

"Yes."

"Captain Code Schofield in command?"

"Yes."

"Bound to the Banks on a fishin' cruise?"

"Yes."

"All right; that's all I wanted to know," said the man, and set down
the megaphone. He gave some rapid orders to the crew, and his vessel
swung around so as to catch the wind again.

Code and Ellinwood looked at one another blankly.

"Hey there!" shouted Schofield at the top of his voice. "Who are you
and what do you want?" The skipper of the other schooner paid no
attention whatever, and Schofield repeated his question, this time
angrily.

He might as well have shouted at the wind. The stranger's head fell
off, her canvas caught the breeze, and she forged ahead. A minute
later and she was out of earshot.

"Look for her name on the stern," commanded Code. He plunged below
into the cabin and raced up again with his glasses. The mysterious
schooner was now nearly a quarter of a mile away, but within easy
range of vision.

Code fixed his gaze on her stern, where her name should be, and saw
with astonishment that it had carefully been painted out. Then he
swung his glasses to cover the dories nested amidships, and found that
on them, too, new paint had obscured the name. He lowered the glasses
helplessly.

"Do you recognize her, Pete?" he asked. "I know most of the schooners
out of Freekirk Head and St. John's, but I never saw her before."

"Me neither," admitted the mate, with conviction. "I wonder what all
this means?"

Code could not answer.




CHAPTER XI

IN THE FOG BANK


"SQUID ho! Squid ho! Tumble up, all hands!"

Rod Kent, the old salt who had for the past hour been experimenting
over the side, leaned down the main cabin hatch and woke the port
watch. Behind him on the deck a queer marine creature squirmed in a
pool of water and sought vainly to disentangle itself from the
apparatus that had caught it.

The shout brought all hands on deck, stupid with sleep, but eager to
join in the sport.

The squid is a very small edition of the giant devilfish or octopus.
It has ten tentacles, a tapered body about ten inches long, and is
armed with the usual defensive ink-sac, by means of which it squirts a
cloud of black fluid at a pursuing enemy, escaping in the general
murk.

"How'd ye ketch him?" cried all hands, for the advent of squid was the
most welcome news the men on the _Charming Lass_ had had since leaving
home four days before. It meant that this favorite and succulent bait
of the roaming cod had arrived on the Banks, and that the catches
would be good.

"Jigged him," replied Kent laconically. He disengaged the struggling
squid from the apparatus and examined the latter carefully. It was
made of a single cork, through the lower edge of which pins had been
thrust and bent back like the flukes of an anchor. To it was fastened
a small shred of red flannel, the whole being attached to a line with
a sinker.

In five minutes Code had unearthed from an old shoe-box in his cabin
enough jigs to supply all hands, and presently both rails were lined
with men hauling up the bait as fast as it was lured to close
proximity by the color of the red flannel. Once the creatures had
wrapped themselves around the cork a sharp jerk impaled them on the
pins, and up they came.

But not without resistance. Just as they left the water they
discharged their ink-sacs at their captors, and the men on the decks
of the _Lass_ were kept busy weaving their heads from side to side, to
avoid the assault.

It was near evening of the second day after the mysterious schooner
had hailed them and sailed away. Since that time they had forged
steadily northeast, along the coast of Nova Scotia. At last they had
left Cape Breton at the tip of Cape Breton Island behind them and
approached the southern shores of Newfoundland and that wonderful
stretch of shoals called the Grand Banks.

Southeast for three hundred miles from Newfoundland extends this
under-sea flooring of rocky shelves, that run from ninety to five
fathoms, being most shallow at Virgin Rocks.

In reality this is a great submarine mountain chain that is believed
at one time to have belonged to the continent of North America. The
outside edge of it is in the welter of the shoreless Atlantic, and
from this edge there is a sheer drop into almost unsounded depths.
These depths have got the name of the Whale Hole, and many a fishing
skipper has dropped his anchor into this abyss and earned the laughter
of his crew when he could find no ground.

Along the top and sides of this mountain range grow vegetable
substances and small animalcules that provide excellent feeding for
the vast hosts of cod that yearly swim across it. For four hundred
years the cod have visited these feeding grounds and been the prey of
man, yet their numbers show no falling off.

To them is due the wealth of Newfoundland, the Miquelon Islands, Nova
Scotia, Labrador, and Prince Edward Island.

The first manifestation of the annual visit is the arrival of enormous
schools of caplin, a little silvery fish some seven inches long that
invades the bays and the open sea. Close upon them follow the cod,
feeding as they come. The caplin last six weeks and disappear, to be
superseded in August by the squid, of which the cod are very fond.

Up until fifty years ago mackerel were caught on the Banks, and large
quantities of halibut, but the mackerel disappeared suddenly, never to
return, and the halibut became constantly more rare, until at last
only the cod remained.

Aboard the _Charming Lass_ the squid "jigging" went on for a couple of
hours. Then suddenly the school passed and the sport ended abruptly.

But the deck of the schooner was a mass of the bait, and the tubs of
salt clams brought from Freekirk Head could be saved until later.

Rockwell, who had been looking out forward, suddenly called Code's
attention to a flock of sea-pigeons floating on the water a mile
ahead. As the skipper looked he saw the fowl busily diving and
"upending," and he knew they had struck the edge of the Banks; for
water-fowl will always dive in shoal water, and a skipper sailing to
the Banks from a distance always looks for this sign.

An hour later, when the cook had sent out his call for the first half,
Code made Ellinwood stay on deck and bring the schooner to an
anchorage after sounding.

The sounding lead is a long slug, something like a window-weight, at
the bottom of which is a saucer-shaped hollow. The leadsman, a young
fellow from Freekirk Head, took his place on the schooner's rail
outside the forerigging. The lead was attached to a line and, as the
schooner forged slowly ahead, close-hauled, the youth swung the lead
in ever-widening semicircles.

"Let your pigeon fly!" cried Pete, and the lead swung far ahead and
fell with a sullen _plop_ into the dark blue water. The line ran out
until it suddenly slackened just under the leadsman. He fingered a
mark.

"Forty fathoms!" he called.

Five minutes later another sounding was taken and proved that the
water was gradually shoaling. At thirty fathoms Pete ordered the
anchor let go and a last sounding taken.

Before the lead flew he rubbed a little tallow into the saucer, and
this, when it came up, was full of sand, mud, and shells, telling the
sort of bottom under the schooner.

Pete called Code, and together they read it like a book--favorable
fishing ground, though not the best.

While the second half ate, the first half took in all canvas and
reefed it with the exception of the mainsail. This was unbent entirely
and stowed away. In its place was bent on a riding sail, for until
their salt was all wet there would be very little occasion for any
sort of sailing, their only progress being as they ambled leisurely
from berth to berth.

"Dories overside!" sung out Code. "Starboard first."

A rope made fast to a mainstay and furnished with a hook at its end
was slipped into a loop of rope at one end of the dory. A similar
device caught a similar loop at the other end.

One strong pull and the dory rose out of the nest of four others that
lay just aft of the mainmast. A hand swung her outboard and she was
lowered away until she danced on the water.

Jimmie Thomas leaped into her, received a tub of briny squid, a
dinner-horn, and a beaker of water, besides his rectangular reels with
their heavy cord, leads, and two hooks.

"Overside port dory!" came the command, and Kent was sent on his way.
Thus one after another the men departed until on board the _Lass_
there remained only the cook and a boy helper. Code, as well as
Ellinwood, had gone out, for they wished to test the fishing.

These dories were entirely different propositions from the heavy
motor-boats that the men used almost entirely near the island. They
were light, compact, and properly big enough for only one man,
although they easily accommodated two.

The motor dories of Thomas and Code were on board, nested forward, but
they were of little use here, where only short distances are covered,
and those by rowing.

The nine dories drew away from the schooner, each in a different
direction, until they were a mile or more apart.

Code threw over his little three-fluked anchor. Then he baited his two
hooks with bits of tentacle and threw them overboard. With the big
rectangular reel in his left hand, he unwound as the leads drew down
until they fetched bottom and the line sagged. Unreeling a couple more
fathoms of line, he cast the reel aside.

Then he hauled his leads up until he judged them to be some six feet
off the bottom and waited.

Almost instantly there was a sharp jerk, and Code, with the skill of
the trained fisherman, instantly responded to it with a savage pull on
the line and a rapid hand-over-hand as he looped it into the dory. The
fish had struck on. The tough cord sung against the gunnel, and at
times it was all the skipper could do to bring up his prize, for the
great cod darted here and there, dove, rushed, and struggled to avert
the end.

Thirty fathoms is a hundred and eighty feet, and, with a huge and
desperate fish disputing every inch of the way, it becomes a seemingly
endless labor. But at last Code, straining his eyes over the side,
caught a glimpse of quick circles of white in the green and reached
for the maul that was stuck under a thwart.

Two more heaves and the cod, open-mouthed, thrashed on the surface. A
smart rap on the head with the maul and he came into the dory quietly.
There were little pink crabs sticking to him and he did not seem as
fat as he should, although he topped the fifty-pound mark.

"Lousy!" said Code. "Lousy and hungry! It's good fishing."

With a short, stout stick at hand he wrenched the hook out of the
cod's mouth, baited up, and cast again. The descending bait was rushed
and seized. This time both hooks bore victims.

When there were no speckled cod on the hooks there were silvery hake,
velvety black pollock, beautiful scarlet sea-perch that look like
little old men, and an occasional ugly dogfish with his Chinese jade
eyes.

When the dogfish came the men pulled up their anchors and rowed a mile
or so away, for where the dogfish pursues all others fly. He has the
shape and traits of his merciless giant brother, the tiger-shark, with
the added menace of a horn full of poison in the middle of his back
instead of a dorsal fin; an evil, curved horn, the thrust of which
can be nearly fatal to a man.

The bottom of the dory became covered with a flooring of liquid silver
bodies that twined together and rolled with the roll of the dory.

At five o'clock Code wound his line on the reel (he usually used two
at a time, but one had been plenty with such fishing), and started to
pull for the distant _Charming Lass_. He was now fully five miles from
her, and his nearest neighbor was Bill Kent, three miles away. All
hands were drawing in toward her, for they knew they must take a quick
mug-up and then dress down until the last cod lay in his shroud of
salt.

The schooner lay to the northeast of Schofield, and as he bent to his
work he did not see a strange, level mass of gray that advanced slowly
toward him. From a distance to the lay observer this mass would have
looked like an ordinary cloud-bank, but the experienced eyes of a
fisherman would have discerned its ghastly gray hue and its flat
contour.

All the afternoon there had been a freshening breeze, and now
Schofield found himself rowing against a head sea that occasionally
slapped over the high bow of the dory and ran aft over the half ton of
fish that lay under his feet.

He had not pulled for fifteen minutes when the whole world about him
was suddenly obscured by the thick, woolly fog that swirled past on
the wind. It was as though an impenetrable wall had been suddenly
built up on all sides, a wall that offered no resistance to his
progress and yet no egress.

He immediately stopped rowing and rested his oars, listening. No sound
came to him except the slap of the increasing waves and the occasional
flap of a wet fish in its last struggles.

He carried no pocket compass, and the light gave no hint of the
direction of the sun. In the five minutes that he sat there the head
of his dory swung around and, even had he known the exact compass
direction of the _Charming Lass_ before the fog, he would have been
unable to find it.

The situation did not alarm him in the least, for he had experienced
it often before. Reaching into the bow, he drew out the dinner-horn
that was part of the equipment of the dory and sent an ear-splitting
blast out into the fog.

It seemed as though the opaque walls about him held in the sound as
heavy curtains might in a large room; it fell dead on his own ears
without any of the reverberant power that sound has in traveling
across water.

Once more he listened. He knew that the schooner, being at anchor,
would be ringing her bell; but he hardly hoped to catch a sound of
that. Instead, he listened for the answering peal of a horn in one of
the other dories. Straining his ears, he thought he caught a faint
toot ahead of him and to starboard.

He seized his oars and rowed hard for several minutes in the direction
of the sound. Then he stopped, and, rising to his feet, sent another
great blast brawling forth into the fog. Once more he listened, and
again it seemed as though an answering horn sounded in the distance.
But it was fainter this time.

A gust of wind, rougher than the others, swirled the fog about him in
great ghostly sheets, turning and twisting it like the clouds of
greasy smoke from a fire of wet leaves. The dory rolled heavily, and
Code, losing his balance, sprawled forward on the fish, the horn
flying from his hand overboard as he tried to save himself.

For a moment only it floated; and then, as he was frantically swinging
the dory to draw alongside, it disappeared beneath the water with a
low gurgle.

The situation was serious. He was unable to attract attention, and
must depend for his salvation upon hearing the horns of the other
dories as they approached the schooner. Rowing hard all the time, with
frequent short pauses, he strained his ears for the welcome sound.

Sometimes he thought he caught a faint, mellow call; but he soon
recognized that these were deceptions, produced in his ears by the
memory of what he had heard before. Impatiently he rowed on.

After a while he stopped. Since he could not get track of any one, it
was foolish to continue the effort, for every stroke might take him
farther and farther out of hearing. On the other hand, if he were
headed in the right direction, another dory, trying to find the
schooner, might cross his path or come within earshot.

He was still not in the least worried by the situation. Men in much
worse ones had been rescued from them without thinking anything of
them.

But the rising wind and sea gave him something to think of. The waves
found it a very easy matter to climb aboard the heavily laden dory,
and occasionally he had to bail with the can in the bows provided for
the purpose.

An hour passed, and at the end of that time he found that he was
bailing almost constantly. There was only one thing to do under the
circumstances. The gaff lay under his hand. This is a piece of
broom-handle, to the end of which a stout, sharp hook is attached, and
the instrument is used in landing fish which are too heavy to swing
inboard on the slender fishing-line.

[Illustration: By this time the wind was a gale]

Code took the gaff and commenced to throw the fish over the side one
at a time. He hated the waste of splendid cod, but things had now got
to a pass where his own comfort and safety were at stake. Once the
fish were gone, with the cleanliness of long habit, he swabbed the
bottom and sides of the dory with an old rag and rinsed them with
water which he afterward bailed out.

The dory now rose high and dry on the waves; But Code found it
increasingly difficult to row because the water tended to "crab" his
oars and twist them suddenly out of his hands.

To keep his head to the wind he paddled slowly, listening for any
sound of a boat.

Another hour passed and darkness began to come down. The pearly gray
fog lost its color and became black, like smoke from a burning
oil-tank. He knew the sun was below the horizon. He wondered if any of
the other men had been caught. If none were gone but himself, he
reasoned, the schooner would have come in search of him.

So, from listening for the horn of a dory, he tried to catch the
hoarse voice of a patent fog-horn that would be grinding on the
forecastle head.

By this time the wind was a gale, and he knew it was driving him
astern, despite his rowing. The waves were no longer the little choppy
seas that the _Lass_ had encountered since leaving Freekirk Head, but
hustling, slopping hills that attacked him in endless and rapid
succession. His progress was a continuous climb to one summit,
followed by a dizzying swoop into the following depth.

Each climb was punctuated at the top by a gallon or so of water slopped
into the dory from the crest of the wave. These influxes became so
frequent that he was obliged to bail very often. Consequently he
unshipped one oar and, crawling to the stern, shipped the other in the
notch of the sternboard.

Here he sculled with one hand so as to keep the dory's head to the
wind, and bailed with the other. Being aft, his weight caused the
water to run down to him, and he could thus perform the two operations
at the same time.

When pitch-blackness had come he knew that he was out of reach of the
schooner's horn. His only chance lay in the fog's lifting or the
passing of some schooner.

His principal concern was for the wind. It was just the time of year
for those "three-day" nor'-easters that harry the entire coast of
North America. When the first excitement of his danger passed he was
assailed by the fierce hunger of nervous and physical exhaustion, but
there was no food aboard the dory. He had, of course, the breaker of
water that was part of his regular equipment; but this was more for
use during a long day of fishing than for the emergency of being lost
at sea.

He took a hearty drink and prepared for the long watch of the night.

By a wax match several hours later he found that it was midnight. His
struggle with wind and sea had now become unequal. He found it
impractical to remain longer in the stern attempting to scull. So very
cautiously he set about his last defensive measure.

Taking the two oars and the anchor, as well as the thwarts, he bound
them together securely with the anchor roding. This drag he hove from
the bow of the dory, and it swung the boat's head into the wind.
Schofield, with the bailer in one hand, lay flat in the bottom.

With the increasing sea, water splashed steadily over the sides so
that his exertions never ceased. The chill of the night penetrated his
soaked garments, and this, with his exhaustion, produced a stupor. The
whistle of the wind and the hiss of foaming crests became dream
sounds.




CHAPTER XII

OUT OF FREEKIRK HEAD


"OH, I wouldn't think of such a thing for a minute!"

Captain Bijonah Turner waved his hand with an air of finality and
favored his daughter with a glare meant to be pregnant with parental
authority.

"But, father, listen to reason!" cried Nellie; "here is mother to take
care of the three small children, and here am I with nothing whatever
to do. Be sensible and let me go along. I certainly ought to be able
to help in some way."

"But," expostulated the captain, "girls don't go on fishing-trips."

"Suppose the cook should fall sick or be hurt, then I would come in
handy, wouldn't I? But all this is not the real point. Things are
different with us than they have ever been before; we have no home,
and mother and the children have to board with Ma Sprague. If I stayed
here I should be a burden, and I couldn't stand that."

Bijonah scratched his head and looked at the girl helplessly. He had
yet to score his first victory over her in an argument.

"Have you asked your mother?" he queried at last, seeking his
time-worn refuge.

"Yes," said she, brightening at the imminence of victory, "and she
says she thinks it will be just the thing."

"All right," said Bijonah weakly; "come along then. But mind, you'll
find things different. Your mother is boss of any land she puts her
foot on, but once I get the _Rosan_ past Swallowtail _my_ word goes."

"All right, daddy dear," laughed the girl; "I know you'll be just the
finest captain I ever sailed with." She kissed him impulsively and ran
up-stairs to tell her mother the good news.

The departure of the fleet from Grande Mignon was a sad day in the
history of the island.

The sun had hardly shown red and dripping from the sea when all the
inhabitants were astir. Men from as far south as Seal Cove and Great
Harbor clattered up the King's Road in rickety vehicles, accompanied
by their families and their dunnage.

In Freekirk Head alone less than ten men would be left ashore. Of
these, one was Bill Boughton, the storekeeper, who was to arrange for
the disposal of the catch; but the others were either incapacitated,
sick, or old. The five aged fishermen, who subsisted on the charity
of the town, formed a delegation on one stringpiece to wave the fleet
farewell.

Altogether there were fifteen boats, ten schooners, and five sloops,
carrying in all more than a hundred and twenty-five men. The whole
resource of the island had been expended to provide tubs of bait and
barrels of salt enough for all these, let alone the provisions.

The men either shipped on shares or, if they were fearful of chance,
at a fixed monthly wage "and all found," to be paid after the proceeds
of the voyage were realized.

There was not a cent of Grande Mignon credit left in the world, and
there was no child too small to realize that on the outcome of this
venture hung the fate and future of the island.

It was a brilliant day, with a glorious blue sky overhead and a
bracing breeze out of the east. Just beyond Long Island a low stratum
of miasmic gray was the only shred of the usual fog to be seen on the
whole horizon. In the little roadstead the vessels, black-hulled or
white, rode eagerly and gracefully at their moorings, the bright sun
bringing out the red, yellow, green, blue, and brown of the dories
nested amidships.

At seven o'clock the steamer _Grande Mignon_ blew a great blast of her
whistle, cast off her lines, and cleared for St. Andrew's and St.
Stephens. Tooting a long, last salute, she rolled out into Fundy and
out of sight around the point.

For these men breakfast was long past, but there were the myriad last
details that could not be left undone; and it was fully eight o'clock
before the last dory was swung aboard and the last barrel stowed.

Then there came the clicking of many windlasses and the strain of many
ropes, and to the women and girls who lined the shore these noises
were as the beatings of the executioner's hand upon the cell-door of a
condemned man.

For the first time they seemed to realize what was about to happen.
The young girls and the brides wept, but those with children at their
skirts looked stonily to the vessel that bore their loved ones; for
they were hardened in the fear of death and bereavement, and had
become fatalists.

The old women shook their heads, and if tears rolled down their faces
they were the tears of dotage, and were shed perhaps for the swift and
fleeting beauty of brides under the strain of their first long
separation.

Of these last one stood apart, a shawl over her gray hair and her
hands folded as though obedient to a will greater than her own. In all
the color and pageant of departure May Schofield wondered where her
son might be, the son whom she felt had run away from his just
responsibilities. Two nights ago he had gone, and since that time the
little cottage had seemed worse than deserted.

Somehow the story of the solicitor and his visit went swiftly around
the village, and since that time Code's mother had been the shrinking
object of a host of polite but evidently pointed inquiries.

To most of these there was really no adequate reply, and the good
woman had grown more hurt and more shrinking with every hour of the
day. Now, with little orphan Josie at her side, she came out to see
the departure of the fleet.

Suddenly there came the squeaking of blocks and the rattle and scrape
of rings as foresails were rushed up at peak and throat. Headsails
raced into position, and, with the anchors cat-headed; the vessels,
with their captains at the wheels or tillers, swung into the wind and
began to crawl ahead.

Behind them, as they forged toward the passage, lay the gray
scimitar of stony beach half a mile long. Beyond it were the
white, contented-looking cottages built along the road, and back of
all rose the vivid green mountains, covered with pine, tamarack, and
silver birch, above whose tops at the line of the summit there
appeared three terrific, puffy thunder-heads.

As they moved toward Flag Point the gaily colored crowds moved with
them past the post-office, the stores, the burned wharfs, and the fish
stands.

Captain Bijonah Tanner, by right of seniority, led the way in the
_Rosan_ as commodore of the fleet. He stood to his tiller like a
graven image, looking neither to right nor left, but gripping his pipe
with all the strength of his remaining teeth.

He hoped that his triumph would not be lost upon his wife. Nor was it,
for it was a month afterward before the neighbors ceased to hear how
her Bige was the best captain that ever sailed out of Freekirk Head.

At Swallowtail Bijonah rounded the point, gave one majestic wave of
his hat in farewell, and put the _Rosan_ over on the starboard tack,
for the course was southeast, and followed practically the wake of
Code Schofield.

One after another the schooners and sloops, closely bunched, came
about as smartly as their crews could bring them--and the smartest of
them all was Nat Burns's _Nettie B._

Nellie Tanner, jealous for her father's prestige, could not but admire
the splendid discipline and tactics that whipped the _Nettie_ about on
the tack and sent her flying ahead of the _Rosan_ like a great
seabird. Once Swallowtail was passed the voyage had begun, and the
lead belonged to any one who could take it.

At last the knifelike edge of Long Island shut them out completely,
and seemed at the same instant to cut the last bonds and ties that had
stretched from one to another as long as vision lasted. The men felt
as released from a spell. One idea rushed into their minds suddenly
and became an obsession.

Fish!




CHAPTER XIII

NAT BURNS SHOWS HIS HAND


OFF Cape Sable the fleet was overhauled by a half-dozen schooners
bound the same way, which displayed American flags at their main
trucks as they came up.

"Gloucestermen!" said Nat Burns at the wheel of the _Nettie B._ "Set
balloon jib and stays'l and we'll give 'em a try-out."

The men jumped to the orders, and the _Nettie_ gathered headway as the
American schooners came up. But the Gloucester craft crept up, passed,
and with an ironical dip of their little flags raced on to the Banks.

Cape Sable was not yet out of sight when a topmast on the _Rosan_
broke off short in a sudden squall. Bijonah Tanner immediately laid
her to and set all hands to work stepping his spare spar, as he would
not think of returning to a shipyard. Nat Burns, when he noticed the
accident, laid to in turn and announced his intention of standing by
the _Rosan_ until she was ready to go on.

As these were among the fastest vessels in the fleet, the others
proceeded on their way, and Nat seized the opportunity of the repairs
to pay his _fiancée_ a visit and remain to supper on the _Rosan_.

He found Nellie radiant and more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
Protected from the cool breeze by a frieze overcoat, she stood
bareheaded by the forerigging, her cheeks red, her brown eyes bright
like stars, and her soft brown hair blowing about her face in alluring
wisps.

He took her in a strong embrace. She struggled free after a moment,
her cheeks flooded with color.

"Don't, Nat!" she cried. "Before all the men, too! Please behave
yourself!"

This last a little nervously as she saw the gleam in his eyes.
Suddenly (for her) all the day seemed to have lost its exhilaration.
She was always glad to see Nat, but his insistent use of his _fiancé_
rights under all circumstances grated on the natural delicacy that was
hers.

His ardor dampened by this rebuke, the gleam in Nat's eye became one
of ugliness at his humiliation before the crew of the _Rosan_. He
scowled furiously and stood by her side without saying a word. It was
in this unfortunate moment that Nellie seized on the general topic of
the day.

"Guess you'll have to get off and push the _Nettie B._ before you can
beat those Gloucestermen, Nat," she said, teasing him.

"Say, I've heard about all I want to hear about that!" he snarled,
suddenly losing control of himself as they walked back to the little
cabin. The girl looked at him in hurt amazement. Never in all her life
had a man spoken to her in such a tone. It was inconceivable that the
man she was going to marry could address her so, if he even pretended
to love her.

"Possibly you have," she returned, not without a touch of asperity;
"but you know as well as I do that you will have to deal with a
Gloucester-built schooner before you are through with this voyage."

In her efforts to placate him she had touched upon his sorest spot.
His defeat by the American fishermen had been hard for his pride.

"I suppose you mean that crooked Schofield's boat?" he flashed back,
his face darkening.

"What do you mean by that?"

They were below now in her father's little cabin, and she turned upon
him with flashing eyes.

"Just what I said," he returned sullenly.

"You say things then that have no foundation in fact," she retorted
vigorously. "You have no right to say a thing like that about Code
Schofield."

"I haven't, eh?" he sneered, furious. "Since when have you been takin'
his side against me? No facts, eh? I'll show him an' you an' everybody
else whether there's any foundation in fact! What do you suppose the
insurance company is after him for if he isn't a crook?"

Like all the people in Freekirk Head, Nellie had heard some of the
rumors concerning Code's possible part in the sinking of the _May
Schofield_. Nat, for reasons of his own, had carefully refrained from
enlarging on these to her, and in the absorption of her wooing by him
she had let them go by unnoticed. Now, for the first time, the
consequences they might have in Code's life were made clear to her.

"I--I don't know," she faltered, unable to reply to his direct
question. "But I know this, that all his life Code has been an honest
man and one of my best friends. I grew up with him just as I did with
you, and I resent such talk about him as much as I would if it were
about you."

"Yes," he sneered, "he has been entirely too much of a good friend.
What was he always over to your place for, I'd like to know? And, even
after he knew we were engaged, what was he doin' down at Ma Sprague's
that night I called? An' what did you go to his place for after the
fire when I tried to get you to come to mine?"

The last question he roared out at the top of his voice, and the girl,
now afraid of him, shrank back against the wall of the cabin.

She knew it was useless to say that she and Code had been like brother
and sister all their lives, and that May Schofield was a second
mother to her. All reason was hopeless in the face of this unreasoning
jealousy. After a moment she found her speech.

"I guess, Nat," she said, "you had better go back to your schooner
until you are in a different mood."

"Afraid to answer, ain't you?" he cried. "When I face you down you're
afraid to answer an' tell me I'd better go away. Well, now let me tell
_you_ something. You're entirely too friendly with that crook, an' I
won't have it! You're engaged to me, and what I say goes. An' let me
tell you something else.

"The insurance company is after him because he sunk the _May
Schofield_ on purpose. But that ain't the worst of the things he
did--"

"What do you mean?" she flashed at him.

"You'll find out quick enough, and so will he," he snarled. "I'm not
saying what is goin' to happen to him, but when I'm through we'll see
if your hero is such a fine specimen."

From fear to anger her spirit had gone, and now under the lash it
turned to cold disdain. With a swift motion of her right hand over her
left she drew off the diamond ring he had given her and held it out to
him.

"Take this, Nat," she said, so coldly that for once his rage was
checked. He looked stupidly at the glittering emblem of her love, and
suddenly became aware of the extent to which he had driven her. The
reaction was as swift as the rage.

"Please, Nellie dear," he begged, "don't do that! Take it back.
Forgive me. Everything has piled up so to-day that I lost my temper.
Please don't do that!"

But he had gone too far. He had shown her a new side to his
character.

"No, Nat," she said calmly, but still with that icy inflection of
disdain; "this has gone too far. Take this ring. Some time, when you
have made amends for this afternoon, I may see you again."

"I won't take it," he replied doggedly. "Please, Nellie, forgive--"

"Take it," she flashed, "or I will throw it into the ocean!"

She had unconsciously submitted him to a final test. He was about to
let her carry out her threat if she saw fit when his cupidity overcame
him. He reached out his hand, and she dropped the ring into it. She
stood silent, pale, and cold, waiting for him to go.

He moved away. He had reached the foot of the companionway when he
turned back.

"He has brought me to this," he said so slowly and evilly that each
word seemed a drop of venom. "But I'll make him pay. I'm goin' to St.
John's, and when I get back it will be the sorriest day in his life
and yours, too. His life won't be worth the thread it hangs on!"

With that he went up the companionway and, not noticing the greeting
of Captain Tanner, dropped into his yellow dory that swung and bumped
against the _Rosan's_ side. Swiftly he rowed to the _Nettie B._ and
clambered aboard, bellowing orders to get up sail. In fifteen minutes
the schooner was on the back track under every stitch of canvas she
carried.

Bijonah Tanner stared blankly after the retreating _Nettie_. Then,
knowing that his daughter had been with Nat, dropped down into the
little cabin.

He found Nellie seated in the chair by the little table, and weeping.




CHAPTER XIV

A DISCOVERY


Taken aback as he had been by the strange doings of Nat's schooner,
his dismay then was a feeble imitation of the panic that smote him
now. It had long been a favorite formula of Bijonah's that "A
schooner's a gal you can understand. She goes where ye send her, an'
ye know she'll come back when ye tell her to. She's a snug, trustin'
kind of critter, an' she's man's best friend because she hain't got a
grain o' sense. But woman!"

Here Bijonah always ended, his hands, his voice, and his sentence
suspended in mid air.

Now he was baffled completely. Here was a girl who was deeply in love,
crying. He tiptoed cautiously to the deck again and stole forward to
the galley as though he had been detected in a suspicious action.

After a while the storm passed, and Nellie sat up, red-eyed and
red-nosed, but with a measure of her usual tranquillity restored.

"Idiot!" she told herself. "To howl like that over _him_!"

Nellie finally regained her poise of mind and remembered that she had
been at the point of writing a letter to her mother (to be mailed by
the first vessel bound to a port) when Nat had interrupted her.

The table at which she sat was a rough, square one of oak, with one
drawer that extended its whole width. She opened the drawer and found
it stuffed with an untidy mass of paper, envelopes, newspapers,
clippings, books, ink, and a mucilage-pot that had foundered in the
last gale and spread its contents over everything.

Such was her struggle to find two clean sheets of paper and a pen that
she finally dumped the contents of the drawer on top of the table and
went to the task seriously. The very first thing that came under her
hand was a heavy packet.

Turning it face up, she read, with surprise, a large feminine
handwriting which said:

           Mr. Code Schofield, kindness of Captain B. Tanner

                            Letter enclosed.

At the right-hand side of the envelope was this:

                               5----10s
                               10----5s
                               50----1s
                               --------
                               $150

Nellie Tanner stared at the envelope. It was the handwriting that held
her. She had seen it before. She had once been honorary assistant
treasurer of the Church of England chapel, and it suddenly came to her
that this was the handwriting that had adorned Elsa Mallaby's checks
and subscriptions.

She knew she had solved the problem the instant the answer came. Elsa
had been to Boston to school, and the fact was very evident. She sat
and stared at the black letters, flexing the packet filled with
bills.

"Why should Elsa Mallaby be sending money to Code Schofield?"

Everybody in Freekirk Head knew that Code Schofield went up to Elsa
Mallaby's to dinner occasionally. So did other people in the village,
but not so often as he. There had been a little gossip concerning the
two of them, but, while Code was an excellent enough fellow, it was
hardly probable that a rich widow like Elsa would throw herself away
on a poor _fisherman_. They _forgot_ that she had done so the first
time she married, and that she had the sea in her blood.

These shreds of gossip returned to Nellie now with accrued interest,
and she began to believe in the theory of fire being behind smoke.

She also remembered the night of the mass-meeting in Odd Fellows Hall
when Code had made his suggestion of going to the Banks. There had
flashed between Elsa's velvet-dark eyes and Code's blue ones a message
of intimacy of which the town knew nothing. Every one saw the look,
and nearly every one talked about it, but they did not know that only
a couple of nights before Elsa had been the one to put Code on guard
against his enemies, and that he was more than grateful.

"I'd just like to know what's in that letter so as to tease him the
next time we meet," she said gaily to herself. She was now out of all
mood for writing her letter home, and, stuffing the contents of the
drawer back into place, she returned the latter to the table and went
on deck.

The sea was running higher. The new topmast was up, and within half an
hour the _Rosan_ heeled to the wind and plowed her way northward after
the remainder of the fleet.




CHAPTER XV

THE CATCH OF THE ROSAN


At the forecastle head of the _Rosan_ stood a youth tolling the ship's
bell. The windlass grunted and whined as the schooner came up on her
hawser with a thump, and overhead a useless jib slatted and rattled.

The youth could scarcely see aft of the foremast because of the
thickness of the weather, but he could hear what was going on. There
was a thump, a slimy slapping of wet fish, and a voice counting
monotonously as its owner forked his forenoon's catch into the pen
amidships.

"Forty-nine," said the voice. "All right, boys, swing her in." And a
moment later the dory, hauled high, dropped down into her nest.
Immediately there was a slight bump against the side of the schooner,
and the slapping and counting would begin again.

"Eighty-seven, and high line at that!" said the next man. "I'll bet
that's the only halibut on the Banks, and he's two hundred if he's an
ounce."

The great, flat fish was raised to the deck by means of the topping
haul that swung in the dories.

Bijonah Tanner, who stood by the pen watching the silver stream as it
flowed over the side into the pen, mussed his beard and shook his
head. The fish were fair, but not what should be expected at this time
of year. He would sail along to another favorable anchorage. This was
his first day on the Banks and two days after Nellie's discovery of
Elsa's packet.

It was only noon, but Bijonah was speculating, and when he saw the fog
bank coming he refused to run any risk with his men, and recalled them
to the schooner by firing his shotgun until they all replied to the
signal by raising one oar upright.

It must not be thought that it was the fog that induced Bijonah to do
this. Dorymen almost always fish when a fog comes down, and trust to
their good fortune in finding the schooner. Bijonah wanted to look
over the morning's catch and get in tune with the millions under his
keel.

By the time the last dory was in, the pile of fish in the pen looked
like a heap of molten silver.

The men stretched themselves after their cramped quarters, and greeted
the cook's announcement with delight.

"You fellers fix tables fer dressin' down while the fust half mugs
up," said Tanner. "Everybody lively now. I cal'late to move just a
little bit. The bottom here don't suit me yet."

He went down from the poop and walked the deck, listening between
clangings of the bell for any sound of an approaching vessel. The crew
worked swiftly at dressing and salting the catch.

"Haul up anchor," he ordered when the work was done.

The watch laid hold the windlass poles and hauled the vessel forward
directly above her hook. Then there was a concerted heave and the
ground tackle broke loose and came up with a rush.

Under headsails and riding sail the _Rosan_ swung into the light air
that stirred the fog and began to crawl forward while the men were
still cat-heading the anchor. The youth who had been ringing the bell
now substituted the patent fog-horn, as marine law requires when
vessels are under way.

With his eyes on the compass, Turner guided the ship himself. They
seemed to move through an endless gray world.

For an hour they sailed, the only sounds being the flap of the canvas,
the creaking of the tiller ropes, and the drip of the fog. Tanner was
about to give the word to let go the anchor when, without warning,
they suddenly burst clear of the fog and came out into the vast gray
welter of the open sea.

Tanner suddenly straightened up, and slipping the wheel swiftly into
the becket, he ran to the taffrail and looked over the side.

"Good God!" he cried. "What's this?"

Not fifty feet away lay a blue dory, heavy and loggy with water, and
in the bottom the unconscious figure of a man.

A second look at the face of the man and Tanner cried:

"Wheelan and Markle, overside with the starboard dory. Here's Code
Schofield adrift! Lively now!"

There was a rush aft, but Tanner met the crew and drove them to the
nested boats amidships.

"Over, I say!" he roared.

The men obeyed him, and Wheelan and Markle were soon pulling madly to
the blue dory astern.

When they reached it one man clambered to the bow and cut the drag
rope that Code, in his extremity, had thrown over nearly two days
before. Then, fastening the short painter to a thwart in their own
craft, they hauled the blue dory and its contents alongside the
_Rosan_.

Code Schofield lay with his eyes closed, pale as wax, and seemingly
dead. In his right hand he still gripped convulsively the bailing-can
he had used until consciousness left him.

Man, boat, and all, the dory was hauled up and let gently down on the
deck. Then the eager hands lifted Schofield from the water and laid
him on the oiled boards.

"Take him into my cabin," ordered Tanner. "Johnson, bring hot water
and rags. Cookee, make some strong soup. If there's any life in him
we'll bring it back. On the jump, there!"

"Wal," said one man, when Code had been carried below, "I thought my
halibut was high line to-day, but the skipper beat me out in the
end."




CHAPTER XVI

A STAGGERING BLOW


"Here is something my father just asked me to give you."

Nellie held out to Code the packet that she had discovered in the
skipper's drawer several days before. Code, seated on the roof of the
cabin in the only loose chair aboard the _Rosan_, and wrapped in
blankets, took the sealed bundle curiously.

He looked at the round, feminine handwriting across the envelope, and
failed to evince any flash of guilt or intelligence.

It was three days after Code's rescue by the _Rosan_ and the first
that he had felt any of his old strength coming back to him.

For the first twenty-four hours after being revived he did nothing but
sleep, and awoke to find Nellie Tanner beside his bunk nursing him.
Since then it had been merely a matter of patience until his exhausted
body had recuperated from the shock.

For once Nellie had command of the _Rosan_, and everything stood aside
for her patient. The delicacies that issued from the galley after she
had occupied it an hour, and that went directly to Code, almost had
the result of inciting a mutiny among all hands; terms of settlement
being the retirement of the old cook and installation of this new
find.

Code ripped open the packet. He stared in amazement at the yellow
bills. Then he discovered the letter and began to read it. Despite the
healthy red of his weather-beaten face, a tide of color surged up over
it.

Nellie turned her head away and looked over the oily gray sea to where
the men of the _Rosan_ were toiling in their dories. In the distance
there was a sail here and there, for the _Rosan_ was slowly
overhauling the fleet from Freekirk Head.

Code stole a swift glance at her, and forgot to read his letter as he
studied the fresh roundness and beauty of her face. He vaguely felt
that there was a reserved manner between them.

"The letter is from Mrs. Mallaby," he said.

"Yes? That is interesting."

The girl's cool, level eyes met his, and he blushed again.

"She has a good heart," he stumbled on, "and always thinks of
others."

"Yes, she has," agreed the girl without enthusiasm, and Code dropped
the subject.

"How did your father happen to have this for me?" he asked, after a
pause.

"Well, you know, you surprised everybody by leaving the Head before
the rest of the fleet. Elsa had it in mind to give you this packet,
she _says_, before you left. But when you went so suddenly she asked
father to give it to you. She said she expected the _Rosan_ would
catch the _Lass_ on the Banks. At least, this is the yarn dad told
me."

"She seems to know considerable about the Banks and the ways of
fishermen," he said, with an unconscious ring of enthusiasm in his
tone.

"Yes; you'd think she pulled her own dory instead of being the richest
woman in New Brunswick."

Code looked at his old sweetheart in amazement. He had never seen her
so disagreeable. His eye fell upon her left hand.

For a moment his mind did not register an impression. Then all of a
sudden it flashed upon him that her ring was gone.

"Oh, _that_ explains everything!" he said to himself. "She has either
lost it or quarreled with Nat, and it's no wonder she is unhappy."

Nellie was saying to herself: "The letter must have been very personal
or he would have told me about it. He never acted like this before.
There _is_ something between them."

Suddenly astern of them sounded the flap of sails, rattle of blocks,
and shouted orders. They turned in time to see a schooner come up
into the wind all standing.

She was clothed in canvas from head to foot, with a balloon-jib and
staysail added, and made her position less than a hundred yards away.

Schofield gazed at the schooner curiously. Then he leaned forward, his
eyes alight. There were certain points about her that were familiar.
With a fisherman's skill he had catalogued her every point. He looked
at the trail-board along her bows, and where the name should have been
there was a blank, painted-out space.

It was the mystery schooner!

Once more all the fears that had assailed Code's mind at her first
appearance returned. He was certain that there was mischief in this.
But he sat quiet as the vessel drifted down upon the anchored
_Rosan_.

As he looked her over his eyes were drawn aloft to a series of wires
strung between her topmasts. Other wires ran down the foremast to a
little cubby just aft of it.

"By the great squid, they've got wireless!" he said. "This beats me!"

At fifty yards the familiar man with the enormous megaphone made his
appearance.

"Ahoy there!" he roared. "Any one aboard the _Rosan_ seen or heard
anything of Captain Code Schofield, of the Grande Mignon schooner
_Charming Lass?_"

Code rose out of his chair, took off his hat ironically, and swung it
before him as he made a low bow.

"At your service!" he shouted. "I was picked up three days ago, adrift
in my dory. What do you want with me?"

This sudden avowal created a half panic aboard the mysterious
schooner, and the man astern exchanged his megaphone for field-glasses.
After a long scrutiny he went back to the megaphone.

"Congratulations, captain!" came the bellow. "When are you going to
rejoin the _Lass?_"

"As soon the _Rosan_ catches her," replied Code, and then, exasperated
by the unexpected maneuvers of this remarkable vessel, he cried: "Who
are you and what do you want that you chase me all over the sea?"

Instantly the man put down the megaphone and gave orders to the crew,
and in five minutes she was on her way north into the very heart of
the fleet.

"I don't know who she is or why she is or who is aboard her," he told
Nellie, after recounting to her the previous visitation of the
schooner. "She reminds me of a nervous old hen keeping track of a
stray chick. Pretty soon I won't be able to curse the weather without
being afraid my guardian will hear me. I say guardian, and yet I
don't know whether she is friendly or merely fixing up some calamity
to break all at once. You know I have enemies. She may be working for
them."

The girl could offer no solution, nor could Bijonah Tanner, who had
witnessed the incident from the forecastle head where he was smoking
and anticipating the wishes of the cod beneath him. He had walked aft,
and the three discussed the mystery.

"Ever see her before, captain?" asked Code.

If there was any man who knew schooners that had fished the Banks or
the Bay of Fundy, it was Bijonah Tanner.

"Don't cal'late I ever did. I've never saw _jest_ that set to a
foregaff nor _jest_ that cut of a jumbo-jib afore."

Tanner watched the schooner as she scudded away.

"Mighty big hurry, I allow," he remarked. "But, Jiminy, doesn't she
sail! There ain't hardly an air o' wind stirrin' and yet look at her
go! She's a mighty-able vessel."

It was about four o'clock the next afternoon that the _Rosan_ crept up
in the middle of the fishing fleet. She had made a long berth
overnight, dressed an excellent morning's catch, and knocked off half
a day because Bijonah did not feel it right to keep Code longer away
from his vessel.

And Tanner managed the thing with a good eye to the dramatic. When he
reached the rear guard of the fleet he began to work his vessel
gracefully in and out among the sloops and schooners.

Code, seated in his chair on the cabin roof, did not realize what was
going on until the triumphal procession was well under way.

Through the fleet they went--a fleet that was wearing crape for
him--and from every vessel received a volley of cheers.

The _Charming Lass_ greeted him with open arms. Pete Ellinwood swung
him up from the transferring dory with a great bellow of delight, and
he was passed along the line until, battered, joyous, and radiant, he
arrived exhausted by the wheel, where he sat down.

When they all had drunk to the reunion from a rare old bottle, heavily
cobwebbed, Code told his story. Then, while the men dressed down, he
walked about, looking things over and counting the crew on his
fingers.

"Pete!" he called suddenly, and the mate left the fish-pen.

"Where's Arry Duncan?"

"Wal, skipper, I didn't want to tell you fer fear you had enough on
yer mind already, but Arry never come back the same day you was
lost."

"My God! Another one! I wondered how many would get caught that day!"

"An' that ain't all. He had your motor-dory with him--the one you
caught us with out of Castalia."

"How did he have that? I gave orders the motor-dories weren't to be
used."

"Wal, cookee an' the boy--they was the only ones aboard--tell it this
way: Arry he struck a heavy school fust time he lets his dory rodin'
go, an' most of his fish topped forty pound. In an hour his dory was
full, and it was a three-mile pull back.

"When he got in he argued them others into givin' him the motor-dory,
'cause it holds so much more. They helped him swing it over, an'
that's the last they see of him."

"But, if he had an engine, you'd think he could've made it back here
or run foul of somebody or somethin'."

"Yas, you would think so; but he didn't, the more peace to him," was
Ellinwood's reply.

"The poor feller!" said Code. "I'm sorry for his wife. Anything else
happen while I was gone, Pete?"

"Now, let me think!" The mate scratched his head. "Oh, yes! Curse me,
I nearly forgot it! You know that quair schooner that chased us down
one day an' asked the fool questions about you?"

"Yes. I saw that same schooner again yesterday. She asked more fool
questions."

"You did!" cried Ellinwood in amazement. "I didn't see her, but I
heard her, an' I got a message from her for you. It was night when
they come up on us an' hailed.

"They said they had news of you, an' would we send a dory over. Would
we? They was about six over in as many minutes. But they wouldn't let
us aboard. No, sir; kept us off with poles an' asked for me.

"When I got in clost they told me the _Rosan_ had found you, and
handed me an envelope with a message inside of it. Just as I was goin'
away there came the most awful clickin' an' flashin' amidships I ever
saw--"

"Wireless," said Code.

"Wal, I've heard of it, but I never see it before; an' I come away as
quick as I could."

"And the message?" asked Code curiously.

Pete laboriously unpinned a waistcoat-pocket and produced an envelope
which he handed to Code. It was sealed, and the skipper tore away the
end. The mystery and interest of the thing played upon his mind until
he was in a tremble of nervous excitement.

At last he would know what the schooner was and why.

Eagerly he opened the message. It was typewritten on absolutely plain
paper and unsigned, further baffling his curiosity. After a moment he
read:

  "CAPTAIN SCHOFIELD:

  "Yesterday at St. Andrew's suit was filed against you for murder
  in the first degree upon the person of Michael Burns, late of
  Freekirk Head, Grande Mignon Island. Plaintiff, Nathaniel Burns,
  son of the deceased. There is an order out for your arrest. This
  is a friendly warning and no more. You are now fore-armed!"




CHAPTER XVII

TRAWLERS


Schofield stood as one stupefied, staring blankly at the fateful
words.

Murder in the first degree!

Had it not been for his thorough knowledge of Nat Burns's character he
would have laughed at the absurdity of the thing and thrown the
message over the side.

But now he remained like one fast in the clutch of some horrible
nightmare, unable to reason, unable to think coherently, unable to do
anything but attempt to sound the depths of a hatred such as this.

"For Heaven's sake, what is it, skipper?" asked Ellinwood.

Code passed the message to his mate without a word. His men might as
well know the worst at once. Ellinwood read slowly.

"Rot!" he snarled in his great rumbling voice. "Murder? How does he
get murder out of it?"

"If I sank the old _May Schofield_ for her insurance money, which is
what every one believes, then I deliberately caused the death of the
men with me, didn't I? Pete, this is a pretty-serious thing. I didn't
care when they set the insurance company on me, but this is different.
If it goes beyond this stage I will carry the disgrace of jail and a
trial all my life. That devil has nearly finished me!"

Code's voice broke, and the tears of helpless rage smarted in his
eyes.

"Steady on, now!" counseled Pete, looking with pity at the young
skipper he worshiped. "He's done fer you true this time, but the end
of things is a tarnal long ways off yet, an' don't you go losin' yer
spunk!"

"But what have I ever done to him that he should start this against
me?" cried Schofield.

Pete could not answer.

"What do they do when a man is accused of murder?" asked Code.

"Why, arrest him, I guess."

Pete scratched his chin reminiscently. "There was that Bulwer case."
He recounted it in detail. "Yes," he went on, "they can't do nothin'
until the man accused is arrested.

"After that he gets a preliminary hearin', and, if things seem plain
enough, then the grand jury indicts him. After that he's tried by a
reg'lar jury. So the fust thing they've got to do is arrest you."

"Darn it, they sha'n't--I'll sail to Africa first!" snarled Code, his
eyes blazing. He strode up and down the deck.

"You say the word, skipper," rumbled Pete loyally, "an' we crack on
every stitch fer the north pole!"

Code smiled.

"Curse me if I don't like to see a man smile when he's in trouble,"
announced Pete roundly. "Skipper, you'll do. You're young, an' these
things come hard, but I cal'late we'll drop all this talk about
sailin' away to furrin parts.

"Now, there's jest two courses left fer you to sail. Either we go on
fishin' an' dodge the gunboat that brings the officer after you, or we
go on fishin' an' let him get you when he comes. I'll stand by you
either way. You've got yer mother to support, God bless her! An'
you've got a right to fill yer hold with fish so's she can live when
they're sold. That's one way of lookin' at it; the other's plain
sailin'!"

"No, Pete; this is too serious. I guess the mother'll have to suffer
this time, too. If they send a man after me I'll be here and I'll go
back and take my medicine. I'll make you skipper, and you can select
your mate. You'll get a skipper's share, and you can pay mother the
regular amount for hiring the _Lass_--"

"She'll get skipper's share if I have to lick every hand aboard!"
growled Ellinwood. "An' you can rest easy on that."

"That's fine," said Code gently; "and I don't know what I'd do without
you, Pete."

"You ain't supposed to do without me. What in thunder do you suppose I
shipped with you fer if it wasn't to look after you, hey?"

The men had finished dressing down and were cleaning up the decks.
Several of them, noticing that something momentous was being
discussed, were edging nearer. Pete observed this.

"Skipper," he said, "we've got four or five shots of trawl-line to
pick. Suppose you and I go out an' do the job? Then we can talk in
peace. Feel able?"

"Never better in my life. Get my dory over."

"That blue one? Never again! That's bad luck fer you. Take mine."

"All right. Anything you say."

Several hands made the dory ready. Into it they put three or four tubs
or half casks in which was coiled hundreds of fathoms of stout line
furnished with a strong hook every two or three feet. Each hook was
baited with a fat salt clam, for the early catch of squid had been
exhausted by the dory fishing. There was also a fresh tub of bait,
buoys, and a lantern.

A youth aboard clambered up to the cross-trees, gave them the
direction of the trawl buoy-light, and they started. It was a clear,
starlit night with only a gentle sea running and no wind to speak of.
There was not a hint of fog.

The _Charming Lass_ lay now in the Atlantic approximately along the
forty-sixth parallel, near its intersection with the fifty-fifth of
meridian; or eighty to a hundred miles southwest of Cape Race,
Newfoundland, and almost an equal distance southeast of the Miquelon
Islands, France's sole remaining territorial possession in the New
World.

Code and Ellinwood easily found their trawl buoy by the glimmer of the
light across the water. They immediately began to plant the
trawl-lines in the tubs aboard the dory. The big buoy for the end of
the line they first anchored to the bottom with dory roding.

Then, as Ellinwood rowed slowly, Code paid the baited trawl-line out
of the tubs. As there are hooks every few feet, so are there big
wooden buoys, so that the whole length of the line--sometimes
twenty-five hundred feet--is floated near the surface.

When the last had been paid out, a second anchor and large buoy was
fixed, and their trawl was "set." Next they turned their attention to
picking the trawl already in the water.

As the line came over the starboard gunnel Code picked the fish off
the hooks, passing the hooks to Pete, who baited them and threw them
over the port gunnel. Thus they would work their way along the whole
of the line.

Many of the hooks that came to Code's hands still had the bait with
which they were set.

"Must be in the bait," he told Ellinwood. "The fish wouldn't touch it.
This is no catch for five shots of trawl."

But Pete could not cast any light on the subject.

It was certainly true that the catch from the trawl-line was small
enough to be remarkable, but the men were helpless to explain the
reason.

For two hours they worked along the great line.

"There's a bare chance that the message from the unknown schooner
might be a fake, although I can't imagine why," said Code as they were
returning. "But if it is not, and the Canadian gunboat comes after me,
she'll find me here, willing to go back to St. Andrew's and answer all
charges. No escape and no dodging this time! And let me tell you
something, Pete. If nothing comes out of this except ugly rumor that I
have to suffer for, I'm going to quit minding my own business; and
I'll dig up something that will drive Nat Burns out of Freekirk Head
forever.

"A man of his character and nature has certainly got something he
doesn't want known, and I shall bring it to light and make it so
public that he'll wish he had never heard the name Schofield. By
Heaven, I've reached the end of my patience!"

If there was anything Pete Ellinwood loved it was a fight, and at this
declaration of war he roared encouragement.

"You'll do, skipper--you'll do! Get after him! Climb his frame! Put
him out of business. An' let me help you. That's all I want."

"Everything in good time, Pete," grinned Code. "First we've got to
find out how much of this is in the wind and how much is not."

Arrived at the schooner, they pitched their fish into the pen for the
first watch to dress and rolled aft for the night. Code took off his
coat and drew forth the packet that Elsa had given him, looked at it
for a moment, and threw it upon the table.

"Why in time did she send me that?" he asked himself, his voice very
near disgust. "It must have looked mighty strange to Nell for me to be
getting money from Elsa Mallaby."

He stopped short in the midst of pulling off one boot. The idea had
never struck him forcibly before. Now it seemed evident that Nellie's
reserve might have been due to the letter.

"What a fool I was not to tell her all about it!" he cried. With one
boot off he reached across to the packet under the swinging lamp and
drew the letter out of it and read:

  "DEAR PARTNER:

  "Here is something that Captain Bijonah will hand to you when he
  catches the _Lass_. There are supposed to be one hundred and fifty
  dollars in this packet (I never was much of a counter, as you
  know). Now, dear friend, this isn't all for you unless you need
  it. It is simply a small reserve fund for the men of the fleet if
  they should need anything--a new gaff, for instance, or a jib, or
  grub.

  "It isn't much, but you never can tell when it might come in
  handy. It was your good scheme that sent the men off fishing, and
  you left the way open for me to do my little part here at the
  Head. Now I want to do just this much more for the sailors of the
  fleet, and I am asking you to be my treasurer. When you hear of a
  needy case just give him what you think he needs and say it is a
  loan from me if he won't take a gift.

  "If this is a trouble to you I am sorry, but we are all working
  for the good name and good times of Grande Mignon, and I hope you
  won't mind. Good fishing to the _Charming Lass_, high line and
  topping full! May you wet your salt early and come home again to
  those who are longing to see you.

  "This is all done on the spur of the moment, so I have no time to
  ask your mother to enclose a line. But I know she sends her love.
  It has been a little hard for her here since you left, bless her
  heart; but she has been as brave as a soldier and helped me very
  much. We see a great deal of each other and you can rest assured I
  shall look after her.

                                    "Always your old friend,
                                                           "ELSA."

As Code read the last paragraph his eyes softened. It was _white_ of
Elsa to look after his mother, particularly now when there would be
much for her to face regarding himself. And it _was_ white of her to
send the money for the sailors of the fleet. Even she did not know, as
Code did, how nearly destitute some of the dorymen were. He would be
glad to do what little work there might be in disbursing the sum.

"Sorry Nellie didn't seem interested when I began to talk about Elsa,"
he said to himself. "I suppose I should have told her, anyway, so
there wouldn't be any misunderstanding. Well, I'll do it next time."
He turned the lamp low and rolled into his bunk.




CHAPTER XVIII

TREACHERY


Next morning at breakfast, about four o'clock, Code told his crew the
situation. He knew his men thoroughly and had been friends with most
of them all his life.

"There's likely to be trouble, and I may be taken away, but if that
happens Pete will tell you what to do. Don't sight Swallowtail until
your salt is all wet. Bring home a topping load and you'll share
topping."

Code did not go out that morning. Instead, he tried to shake off his
troubles long enough to study the fish--which was his job on the
_Charming Lass_.

While not a Bijonah Tanner, Code bade fair to be his equal at
Bijonah's age. He came of a father with an instinct for fish, and he
had inherited that instinct fully. Under Jasper he had learned much,
but it was another matter to have some one on hand to read the signs
rather than being cast upon his own resources.

The fish, from the trawl-line and Pete's reports of dory work, had
been running rather big. This pleased him, but he knew it could not
last; and he sat with his old chart spread out before him on the
deck--a chart edged with his father's valuable penciled notes.

Suddenly, while in the almost subconscious state that he achieved when
very "fishy," the persistent voice of the cook broke through the wall
of unconsciousness.

"Smoke on the port quarter, skipper! Smoke on the port quarter,
skipper!"

The phrase came with persistent repetition until Code was fully alive
to its meaning and glanced over his left shoulder.

Above the line of dark blue that was the ocean, and in the light blue
that was the sky, was etched a tree-shaped brown smudge.

Steamer smudges were not an unusual sight, for not fifty miles east
was the northern track of the great ocean steamers--a track which they
were gradually approaching as they made their berths. But a steamer
smudge over the port quarter, with the _Lass's_ bow headed due north,
was an entirely different thing.

Code went below and brought up an ancient firearm. This he discharged
while the cook ran a trawl-tub to the truck. It was the prearranged
signal for Pete Ellinwood to come in.

As Code waited he had no doubt that smoke was from a revenue cutter
or cruiser from Halifax with his arrest warrant.

There was a stiff westerly breeze, and Code, glancing up at the cloud
formations, saw that there would be a beautiful racing half-gale on by
noon.

"What a chance to run for it!" he thought, but resolutely put the idea
from his mind.

Pete came in with a scowl on his face, cursing everything under the
sun, and especially a fisherman's life. When told of the smoke smudge
he evinced comparatively little interest.

"We'll find out what she is when she gets here. What I'd like to know
is, what's the matter with our bait?"

"Bait gone wrong again?" asked Code anxiously, his brows knitting.
"That stuff on the trawl wasn't the only bad bait, then."

"No. Everybody's complainin' this mornin'.

"Not only can't catch fish, but ye can't hardly string the stuff on
the hooks. An' that ain't all. It has a funny smell that I never found
in any other clam bait I ever used."

"Why, what's the matter with your hands, Pete?" cried Code, pointing.
Ellinwood had removed his nippers, and the skin of his fingers and
palms was a queer white and beginning to shred off as if immersed long
in hot water.

"By the Great Seine!" rumbled the mate, looking at his hands in
consternation.

Code made a trumpet of his hands. "Here, cookee, roll up a tub of that
bait lively. I want to look at it. And fetch the hammer!"

A suspicion based upon a long-forgotten fact had suddenly leaped into
his mind.

When the cook hove the tub of bait on deck Code knocked off the top
boards with the hammer and dipped up a handful of the clams. Instead
of the firm, fat shellfish that should have been in the clean brine,
he found them loose and rotten. This time he himself detected a faint
acrid odor quite different from the usual clean, salty smell. Again he
dipped to make sure the whole tub was ruined. Then he looked at
Ellinwood in despair.

"It's acid, Pete," he said. "My father told me about this sort of
thing being done sometimes in a close race among bankers for the last
load of fish. If they're all like this we're done for until we can get
more."

Ellinwood looked at him in amazement, his jaw sagging.

"Well, who in thunder would do this?"

Code laughed bitterly.

"There's only one man I can think of, and that is the fellow who
got my motor-dory under false pretenses. You remember how he made
the cook and the boy help him get it over the side? Well, her
gasoline-tank was full and her batteries new. She was ready to go two
hundred miles on a minute's notice."

"But why should he do that--"

"Oh, think, Pete, _think!_ Don't you remember? He's one of the men I
went up to Castalia to get, the time that lawyer came to Freekirk
Head. And he's the only man in the whole crew I don't know well. I see
it all now. He sent me a note the night before asking to ship on the
_Lass_, and I went to get him before any of the other skippers got
wind of it. You don't suppose he did this thing on his own account, do
you?"

"Easy, skipper, easy! What's he got against you?"

"_He's_ got nothing against me!" cried Code passionately. "But he is
working for the man who has. Do you think that stupid ox would have
sense enough to work a scheme like this? Never! Nat Burns is behind
this, and I'll bet my schooner on it!"

Schofield dumped the bait-tub over the deck and rolled it around,
examining it. Suddenly he stopped and peered closely.

"Look here!" he cried. "Here's proof!"

With a splitting knife that he snatched out of a cleat he pried loose
a tiny plug in one of the bottom boards that had been replaced so
carefully that it almost defied detection.

"The whole thing is simple enough. He turned the tub upside down, cut
out this plug, and inserted the acid. Then he refitted the plug and
set it right side up again. It's as plain as the nose on your face."

"By thunder, I believe you're right, skipper!" said Ellinwood
solemnly. "The dirty dog! Cookee, run that tub up to the truck again.
We'll have to call the men in on this."

"Oh, he was foxy, that one!" said Code bitterly. "Going out in the fog
that way so all hands would think he was lost! I never remembered
until this minute that the motor-dory could be run. I guess she went,
all right, and that scoundrel is ashore by this time."

"Had a bad name in Castalia, didn't he?"

"Oh, a little more or less that I heard of, but what's that in a
fisherman? When the men come in have them go through all the bait."

Pete fired the old rifle, and the crew at work began to pull in
through the choppy sea.

"Hello!" cried the mate, looking behind him. "There's something going
to be doin' here in a minute. It's the cutter from Halifax, all
right."

Code, his former danger forgotten for the time, glanced up. The smudge
of smoke had quickly resolved itself into a stubby, gray steam-vessel
with a few bright brass guns forward and a black cloud belching from
her funnel. She was still some five miles away, but apparently coming
at top speed.

Three miles before her, with all sails set, including staysail and
balloon-job, raced a fishing schooner. There was a fresh ten-knot wind
blowing a little south of west--a wind that favored the schooner, and
she was putting her best foot forward, taking the green water over her
bows in a smother of foam.

"Heavens! look at her go!"

The exclamation was one of pure delight in the speed.

"Maybe she's an American that's been caught inside the three-mile
limit, and is pullin' away from the gunboat," remarked Pete.

That she was pulling away there was little doubt. In the fifteen
minutes that elapsed after her discovery she had widened the gap
between herself and her pursuer. She was now within a mile of the
_Lass_.

"Why doesn't she shoot?"

As Code spoke a puff of white smoke thrust out from the blunt bows of
the cutter, and the ball ricochetted from wave-top to wave-top to fall
half a mile astern of the schooner.

"Out of range now, an' if the wind holds she'll be out of sight by
nightfall," said Pete, who was moved to great excitement and
enthusiasm by the contest. "Wonder who she is?"

He plunged down the companionway to the cabin and emerged a moment
later with Code's powerful glasses.

But Code did not need any glasses to tell him who she was. His eye had
picked out her points before this, and the only thing that interested
him was the fact that her wireless was down.

It was the mysterious schooner.

He had never seen her equal for traveling, and he knew that she must
be making a good fourteen knots, for the cutter was capable of
twelve.

She had reached her closest point of contact with Code's vessel and
had begun to bear away when Pete leveled his glasses. It was on
Schofield's tongue to reveal the identity of the pursued when
Ellinwood yelled:

"Good Heavens! Skipper! She has _Charming Lass_ printed in new gold
letters under her counter!"

"What?"

"As I live, Code. _Charming Lass_, as plain as day! What's happening
here to-day? What is this?" Code snatched the glasses from Pete's hand
and then leveled them, trembling, at the flying schooner.

For a time the foam and whirl of her wake obscured matters, but all
at once, as she plunged down into a great hollow between waves, her
stern came clear and pointed to heaven. There, in bright letters that
glinted in the sun and were easily visible at a much greater distance,
was printed the name:

                             CHARMING LASS
                                   OF
                             FREEKIRK HEAD

"No wonder she's goin'!" yelled Pete, almost beside himself with
excitement. "No wonder she's goin'! But let her go! More power to her!
Yah!"

Code stood with the glasses to his eyes and watched the mysterious
schooner and the pursuing vessel disappear.




CHAPTER XIX

ELLINWOOD TAKES A HAND


There were two things for Code to do. One was to sail north into
Placentia Bay, Newfoundland, set seines, and catch the herring that
were then schooling. The other was to run sixty miles or so northeast
to St. Pierre, Miquelon, and buy bait.

Under ordinary circumstances he would not have hesitated. It would
have been Placentia Bay without question. But his situation was now
decidedly out of the ordinary. He was in a hurry to fill his hold with
cod before the other men out of Freekirk Head; first, for the larger
prices he would get; and secondly, because he yearned to come to
grapples with Nat Burns.

To seine for herring would lose him upward of a week; to buy it would
take less than three days, including the round trip to St. Pierre.

But the money?

Code knew that in the French island herring seldom went below three
dollars a barrel, and that the smallest amount he ought to buy would
be twenty-five barrels. Later on, if the fishing was good, he might
send out a party to set the seines, but not now. He must buy. But the
money!

Then he thought of the packet of money Elsa Mallaby had sent him. The
cash was meant for any sailor who came to need it.

And the men with him were willing to fight to the last ditch and to
take their lot ungrumblingly as fishermen early learn to do.

If he starved, they starved. So he decided he would not hesitate to
use Elsa's money when a dozen men and their families were dependent
upon him and the success of the cruise.

Thus the matter was settled and the order roared down the decks:

"Set every stitch for St. Pierre; we're going to bait up there.
Lively, now!"

St. Pierre, Miquelon, is one of the quaintest towns in all of
picturesque French Canada. It is on the island of the same name (there
are three Miquelon islands), which is in itself a bold chunk of
granite sticking up out of the ocean at a distance of some ten miles
southwest of May Point, Newfoundland.

Rough and craggy, with few trees, sparse vegetation, and a very thin
coating of soil, there is no agriculture, and the whole glory of the
island is centered in the roaring city on its southeast side.

It is a strange city, lost in the midst of busy up-to-date Canada,
with French roofs, narrow tilting streets, and ever the smell of fish.
There is a good harbor, and there are wharfs where blackfaced men with
blue stockings, caps, and gold earrings chatter the patois and smoke
their pipes. In the busy time of year there are ten thousand men in
the town and it is a scene of constant revelry and wildness.

The _Charming Lass_ touched the port at the height of its season--early
September--and, because of the shallowness of the harbor close in,
anchored in the bay amid a crowd of old high-pooped schooners, filled
with noisy, happy Frenchmen. There were other nationalities, too, in
the cosmopolitan bay--Americans setting a new spar or Nova Scotians in
on a good time.

The _Charming Lass_ cast her anchor shortly before six o'clock, having
made the run in five and a half hours with a good breeze behind. Code
and Ellinwood immediately went over the side in the brown dory of the
mate and pulled for the customhouse wharf. The rest of the crew were
forbidden off the decks except to sleep under them, for it was
intended, as soon as the bait was lightered aboard, to make sail to
the Banks again.

The bait industry in St. Pierre is one more or less open to
examination. It is the delight of certain French dealers to go inside
the English three-mile limit, load their vessels with barrels of
herring, and return to St. Pierre. Here they sell them at magnificent
profit to Frenchmen, Englishmen, and Americans. And, as the British
coat of arms is not stamped on herring at birth, no one can prove that
they were not legally procured.

But let a Canadian revenue cutter catch a Frenchman (or American
either, for that matter), dipping herring in any out-of-the-way inlet,
and the owner not only pays a heavy fine, but he often loses his
schooner and his men go to jail for trying to hoist sail and escape at
the last minute.

Code had not reached shore before he had been accosted by fully half a
dozen of these bait pirates. But he passed them, and tying his dory at
the wharf, went on up the street to a legitimate firm.

Immediately the business was finished, Code and Pete Ellinwood started
back to the wharf.

The main street was ablaze with lights. Cafés, saloons, music halls,
catch-penny places--in fact, every device known to separate sailors
from their wages was in operation. The sidewalks were crowded with
men, jabbering madly in the different dialects of their home provinces
(for many come here from France yearly).

"Queer lot, these frog-eaters," said Pete, going into the street so as
to avoid a thick, pushing crowd.

"Yes, they would come to a knifing over a count of fish and yet give
their schooners to a friend in trouble. Too bad they ain't better
fishermen."

"Yeah, ain't it."

Among Canadians and Americans the Frenchmen are held in contempt on
account of their hooks, which are of soft metal and can be rebent and
used again. The fish often get away with them, however, and these
hidden hooks slit many a finger in dressing down.

The two comrades loitered along, watching the changing crowds, gay
with their colored caps and scarfs. Some men were already in liquor,
and all seemed to be headed in that general direction. Suddenly, as
Code was about to urge Pete along, he gave an exclamation and stopped
short.

"What's the matter, skipper?"

"I wonder where he is now?" Code's eyes were searching the crowd. "I
saw him right over there."

He pointed to a certain spot.

"Who? What? Are you crazy, Code?"

"'Arry Duncan, the traitor that ruined our bait. I'd have sworn I saw
him. It came all of a sudden and went away again. But I guess it
couldn't have been anything but a close resemblance." He laughed
nervously. "Gave me the creeps for a minute, though."

"Lor-rd!" shivered Pete, who had all the superstitions of the sea at
his fingers' ends. "Mebbe he's chasin' us around fer wrongly accusin'
him. They do that sometimes, you know. He's probably dead an' that's
his sperrit, ha'ntin' us."

"Oh, rot, Pete!" growled Code in his most forcible manner. "Come along
now or you'll be sidling into one of these doors and the _Lass_ won't
get out of port for a week."

"My soul an' body! Look at that Frenchy. Biggest I ever saw, Code."

They had returned to the sidewalk, and Pete forgot that he himself
rose fully as high above the crowds as this stranger. In fact, nearly
every one turned to take a look at the huge islander, who, in reality,
stood six feet four, barefoot.

They were pushing down-street against the tide and making rather heavy
going of it. Code maneuvered so as to pass well to leeward of the big
man who, he could see plainly, was just tipsy. But somehow the eyes of
the two giants met, and the Frenchman seemed to crush his way through
the crowd in Ellinwood's direction.

"Come on, Pete; get out of here before there's any trouble," commanded
Code. He knew the mate's weakness for fighting.

The big Frenchman, who wore tremendous earrings, a bright scarlet cap
with a blue tuft, and a gay sash, lurched through the crowd and
against Pete Ellinwood with a malice only too plain. But his effort
was attended with failure. Not only did Pete stand like a rock, but he
thrust the other violently back with his shoulder, so that he recoiled
upon those behind him, earning their loud-voiced curses.

"_Mille tonnerres!_" bellowed the Frenchman. "You insult me, _cochon
Canadien_, Canadian pig! The half of sidewalk is mine, eh? You push me
off, eh? You fight, eh?"

Code urged Ellinwood along and interceded personally, knowing that the
big man would not touch him.

But the Frenchman would not be appeased. He was just drunk enough to
become obsessed with the ugly idea that Pete had laid a trap to insult
him, and, regardless of Code, kept after the mate.

By this time, of course, a huge crowd had gathered and was following
Pete's retreat, yelling to both men to fight it out. Many of the mob
knew a few English words, and their taunts reached Ellinwood's ears.

He and Code had not retreated a block before the mate suddenly swung
around on his tormentors.

"I won't stand for that, Code. Did you hear what that big devil called
me?" he demanded.

"What do you care what he called you? Get along to the ship. What
chance have we got with these men?" Code grabbed Pete's arm and kept
him moving away. Beneath his hand he could feel the muscles as hard as
iron.

But every foot the Canadians retreated brought the big Frenchman
nearer, bawling with triumph. At an opportune moment, so close was the
press, he slipped his foot between Ellinwood's legs and gave him a
push. Pete stumbled, almost fell, and recovered himself, raging.

"Get back you!" he bawled, sending half a dozen men spinning with
sweeps of his great arms. "I'll fight this Frenchy. Just let me at
him!"

Code saw the rage in Pete's eyes and recognized that he could do
nothing more to avert the trouble. His part would have to be confined
to seeing that his man got a fair deal. He and Pete were unarmed
except for their huge clasp-knives--much better kept out of sight
under the circumstances.

The crowd fell back, and the two giants stripped off their coats and
shirts. The Frenchman danced up and down, beating his great fists
together in a fine frenzy, but Pete, half-crouched, stepped forward on
his toes, his hands hanging loose and ready at his sides.

"_Allez, donc!_" It was the starting word, and Jean leaped in. Pete
met him with a crashing right to the ribs and dodged out of reach of
the clutching hands that reached for his throat. They circled around
a moment and again the Frenchman came, this time in one great leap.

On the instant Ellinwood jumped in to meet him. There was a swift
flying of arms, a pounding of the great fists, and Pete suddenly shot
back from the mêlée and landed on his back in the dirt. One of the
Frenchman's great swings had landed. But he was up in an instant and
went after his opponent again.

Jean saw now that he had another man to deal with--unlike a Frenchman,
an Anglo-Saxon cannot fight without sufficient provocation. Now all
the battle was aroused in Ellinwood, for aside from the shame of his
downfall, the crowd was yelling at the top of its voice. Jean began to
run away, circling round and round the ring of spectators, Pete after
him.

Suddenly he made a stand, but the mate was ready for him. Dodging the
straight left, Pete hurled himself forward and seized the burly
Frenchman in his arms. Then, with a tug and a wrench, as though he
were uprooting a tree, he lifted his opponent and crashed him down to
the earth.

Jean, stunned, and with a broken arm, sought to get up. He gained his
feet and, game to the last, staggered toward Ellinwood. Pete started
to run in again, but some one on the edge of the crowd thrust a foot
out and the big islander stumbled.

Code saw the man who interfered, and, his blood boiling, leaped for
him. At the same instant there came a cry of "Police! Police!" But
Code did not hesitate. He plunged into the crowd after his man and, in
an instant, found himself surrounded and fighting the whole mob.

For a moment it lasted. There was a rain of heavy blows that blinded
him, and then something that was hard and dull struck him on the head.
Everything began to whirl, and he found he could not lift his arms.
Dimly he heard a voice near him shout: "This way!" in English and felt
himself gathered up by men and borne swiftly away.

Then consciousness left him.




CHAPTER XX

AMONG THE HOME FOLKS


The village of Freekirk Head was a changed place.

No longer of early mornings did the resounding _pop! pop!_ of
motor-dories ring back from the rocks and headland as the trawlers and
hand-liners put to sea. No longer did the groups of weary fishermen
gather on the store steps for an evening pipe and chat or the young
bloods chuck horseshoes at the foot of the chapel hill.

It was a village of women. True, Squire Hardy, being too old to fish,
had remained at home, and Bill Boughton, who was completing details
for the immediate and profitable sale of the season's catch, was
behind the counter of his general store.

He dealt out supplies to the women and children, and wrote down
against their fathers' shares the amount of credit extended. But
others, day after day, found nothing set against them, and this was
due to the promise of help that Elsa Mallaby kept.

"It's useless to charge supplies to those who have nothing now with
the idea of getting it back from their fishing profits," she said.
"What they earn will just about pay for it, and then there they are
back where they started--with nothing. Better let me pay for
everything until the men get back. Then they will have something
definite ahead to go on."

No one but Adelbert Bysshe, the rector, Bill Boughton, and Elsa
Mallaby herself knew exactly how much she paid out weekly toward the
maintenance of the village. But all knew it to be an enormous sum (as
reckoned on the island), and daily the worship of Hard Luck Jim's
widow grew, until she occupied a place in Freekirk Head parallel to a
patron saint of the Middle Ages.

But Elsa Mallaby was intensely human, and no one knew it better than
herself, as, one late afternoon, she sat at her mahogany table,
looking absently over the stubs in her check-book. She saw that she
had disbursed a great deal of money--more, perhaps, than she would
have under any other circumstances--but she frankly acknowledged that
she did not mind that, if only she achieved the end toward which she
was working.

For Elsa, more than any one on Grande Mignon, was a person of ways and
means.

She was one of those women who seem to find nothing in self-communion.
Hers was a nature destined for light and gaiety and happiness. To sit
in a splendid palace and mope over what had happened was among the
last things she cared to contemplate.

Being of the pure Grande Mignon stock, she looked no farther for a
husband than among the men of Freekirk Head, good, honest, able men,
all of them. And her eye fell with favor upon Captain Code Schofield
of the schooner _Charming Lass_, old schoolfellow, playmate, and
lifelong friend.

The money she had mailed to him had only been an excuse to write a
letter; the favors to Ma Schofield were, in great part, to help
further her plan; the whole business of helping support Freekirk Head
was a flash of dramatic display, calculated to bring her ineradicably
before Code's eyes--and every one else's.

As she sat near the window and saw the sunset glow die over the
mountain ridge she asked herself what she had achieved. Apparently
very little. She felt the futility of human endeavor and desire. To
her knowledge Code was in love with nobody, although rumor had for
years linked his name with Nellie Tanner's. That was exploded now, for
Nellie was engaged to Nat Burns.

_Why_ did he not respond?

Slowly her smile returned. He would respond when he had heard certain
other things. Then he would forget any one else but her--if there was
any one else. Her heart leaped at the thought.

As it became dark she rang the bell.

"Light the candles in the drawing-room," she said to the servant who
entered. "You remember that Mrs. Tanner is coming for dinner?"

"Yes, madam."

"Very well. That is all." The servant withdrew.

There was nothing unusual in the fact of Mrs. Tanner coming for dinner
in the evening to the big house. Elsa simply could not eat all her
meals alone, and her old friends at the village were constantly
receiving invitations.

Mrs. Tanner arrived at half-past six. It was her first visit since the
departure of the fleet several weeks before, and there was plenty to
talk about. But Ma Tanner wisely reserved her conversation until after
the meal, for the "vittles" of Mallaby House were famous the whole
length of the New Brunswick coast.

Afterward when they had retired to Elsa's pink and gray boudoir, the
eternal envy of Grande Mignon womanhood, the talk flowed freely.

"It's this way, Elsa," declared ma confidentially. "I think Nellie is
pretty well took care of. Now young Nat Burns, as you know, is pretty
well off, as the sayin' goes on the island. He really wouldn't have to
fish if he didn't want to. His father didn't neglect _him_ when his
time come."

Ma Tanner did not see the change in Elsa's expression. The pupils of
her magnificent black eyes expanded and the delicate brows drew
together over the bridge of her nose. The close mouth, with its ugly
set, would not have been recognized by any but lifelong friends.

"And Nat's about's good as any boy," went on ma. "Boys is turr'ble
hard to fetch up so they don't disgrace ye and send ye to the grave
with gray head bowed in sorter, as the poet says. Nat ain't bad. He
speaks sharp to his mother once in a while, but la--what boy don't? I
think he'll treat Nellie right and be a good man to her."

"Ma," said Elsa, and her voice was quiet and intense as though she
were keeping herself well in hand, "that's what _every one_ thinks
about Nat Burns."

"Wal," asked the elder woman, slightly resentful, "don't you think
so?"

"What I think has nothing whatever to do with the question. But what I
_know_ might have. I don't want Nellie's life ruined, that's all."

"Look here, Elsa, what're you drivin' at?" Ma Turner was becoming
wrought up. She knew there must be something behind these hints or
Elsa would never venture on such thin ice with her.

"Ye be'n't by any means jealous o' Nellie, be ye?" she asked, peering
through her spectacles.

"Heavens, no!" cried Elsa so convincingly that Mrs. Tanner was
satisfied once and for all.

"Wal, what's all the fuss, then?"

"Any girl would ruin her life that threw herself away on Nat Burns.
He's got a fine solid-gold case, but his works are very poor indeed,
Ma Tanner."

"Don't go talkin' educated or I can't follow ye. D'ye mean he's all
show an' nothin' in his mind or heart of Christian goodness?"

"Yes, I mean that, and I mean more besides. He doesn't stop by being
merely 'not good.' He is actively and busily downright bad."

"They's several kinds of 'bad,' Elsa Mallaby."

"Well, I mean the kind that makes a girl break her engagement and keep
it broken, and that drives a man out of a decent village."

There was a long and pregnant pause while Ma Tanner got everything
straight in her mind.

"You don't mean that he has--" she inquired, her little mouth a thin,
hard line.

"Yes, I do. Exactly that. I knew the case myself in this very village
before Jim died. There are some men who instinctively take the correct
course in a matter of that kind; others who don't care two pins as
long as they get out of it with a whole skin. Nat Burns was that
kind."

"Then you mean he ought already to be married?"

"Yes, or in jail."

"Why isn't he?"

"It was entirely up to the girl and she refused to act."

"Gawd! My poor Nellie!"

The servant knocked, and, upon receiving permission to enter, handed
Elsa a telegram, evidently just delivered from the village telegraph
office. Unconsciously the girl reached into a glass-covered bookcase
and drew forth a paper volume. Then she tore open the message and
commenced to read it with the aid of the book.

Mrs. Tanner did not notice her. She sat staring into the future with a
leaden heart. Such a thing as Elsa hinted at was unheard of in
Freekirk Head, and she was overwhelmed. Suddenly she asked:

"Why do you hate Nat Burns so? You couldn't have told me that if you
hadn't hated him."

Elsa looked up from her book impatiently, quite oblivious to the wound
she had caused.

"Because I was very fond of that girl!" she said, and went back to the
translation of the message. Suddenly she sprang to her feet with a
little cry of dismay and rang the bell.

"Annette!" she cried. "Annette!" The maid rushed in, frightened, from
the adjoining room.

"Tell Charles I am going to St. John's to-morrow, and to have the
carriage at the door at half-past six. Pack my steamer trunk
immediately. Great guns! Why isn't there a night boat?"

The maid flew out of the room, and Elsa, still doubtful, retranslated
the message. Mrs. Tanner, taken aback by these sudden activities, rose
hurriedly to go. This sudden flurry was inexplicable to her. Since the
departure of the fleet Elsa had not as much as hinted leaving Freekirk
Head. Now, in a moment, she was beside herself to go.

"I hope it isn't bad news, Elsa," she faltered.

"Well, it is, ma, it is, b-but only in a business way. A little
trip will straighten it up, I think." And she was courteous but
indefatigable in hastening the departure of her guest.




CHAPTER XXI

A PRISONER


When Code Schofield came to himself his first sensation was one of
oppression, such as is felt after sleeping in an unventilated room. It
seemed difficult for him to breathe, but his body was quite free and
uninjured, as he found by moving himself carefully in all directions
before he even opened his eyes.

Presently the air became familiar. It was a perfect mixture of
flavors; oilskins, stale tobacco-smoke, brine, burned grease, tar,
and, as a background, fish. His ears almost immediately detected water
noises running close by, and he could feel the pull of stout oak
timber that formed the inner wall of where he lay.

"Fo'c'stle of a fishing schooner!" he announced, and then opened his
eyes to prove that he was correct.

He looked out into a three-cornered room occupied by a three-cornered
table, and that ran as far back as the foremast. Above, fastened to a
huge square beam, hung a chain-lamp so swiveled that it kept itself
level however much the schooner kicked and wriggled. On the table,
swinging his legs, sat a large, unpleasant-looking man.

"Wal, how are ye?" asked this latter, seeing his charge had recovered
consciousness. Never having seen the man before, Code did not consider
it necessary to answer. So he wriggled to find out if any bones were
broken, and, in the end, discovered a tender knob on the right side of
his head.

He soon recalled the visit to St. Pierre, the purchase of the bait,
Pete Ellinwood's fight, the general mix-up, and the blow on the head
that had finished him. He sat up suddenly.

"Look here! What ship is this?" he demanded.

"You'll find out soon enough when you go on deck. Hungry? I got orders
to feed ye."

"You bet I'm hungry; didn't have any dinner last night in St.
Pierre."

"Two nights ago," said the other, beginning to fry salt pork. "Nigh
thirty-six hours you've laid here like a log." Code doubted it, but
did not argue. He was trying to puzzle out the situation.

If this was a fishing schooner the men ought to be over the side
fishing, and she would be at anchor. Instead, feeling the long, steady
heel to leeward and half-recover to windward, he knew she was flying
on a course.

Breakfast swallowed, he made his way on deck. As he came up the
companionway a man stood leaning against the rail. With a feeling of
violent revulsion, Code recognized Nat Burns. A glance at a near-by
dory showed the lettering _Nettie B._, and Schofield at once
recognized his position.

He was Nat Burns's prisoner.

"Mornin'," said Burns curtly. "Thought you were goin' to sleep
forever."

"It's a hanging offense putting any one to sleep that long," retorted
Code cheerfully. "Luck was with you, and I woke up."

"You're hardly in a position to joke about hanging offenses," remarked
Nat venomously.

"Why not?" Code had gone a sickly pallor that looked hideous through
his tan.

"Because you're goin' home to St. Andrew's to be tried for one."

Code glanced over his left shoulder. The sun was there. The schooner
was headed almost directly southwest. Nat had spoken the truth. They
were headed homeward.

"Where's your warrant?" Code could feel his teeth getting on edge with
rage as he talked to this captor who bore himself with such
insolence.

"Don't need a warrant for murder cases, and I'm a constable at
Freekirk Head, so everything is being done according to law. The
gunboat didn't find you, so I thought, as long as you were right to
hand, I'd bring you along."

"Then you knew I was in St. Pierre?"

"Yes; saw you come in. If it hadn't been so dark you'd have recognized
the _Nettie_ not far away." Code, remembering the time of night they
arrived, knew this to be impossible, for it is dark at six in
September. He had barely been able to make out the lines of the
nearest schooners.

A man was standing like a statue at the wheel, and, as he put the
vessel over on the port tack, his face came brightly into the sun. It
was 'Arry Duncan. Code had not been wrong, then, in thinking that he
had seen the man's face in St. Pierre.

"Fine traitor you've got there at the wheel," said Schofield. "He'll
do you brown some day."

"I don't think so. Just because he did you, doesn't prove anything. He
was in my employ all the time, and getting real money for his work."

"So it was all a plot, eh?" said Code dejectedly. "I give you credit,
Burns, for more brains than I ever supposed you had. What's become of
Pete Ellinwood and the _Lass?_"

"Pete is back on the schooner and she's gone out to fish. You needn't
worry about them. At the proper time they'll be told you are safe and
unhurt."

Code said nothing for a while. With hands rammed into his pockets he
stood watching the white and blue sea whirl by. In those few minutes
he touched the last depth of failure and despair. For a brief space he
was minded to leap overboard.

He shivered as one with an ague and shook off the deadly influence of
the idea. Had he no more grit? he asked himself. Had he come this far
only to be beaten? Was this insolent young popinjay to win at last?
_No!_ Then he listened, for Nat was speaking.

"If you give your word of honor not to try and escape you can have the
run of the decks and go anywhere you like on the schooner. If not, you
will be locked up and go home a prisoner."

It was the last straw, the final piece of humiliation. Code stiffened
as a soldier might to rebuke. A deadly, dull anger surged within him
and took possession of his whole being--such an anger as can only come
to one who, amiable and upright by nature, is driven to inevitable
revolt.

"Look here, Burns," he said, his voice low, but intense with the
emotion that mastered him, "I'll give no word of honor regarding
anything. Between you and me there is a lot to be settled. You have
almost ruined me, and, by Heaven, before I get through with you,
you'll rue it!

"I shall make every attempt to escape from this schooner, and if I do
escape, look out! If I do not escape and you press these charges
against me, I'll hunt you down for the rest of my life; or if I go to
prison I will have others do it for me.

"Now you know what to expect, and you also know that when I say a
thing I mean it. Now do what you like with me."

Burns looked at Schofield's tense white face. His eyes encountered
those flaming blue ones and dropped sullenly. Whether it was the
tremendous force of the threat or whether it was a guilty conscience
working, no one but himself knew, but his face grew gradually as
pallid as that of his captive. Suddenly he turned away.

"Boys," he called to the crew who were working near, "put Schofield in
the old storeroom. And one of you watch it all the time. He says he
will escape if he can, so I hold you responsible."

Code followed the men to a little shanty seemingly erected against the
foremast. It was of stout, heavy boards about long enough to allow a
cot being set up in it. It had formerly been used for storing
provisions and had never been taken down.

When the padlock snapped behind him Code took in his surroundings.
There were two windows in the little cubby, one looking forward and
the other to starboard. Neither was large enough to provide a means of
escape, he judged. At the foot of the cot was a plain wooden armchair,
both pieces of furniture being screwed to the floor. For exercise
there was a strip of bare deck planking about six feet long beside the
bed, where he might pace back and forth.

Both the cot and chair appeared to be new. "Had the room all ready for
me," said Code to himself.

The one remaining piece of furniture was a queer kind of book-shelf
nailed against the wall. It was fully five feet long and protruded a
foot out above his bed. In its thirty-odd pigeonholes was jammed a
collection of stuff that was evidently the accumulation of years.
There were scores of cheap paper-bound novels concerning either high
society or great detectives, old tobacco-boxes, broken pipes, string,
wrapping-paper, and all the what-not of a general depository.

With hours on his hands and nothing whatever to occupy him, Code began
to sort over the lurid literature with a view to his entertainment. He
hauled a great dusty bundle out of one pigeonhole, and found among the
novels some dusty exercise books.

He inspected them curiously. On the stiff board cover of one was
scrawled, "Log Schooner _M. C. Burns_; M. C. Burns, master."

The novels were forgotten with the appearance of this old relic. _The
M. C. Burns_ was the original Burns schooner when Nat's father was
still in the fish business at Freekirk Head. It was the direct
predecessor of the _Nettie B._, which was entirely Nat's. On the death
of the elder Burns when the _May Schofield_ went down, the _M. C.
Burns_ had been sold to realize immediate cash. And here was her log!

Code looked over pages that were redolent of the events in his
boyhood, for Michael was a ready writer and made notes regularly even
when the _M. C._ was not on a voyage. He had spent an hour in this way
when he came to this entry on one of the very last pages:

"June 30: This day clear with strong E. S.-E. wind. This day Nat, in
the _M. C. Burns_, raced Code Schofield in the _May Schofield_ from
Quoddy Head to moorings in Freekirk Head harbor. My boy had the worst
of it all the way. I never saw such luck as that young Schofield devil
has. He won by half an hour. Poor Nat is heartbroken and swore
something awful. He says he'll win next time or know why!"

"Just like old man Burns!" thought Code. "Pities and spoils his rascal
of a son. But the boy loved him."

Code had not thought of that race in years. How well he remembered it
now! There had been money up on both sides, and the rules were that
no one in either schooner should be over twenty except the skippers.

What satisfaction it had been to give Nat a good trimming in the
fifty-year-old _May_. He could still feel an echo of the old proud
thrill. He turned back to the log.

"July 1: Cloudy this day. Hot. Light S.-W. breeze. Nat tells me
another race will be sailed in just a week. Swears he will win it.
Poor boy, what with losing yesterday and Caroline Fuller's leaving the
Head to work in Lubec, he is hardly himself. I'm afraid the old _M.
C._ won't show much speed till she is thoroughly overhauled.
Note--Stmr. _May Schofield's_ policy runs out July 20th. See about
this, sure."

There was very little pertaining to the next race until the entry for
June 6, two days before the event. Then he read:

"Nat is quite happy; says he can't lose day after to-morrow. I told
him he must have fitted the _M. C._ with wings, but he only grinned.
Take the stmr. to St. John to-morrow to look after policies, including
_May Schofield's_. She's so old her rates will have to go up. Won't be
back till day after the race, but Nat says he'll telegraph me. Wonder
what business that boy's got up his sleeve that makes him so sure he
will win? Oh, he's a clever one, that boy!"

Here the chronicle ended. Little did Michael Burns know he would never
write in it again. He went to St. John's, as he had said, and
completed his business in time to return home the day of the race
instead of the day after.

The second race was never sailed, for Code Schofield received a
telegram from St. John's, offering him a big price for a quick
lighterage trip to Grande Mignon, St. John being accidentally out of
schooners and the trip urgent.

Though loath to lose the race by default, the money offered was too
good to pass by, and Code had made the trip and loaded up by
nightfall. It was then that he had met Michael Burns, and Burns had
expressed his desire to go home in the _May_ so as to watch her
actions in a moderate sea and gale.

Neither he nor the _May_ ever saw dry land again. Only Code of the
whole ship's company struggled ashore on the Wolves, bruised and half
dead from exposure.

The end of the old log before him was full of poignant tragedy to
Code, the tragedy of his own life, for it was the unwritten pages from
then on that should have told the story of a fiendishly planned
revenge upon him who was totally innocent of any wrong-doing. The
easy, weak, indulgence of the father had grown a crop of vicious and
cruel deeds in the son.




CHAPTER XXII

A RECOVERED TREASURE


For five days Code yawned or rushed through the greater part of Nat's
stock of lurid literature. It was the one thing that kept him from
falling into the black pit of brooding; sometimes he felt as though he
must go insane if he allowed himself to think. He had not the courage
to tear aside the veil of dull pain that covered his heart and look at
the bleeding reality. He was afraid of his own emotions.

It was impossible for him to go lower in the scale of physical
events.

Nat was about to triumph, and Code himself was forced to admit that
this triumph was mostly due to Nat's own wits. First he had stolen
Nellie Tanner (Code had thought a lot about that ring missing from
Nellie's hand), then he had attached the _Charming Lass_ in the
endeavor to take away from him the very means of his livelihood.

Then something had happened. Schofield did not know what it was, but
something evidently very serious, for the next thing he knew Nat had
crushed his pride and manhood under a brutal and technical charge of
murder.

But this was not all.

His victim escaping him with the schooner and the means of livelihood,
Burns had employed a traitor in the crew to poison the bait and force
him to come ashore to replenish his tubs. Once ashore, the shanghaiing
was not difficult.

Code had no doubt whatever that the whole plan, commencing with the
disappearance of the man in the motor-dory and ending with his
abduction from St. Pierre, was part and parcel of the same scheme. In
this, his crowning achievement of skill and cunning, Burns had showed
himself an admirable plotter, playing upon human nature as he did to
effect his ends.

For it was nothing but a realization of Peter Ellinwood's weakness in
the matter of his size and fighting ability that resulted in his
(Code's) easy capture. Schofield had no shadow of a doubt but that the
big Frenchman had been hired to play his part, and that, in the
howling throng that surrounded the fighters the crew of the _Nettie
B._ were waiting to seize the first opportunity to make the duel a
_mêlée_ and effect their design in the confusion.

Their opportunity came when the Frenchman tried to trip Pete Ellinwood
after big Jean had fallen and Code rushed into the fray with the
ferocity of a wildcat. Some one raised the yell "Police," he was
surrounded by his enemies, some one rapped him over the head with a
black-jack, and the job was done. It was clever business, and despite
the helplessness of his position, Code could not but admire the
brilliance of such a scheming brain, while at the same time deploring
that it was not employed in some legitimate and profitable cause.

Now he was in the enemy's hands, and St. Andrew's was less than a
dozen hours away; St. Andrew's, with its jail, its grand jury, and its
pen.

Life aboard the _Nettie B._ had been a dead monotony. On the foremast
above Code's prison hung the bell that rang the watches, so that the
passage of every half hour was dinged into his ears. Three times a day
he was given food, and twice a day he was allowed to pace up and down
the deck, a man holding tightly to each arm.

The weather had been propitious, with a moderate sea and a good
quartering wind. The _Nettie_ had footed it properly, and Code's
experienced eye had, on one occasion, seen her log her twelve knots in
an hour. The fact had raised his estimation of her fifty per cent.

It must not be supposed that, as Code sat in his hard wooden chair, he
forgot the diary that he had read the first afternoon of his
incarceration. Often he thought of it, and often he drew it out from
its place and reread those last entries: "Swears he will win second
race," "Says he can't lose day after to-morrow," "I wonder what the
boy has got up his sleeve that makes him so sure he will win?"

At first Code merely ascribed these recorded sayings of Nat Burns to
youthful disappointment and a sportsmanlike determination to do better
next time. But not for long. He remembered as though it had been
yesterday the look with which Nat had favored him when he finally came
ashore beaten, and the sullen resentment with which he greeted any
remarks concerning the race.

There was no sportsmanlike determination about him! Code quickly
changed his point of view. How could Nat be so sure he was going to
win?

The thing was ridiculous on the face of it. The fifty-year-old _May_
had limped in half an hour ahead of the thirty-year-old _M. C. Burns_
after a race of fifteen miles. How, then, could Nat swear with any
degree of certainty that he would win the second time. It was well
known that the _M. C. Burns_ was especially good in heavy weather, but
how could Nat ordain that there would be just the wind and sea he
wanted?

The thing was absurd on the face of it, and, besides, silly
braggadocio, if not actually malicious. And even if it were malicious,
Code thanked Heaven that the race had not been sailed, and that he
had been spared the exhibition of Nat's malice. He had escaped that
much, anyway.

However, from motives of general caution, Code decided to take the
book with him. Nat had evidently forgotten it, and he felt sure he
would get off the ship with it in his possession. Now, as he drew near
to St. Andrews, he put it for the last time inside the lining of his
coat, and fastened that lining together with pins, of which he always
carried a stock under his coat-lapel.

As Schofield had not forgotten the old log of the _M. C. Burns_,
neither had he forgotten the threat he made to Nat that he would try
his best to escape, and would defy his authority at every turn.

He had tried to fulfil his promise to the letter. Twice he had removed
one of the windows before the alert guard detected him, and once he
had nearly succeeded in cutting his way through the two-inch planking
of his ceiling before the chips and sawdust were discovered, and he
was deprived of his clasp-knife.

Every hour of every day his mind had been constantly on this business
of escape. Even during the reading, to which he fled to protect his
reason, it was the motive of every chapter, and he would drop off in
the middle of a page into a reverie, and grow inwardly excited over
some wild plan that mapped itself out completely in his feverish
brain.

Now as they approached St. Andrew's his determination was as strong as
ever, but his resources were exhausted. Double-guarded and without
weapons, he found himself helpless. The fevered excitement of the past
four days had subsided into a dull apathy of hurt in which his brain
was as delicate and alert as the mainspring of a watch. He was
resigned to the worst if it came, but was ready, like a panther in a
tree, to spring at the slightest false move of his enemies.

Now for the last time he went over his little eight-by-ten prison. He
examined the chair as though it were some instrument of the
Inquisition. He pulled the bed to pieces and handled every inch of the
frame. He emptied every compartment of the queer hanging cabinet that
had been stuffed with books and miscellanies; he examined every
article in the room.

He had done this a dozen times before, but some instinct drove him to
repeat the process. There was always hope of the undiscovered, and,
besides, he needed the physical action and the close application of
his mind. So, mechanically and doggedly he went over every inch of his
little prison.

But in vain.

The roof and walls were of heavy planking and were old. They were full
of nicks as well as wood-knots, and the appearance of some of the
former gave Code an idea. He went carefully over the boards, sticking
his thumb-nail into them and lifting or pressing down as the shape of
the nick warranted. For they resembled very much the depressions cut
in sliding covers on starch-boxes whereby such covers can be pushed in
their grooves.

At any other time he would have considered this the occupation of a
madman, but now it kept him occupied and held forth the faint gleam of
hope by which he now lived.

Suddenly something happened. He was lying across his immovable cot
fingering the boards low down in the right rear corner when he felt
something give beneath his thumb. A flash of hope almost stifled him,
and he lay quiet for a moment to regain command of himself. Then he
put his thumb again in the niche and lifted up. With all his strength
he lifted and, all at once, a panel rushed up and stuck, revealing a
little box perhaps a foot square that had been built back from the
rear wall of the old storeroom.

That was all, except for the fact that something was in the box--a
package done up in paper.

For a while he did not investigate the package, but devoted his
attention to sounding the rest of the near-by planks with the hope
that they might give into a larger opening and furnish a means of
egress. For half an hour he worked and then gave up. He had covered
every inch of wall and every niche, and this was all!

At last he turned to the contents of the box that he had uncovered.
Removing the package, he slid the cover down over the opening for fear
that his guard, looking in a window, might become aware of what he had
discovered. Then, sitting on the bed, he unwrapped the package.

It was a beautiful, clear mirror bound with silver nickel and fitted
with screw attachments as though it were intended to be fastened to
something.

At first this unusual discovery meant nothing whatever to him. Then,
as he turned the object listlessly in his hands, his eyes fell upon
three engraved letters, C. A. S., and a date, 1908.

Then he remembered.

When he was twenty years old his father had taught him the science of
navigation, so that if anything happened Code might sail the old _May
Schofield_.

Because of the fact that a position at sea was found by observing the
heavenly bodies, Code had become interested in astronomy, and had
learned to chart them on a sky map of his own.

The object in his hand was an artificial horizon, a mirror attached to
the sextant which could be fixed at the exact angle of the horizon
should the real horizon be obscured. This valuable instrument his
father had given him on his twenty-first birthday because the old man
had been vastly pleased with his interest in a science of which he
himself knew little or nothing.

Code remembered that, for a year or two, he had pursued this hobby of
his with deep interest and considerable success, and that his great
object in life had been to some day have a small telescope of his own
by which to learn more of the secrets of the heavens. But, after his
father died, he had been forced to take up the active support of the
family, and had let this passion die.

But how did it happen that the mirror was here?

He recalled that the rest of his paraphernalia had gone to the bottom
with the _May Schofield_. It was true that he had not overhauled his
equipment for some time, and that it had been in a drawer in the
_May's_ cabin, but that drawer had not been opened.

He pursued the train of thought no farther. His brain was tired and
his head ached with the strain of the last five days. His last hope of
escape had only resulted in his finding a forgotten mirror, and his
despair shut out any other consideration. He had not even the fire to
resent the fact that it was in Burns's possession, and concealed.

It was his, he knew, and, without further thought of it, he thrust it
into his pocket just as he heard the men outside his little prison
talking together excitedly.

"By George, she looks like a gunboat," said one. "I wonder what she
wants?"

"Yes, there's her colors. You can see the sun shinin' on her brass
guns forward."

"There, she's signalin'. I wonder what she wants?"

Code walked idly to his windows and peered out, but could not see the
vessel that the men were talking about.

"She wants us to heave to, boys," sang out Nat suddenly. "Stand by to
bring her up into the wind. Hard down with your wheel, John!"

As the schooner's head veered Code caught a glimpse of a schooner-rigged
vessel half a mile away with uniformed men on her decks and two
gleaming brass cannon forward. Then she passed out of vision.

"She's sending a cutter aboard," said one man.




CHAPTER XXIII

SURPRISES


Fifteen minutes later a small boat, rowed smartly by six sailors in
white canvas, came alongside the 'midships ladder of the _Nettie B._
At a word from the officer the six oars rose as one vertically into
the air, and the bowman staved off the cutter so that she brought up
without a scratch.

A young man in dark blue sprang out of the stern-sheets upon the
deck.

"_Nettie B._ of Freekirk Head?" he asked. "Captain Burns commanding?"

"Yes," said Nat, stepping forward, "I am Captain Burns. What do you
want?"

"I come from the gunboat _Albatross_," said the officer, "and
represent Captain Foraker. You have on board, have you not, a man
named Code Schofield, also of Freekirk Head, under arrest for the
murder of a man or men on the occasion of the sinking of his
schooner?"

Nat scowled.

"Yes," he said. "I arrested him myself in St. Pierre, Miquelon. I am
a constable in Freekirk Head."

"Just as we understood," remarked the officer blandly. "Captain
Foraker desires me to thank you for your prompt and efficient work in
this matter, though I can tell you on the side, Captain Burns, that
the old man is rather put out that he didn't get the fellow himself.
We chased up and down the Banks looking for him, but never got within
sight of as much as his main truck sticking over the horizon.

"And the _Petrel_--that's our steamer, you know--well, sir, maybe he
didn't make a fool of her. Payson, on the _Petrel_, is the ugliest man
in the service, and when this fellow Schofield led him a chase of a
hundred and fifty miles, and then got away among the islands of
Placentia Bay, they say Payson nearly had apoplexy. So your getting
him ought to be quite a feather in your cap."

"I consider that I did my duty. But would you mind telling me what you
have signaled me for?" Burns resented the gossip of this young
whipper-snapper of the service who seemed, despite his frankness, to
have something of a patronizing air.

"Certainly. Captain Foraker desires me to tell you that he wished the
prisoner transferred to the _Albatross_. We know that you are not
provided with an absolutely secure place to keep the prisoner, and,
as we are on our way to St. Andrews on another matter, the skipper
thinks he might just as well take the fellow in and hand him over to
the authorities."

"Well, I don't agree with your skipper," snapped Burns. "I got
Schofield, and I'm going to deliver him. He's safe enough, don't you
worry. When you go back you can tell Captain Foraker that Schofield is
in perfectly good hands."

The pleasant, amiable manner of the subaltern underwent a quick
change. He at once became the stern, businesslike representative of
the government.

"I am sorry, Captain Burns, but I shall deliver no such message, and
when I go back I shall have the criminal with me. Those are my orders,
and I intend to carry them out." He turned to the six sailors sitting
quietly in the boat, their oars still in the air.

"Unship oars!" he commanded. The sweeps fell away, three on each side.
"Squad on deck!" The men scrambled up the short ladder and lined up in
two rows of three. At his belt each man carried a revolver and
cutlasses swung at their sides.

"Now," requested the officer amiably, "will you please lead me to the
prisoner?"

Nat's face darkened into a scowl of black rage, and he cursed under
his breath. It was just his luck, he told himself, that when he was
about to triumph, some of these government loafers should come along
and take the credit out of his hands.

For a moment he thought of resistance. All his crew were on deck,
drawn by curiosity. But he saw they were vastly impressed by the
discipline of the visitors and by their decidedly warlike appearance.
If he resisted there would be blood spilt, and he did not like the
thought of that. He finally admitted to himself that the young officer
was only carrying out orders, and orders that were absolutely just.

"Well, come along!" he snarled ungraciously, and started forward. The
officer spoke a word of command, and the squad marched after him as
he, in turn, followed Nat.

Of all this Code had been ignorant, for the conversation had taken
place too far aft for him to hear. His first warning was when the
sailors marched past the window and Nat reluctantly opened the door of
the old storeroom.

"Officers are here to get you, Schofield," said the skipper of the
_Nettie B._ "Come out."

Wonderingly, Code stepped into the sunlight and open air and saw the
officer with his escort. With the resignation that he had summoned
during his five days of imprisonment he accepted his fate.

"I am ready," he said. "Let's go as soon as possible."

"Captain Schofield," said the subaltern, "you are to be transferred,
and I trust you will deem it advisable to go peaceably."

Catching sight of the six armed sailors, Code could not help
grinning.

"There's no question about it," he said; "I will."

"Form cordon!" ordered the officer, and the sailors surrounded
him--two before, two beside, and two behind. In this order they
marched to the cutter.

Code was told to get in first and take a seat looking aft. He did so,
and the officer dropped into the stern-sheets so as to face his
prisoner. The sailors took their position, shipped their oars smartly,
and the cutter was soon under way to the gunboat.

Arrived at the accommodation ladder, and on deck, Code found a vessel
with white decks, glistening brass work, and discipline that shamed
naval authority. The subaltern, saluting, reported to the deck-officer
that his mission had been completed, and the latter, after questioning
Code, ordered that he be taken to confinement quarters.

These quarters, unlike the pen on the _Nettie B._, were below the
deck, but were lighted by a porthole. The room was larger, had a
comfortable bunk, a small table loaded with magazines, a chair, and a
sanitary porcelain washstand. The luxury of the appointments was a
revelation.

There was no question of his escaping from this room he very soon
discovered.

The door was of heavy oak and locked on the outside. The walls were of
solid, smooth timber, and the porthole was too small to admit the
possibility of his escaping through it. The roof was formed of the
deck planks.

He had hardly examined his surroundings when he heard a voice in sharp
command on deck, and the running of feet, creaking of blocks, and
straining of sheets as sail was got on the vessel. His room presently
took an acute angle to starboard, and he realized that, with the fair
gale on the quarter, they must be crowding her with canvas.

He could tell by the look of the water as it flew past his port that
the remainder of the trip to St. Andrews would not take long. He knew
the course there from his present position must be north, a little
west, across the Bay of Fundy.

The _Nettie B._, when compelled to surrender her prisoner, had rounded
Nova Scotia and was on the home-stretch toward Quoddy Roads. She was,
in fact, less than thirty miles away from Grande Mignon Island, and
Code had thought with a great and bitter homesickness of the joy just
a sight of her would be.

He longed for the white Swallowtail lighthouse with its tin swallow
above; for the tumbled green-clothed granite of the harbor approaches;
for the black, sharp-toothed reefs that showed on the half-water near
the can-buoy, and for the procession of stately headlands to north and
south, fading from sight in a mantle of purple and gray.

But most of all for the crescent of stony beach, the nestle of white
cottages along the King's Road, and the green background of the
mountain beyond, with Mallaby House in the very heart of it.

This had been his train of thought when Burns had opened the door to
deliver him up to the gunboat, and now it returned to him as the
stanch vessel under him winged her way across the blue afternoon sea.

He wondered if the _Albatross_ would pass close enough inshore for him
to get a glimpse of Mignon's tall and forbidding fog-wreathed
headlands. Just a moment of this familiar sight would be balm to his
bruised spirit. He felt that he could gather strength from the sight
of home. He had been among aliens so long!

But no nearer than just a glimpse. He made a firm resolution never to
push the prow of the _Lass_ into Flagg Cove until he stood clear of
the charges against him. He admitted that it might take years, but
his resolution was none the less strong.

His place of confinement was on the starboard side of the _Albatross_,
and he was gratified after a few minutes to see the sun pouring
through his porthole.

Despair had left him now, and he was quietly cheerful. With something
akin to pleasure that the struggle was over, and that events were out
of his hands for the time being, he settled down in his chair and
picked up a magazine.

He had hardly opened it when a thought occurred to him. If the course
was north a little west, how did it happen that the sun streamed into
his room, which was on the east side of the ship on that course?

He sprang to the port and looked out.

The sun smote him full in the face. He strained his eyes against the
horizon that was unusually clear for this foggy sea, and would have
sworn that along its edge was a dark line of land. The conclusion was
inevitable.

The _Albatross_ was flying directly south as fast as her whole spread
of canvas could take her.

Schofield could not explain this phenomenon to himself, nor did he
try. The orders that a man-of-war sailed under were none of his
affair, and if the captain chose to institute a hunt for the north
pole before delivering a prisoner in port, naturally he had a perfect
right to do so. It was possible, Code told himself, that another
miserable wretch was to be picked up before they were both landed
together.

Whatever course Captain Foraker intended to lay in the future his
present one was taking him as far as possible away from Grande Mignon,
St. Andrew's, and St. John's. And for this meager comfort Code
Schofield was thankful.

The sun remained above the horizon until six o'clock, and then
suddenly plumped into the sea. The early September darkness rushed
down and, as it did so, a big Tungsten light in the ceiling of Code's
room sprang into a brilliant glow, the iron cover to the porthole
being shut at the same instant.

A few moments later the door of his cell was unceremoniously opened
and a man entered bearing an armful of fresh clothing.

"Captain Schofield," he said, with the deference of a servant, "the
captain wishes your presence at dinner. The ship's barber will be here
presently. Etiquette provides that you wear these clothes. I will fix
them and lay them out for you. If you care for a bath, sir, I will
draw it--"

"Say, look here," exclaimed our hero with a sudden and unexpected
touch of asperity, "if you're trying to kid me, old side-whiskers,
you're due for the licking of your life."

He got deliberately upon his feet and removed the fishing-coat which
he had worn uninterruptedly since the night at St. Pierre.

"I thought I'd read about you in that magazine or something, and had
fallen asleep, but here you are still in the room. I'm going to see
whether you're alive or not. No one can mention a bath to me with
impunity."

He made a sudden grab for the servant, who stood with mouth open,
uncertain as to whether or not he was dealing with a lunatic.

Before he could move, Code's hard, strong hands closed upon his arms
in a grip that brought a bellow of pain. In deadly fear of his life,
he babbled protests, apologies, and pleadings in an incoherent medley
that would have satisfied the most toughened skeptic. Code released
him, laughing.

"Well, I guess you're real, all right," he said. "Now if you're in
earnest about all this, draw that bath _quick_. Then I'll believe
you."

Half an hour later Code, bathed, shaved, and feeling like a different
man, was luxuriating in fresh linen and a comfortable suit.

"Look here, Martin," he said to the valet, "of course I know that this
is no more the gunboat _Albatross_ than I am. The Canadian government
isn't in the habit of treating prisoners in exactly this manner. What
boat is this?"

Martin coughed a little before answering. In all his experience he had
never before been asked to dress the skipper of a fishing vessel.

"I was told to say, sir, in case you asked, that you are aboard the
mystery schooner, sir."

"What! The mystery schooner that led the steamer that chase?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, by the great trawl hook! And I didn't know it!"

"No, sir. Remember we came up behind the _Nettie B._, and when you
were transferred you were made to sit facing away from this ship so
you would not recognize her."

"Then all the guns were fakes, and the whole business of a man-of-war
as well?" cried Code, astonished almost out of his wits by this latest
development in his fortunes.

"Yes, sir. The appearances were false, but as for seamanship, sir,
this vessel could not do what she does were it not for the strict
training aboard her, sir. I'll wager our lads can out-maneuver and
outsail any schooner of her tonnage on the seas, Gloucestermen
included. The navy is easy compared to our discipline."

"But what holds the men to it if it's so hard?"

"Double wages and loyalty to the captain."

"Captain Foraker?"

"Yes, sir. There, sir, that tie is beautiful. Now the waistcoat and
coat. If you will permit me, sir, you look, as I might say, 'andsome,
begging your pardon."

Code flushed and looked into the glass that hung against the wall of
his cabin. He barely recognized the clean-shaven, clear-eyed, broad
shouldered youth he saw there as the rough, salty skipper of the
schooner _Charming Lass_. He wondered with a chuckle what Pete
Ellinwood would say if he could see him.

"And now, sir, if you're ready, just come with me, sir. Dinner is at
seven, and it is now a quarter to the hour."

Stunned by the wonders already experienced, and vaguely hoping that
the dream would last forever, Code followed the bewhiskered valet down
a narrow passage carpeted with a stuff so thick that it permitted no
sound.

Martin passed several doors--the passage was lighted by small
electrics--and finally paused before one on the right-hand side. Here
he knocked, and apparently receiving an answer, peered into the room
for a moment. Withdrawing his head, he swung the door open and turned
to Schofield.

"Go right in, sir," he said, and Code, eager for new wonders, stepped
past him.

The room was a small sitting-room, lighted softly by inverted
bowl-shaped globes of glass so colored as to bring out the full value
of the pink velours and satin brocades with which the room was hung
and the furniture covered.

For a moment he stared without seeing anything, and then a slight
rustling in a far corner diverted his attention. He looked sharply and
saw a woman rise from a lounge and come toward him with outstretched
hands.

She was Elsa Mallaby!




CHAPTER XXIV

THE SIREN


He saw the glad smile on her lips, the light in her great, lustrous,
dark eyes, and the beauty of her faultless body, and yet they all
faded to nothing beside the astounding and inexplicable fact that she
was in the mystery schooner.

"You here!" he gasped, taking her hands in his big rough ones and
gripping them tight. The impulse to draw her to him in an embrace was
almost irresistible, for not only was she lovely in the extreme, but
she was from Freekirk Head and home, and his soul had been starved
with loneliness and the ceaseless repetition of his own thoughts.

"Yes," she replied in her gentle voice, "I am here. You are
surprised?"

"That hardly expresses it," he returned. "So many things have happened
to-day that I expect anything now."

"Come, let us go in," she said, and led him through a doorway that
connected with an adjoining room. In the center of it was a small
table laid with linen and furnished with glittering silver and glass.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"You know fishermen well enough not to ask that," he laughed, and they
sat down. Elsa did not make any tax upon his conversational powers. It
was Code himself who first put a pertinent question.

"I take for granted your being here and your living like this," he
said; "but I am bursting with curiosity. How do you happen to be in
this schooner?"

"It is my schooner; why shouldn't I be in it?" she smiled.

"Yours?" He was mystified. "But why should you have a vessel like
this? You never used one before that I know of."

"True, Code; but I have always loved the sea, and--it amuses me. You
remember that sometimes I have been away from Freekirk Head for a
month at a time. I have been cruising in this schooner. Once I went
nearly as far as Iceland; but that took longer. A woman in my position
must do something. I _can't_ sit up in that great big house alone all
the time."

The intensity with which she said this put a decidedly new face on the
matter. It was just like her to be lonely without Jim, he thought.
Naturally a woman with all her money must do something.

"But, Elsa," he protested, "your having the schooner for your own use
is all right enough; but why has it always turned up to help me when
I needed help most? Really, if I had all the money in the world I
could never repay the obligations that you have put me under this
summer."

"I don't want you to repay me," she said quietly. "Just the fact that
I have helped you and that you appreciate it is enough to make me
happy."

He looked steadily into her brown eyes for a few moments. Then her
gaze dropped and a dull flush mounted from her neck until it suffused
her face.

He had never seen her look so beautiful. The wealth of her black hair
was coiled about the top of her head like a crown, and held in its
depths a silver butterfly.

Her gown was Quaker gray in color, and of some soft clinging material
that enhanced the lines of her figure. It was an evening gown, and cut
just low enough to be at the same time modest and beautiful. Code,
without knowing why, admired her taste and told himself that she erred
in no particular. Her mode of life was, at the same time, elegant and
feminine--exactly suited her.

"You are easily made happy," he remarked, referring to her last
sentence.

"No, I'm not," she contradicted him seriously. "I am the hardest woman
in the world to make happy."

"And helping me does it?"

"Yes."

"You are a good woman," he said gratefully, "and always seem to be
doing for others. No one will ever forget how you offered to stand by
the women of Grande Mignon while the men went fishing."

Again Elsa blushed, but this time the color came from a different
source. Little did he know that her philanthropy was all a part of the
same plan--to win his favor.

"And the things I know you must have done for my mother," he went on.
"Those are the things that I appreciate more than any. It is not every
woman who would even think of them, let alone do them."

Why would he force her into this attitude of perpetual lying?
she thought. It was becoming worse and worse. Why was he so
straightforward and so blind? Could he not see that she loved
him? Was he one of those cold and passionless men upon whom no
woman ever exerts an intense influence?

Though she did not know it, she expressed the whole fault in her
system. A man reared in a more complex community than a fishing
village would have divined her scheme, and the result would have been
a prolonged but most delightful duel of wits and hearts.

But Code, by the very directness of his honesty, and simplicity of
his nature, cut through the gauzy wrappings of this delectable package
and went straight to its heart. And there he found nothing, because
what little of the deeply genuine there lay in this woman's restless
nature was disguised and shifted at the will of her caprice.

When Code had experienced the pleasure of lighting a genuine clear
Havana cigar after many months of abstinence, she leaned across the
table to him, her hands clasped before her.

"Code, what does loneliness represent to you?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know," he temporized, taken aback. "I don't go in for
loneliness much; but when I do, why all I want is--well, let me see, a
good game of quoits with the boys in front of the church, or a talk
with my mother about how rich we are going to be some day when I get
that partnership in the fishstand. I'm too busy to be lonely."

"And I'm too lonely to be busy!" He looked at her unbelievingly.

"You!" he cried. "Why, you have everything in the world; you can go
anywhere, do anything, have the people about you that you want. You,
lonely? I don't understand you."

"Well, I'll put it another way. Did you ever want something so hard
that it hurt, and couldn't get it?"

"Yes, I wanted my father back after he died," said Code simply.

"And I wanted Jim after he died," added Elsa. "Those things are bad
enough; but one gets used to them. What I mean especially is something
we see about us all the time and have no chance of getting. Did you
ever want something like that, so that it nearly killed you, and
couldn't get it?"

Code was silent. The one rankling hurt of his whole life, after
seemingly being healed, broke out afresh--the engagement of Nat Burns
and Nellie Tanner.

He suddenly realized that, since seeing Elsa, he had not as much as
remembered Nellie's existence, when usually her mental presence was
not far from him. Elsa, with all her luxury and alluring feminine
charms, seemed to cast a spell that bound him helpless like the music
in the fairy stories. He liked the spell, and, after all she had done,
he confessed to an extraordinary feeling for the enchantress.

Now had come the memory of Nellie--dear, frank-eyed, open-hearted
Nellie Tanner--and the thought that her fresh wholesomeness was
pledged to make glad the life of Nat Burns seared his heart. A cloud
settled down on his brow. But in a moment he recalled himself. His
hostess had asked him a question; he must answer it.

"Yes, I have wanted something--and couldn't get it."

"Yes," said Elsa slowly, "a thing is bad enough; but it seems to me
that the most hopeless thing in the world is to want a person in that
way." Her voice was dreamy and retrospective. Its peculiar, vibrant
timbre thrilled him with the thought that perhaps there was some
hidden tragedy in her life that he had never suspected. Any unpleasant
sense that she was curious was overcome by the manner in which she
spoke.

"Yes, it is," he answered solemnly.

She looked up in astonishment at the sincerity of his tone, her heart
tingling with a new emotion of delicious uncertainty. What if, after
all, he had wanted some one in the way she wanted him? What if the
some one were herself and he had been afraid to aspire to a woman of
her wealth and position? She asked this without any feeling of
conceit, for one who loves always dreams he sees signs of favor in the
one beloved.

"Then you have wanted some one?" All her manner, her voice, her eyes
expressed sympathy. She was the soul of tact and no mean actress at
the same time.

Code, still in the depth of reminiscence and averted happiness,
scarcely heard her, but he answered

"Yes, I have." Then, coming to full realization of the confession, he
colored and laughed uneasily. "But let's not talk of such personal
things any more," he added. "You must think me very foolish to be
mooning about like this."

"Can I help you?" she asked, half suffocated by the question. "Perhaps
there might be something I could do that would bring the one you want
to you."

It was the crucial point in the conversation. She held her breath as
she awaited his answer. She knew he was no adept at the half-meanings
and near-confessions of flirtation, and that she could depend upon his
words and actions to be genuine.

He looked at her calmly without the additional beat of a pulse. His
color had died down and left him pale. He was considering.

"You have done much for me," he said at last, "and I shall never
forget it, but in this matter even _you_ could not help me. Only the
Almighty could do it by direct intervention, and I don't believe He
works that way in this century," Code smiled faintly.

As for Elsa, she felt the grip as of an icy hand upon her heart. It
was some one else that he meant. Was it possible that all her
carefully planned campaign had come to this miserable failure? Had she
come this far only to lose all?

The expression of her features did not change, and she sought
desperately to control her emotion, but she could not prevent two
great tears from welling up in her eyes and slowly rolling down her
cheeks.

Code sat startled and nonplused. Only once before in his life had he
seen a woman cry, and that was when Nellie broke down in his mother's
house after the fire. But the cause for that was evident, and the very
fact of her tears had been a relief to him. Now, apparently without
rime or reason, Elsa Mallaby was weeping.

The sight went to his heart as might the scream of a child in pain. He
wondered with a panicky feeling whether he had hurt her in any way.

"I say, Elsa," he cried, "what's the matter? Don't do that. If I've
done anything--" He was on his feet and around the little table in an
instant. He took her left hand in his left and put his right on her
shoulder, speaking to her in broken, incoherent sentences.

But his words, gentle and almost endearing, emphasized the feeling of
miserable self-pity that had taken hold of her and she suddenly sobbed
aloud.

"Elsa, dear," he cried, beside himself with uncertainty, "what is it?
Tell me. You've done so much for me, please let me do something for
you if I can."

"You can't, Code," she said, "unless it's in your heart," and then she
bowed her beautiful head forward upon her bare arms and wept. After
awhile the storm passed and she leaned back.

He kissed her suddenly. Then he abruptly turned to the door and went
out.

Schofield had suddenly come to his senses and disengaged himself from
Elsa's embrace.




CHAPTER XXV

THE GUILT FIXED


It was the following afternoon before Code Schofield ventured on
deck.

When he did so it was to find that all naval uniforms had been laid
aside, the imitation brass guns forward had been removed, and the
schooner so altered that she would scarcely have been recognized as
the _Albatross_.

The wireless had been erected again, and now the apparatus was
spitting forth an almost constant series of messages. The crew,
spotless in dungarees and without a vestige of a weapon, maneuvered
the schooner as Code had never in his life seen a vessel handled. At a
word from the officer of the watch they jumped as one man. Every order
was executed on the run, and all sails were swayed as flat and taut as
boards.

Code found Elsa ensconced with a book under the awning amidships. Big,
comfortable wicker chairs were about and the deck so lately cleared
for action had an almost homelike look.

"Did you sleep well?" asked the girl with an entire lack of
self-consciousness, as though the episode of the night before had
never occurred. Code was very thankful for her tact and much relieved.
It was evident that their relations for the remainder of the four
days' journey north were to be impersonal unless he chose to make them
otherwise. This he had no intention of doing--after his morning's
battle with himself.

"Like a top, when I got started," he replied. "And you?"

"Splendidly, thanks. And you should have seen the breakfast I ate. I
am a shameful gourmand when I am at sea."

He took a chair and filled his pipe.

"By the way, how long have you been out on this cruise? You weren't
aboard, were you, the time the mystery schooner led the revenue
steamer such a chase?"

"No," she replied, "but I wish I had been. I nearly died when I heard
about that; it was so funny. I have only been aboard about four days.
I'll tell you the history of it.

"I was having a very delightful dinner up at Mallaby House with Mrs.
Tanner, Nellie's mother, you know"--she looked unconcernedly out to
sea--"when I got a message, part wireless and part telegram, saying
that Nat Burns had nabbed you in St. Pierre and was racing with you to
St. Andrew's.

"Well, I've sworn all along that you shouldn't come to any harm
through him, so I just left Freekirk Head the next morning on the
steamer, took a train to Halifax, and had the schooner pick me up
there. Off Halifax they told me that the _Nettie B._ was six hours
ahead of us and going hard, so we had to wing it out for all there was
in this one. I had provided all the naval fixings before, realizing
that we would probably have to use them some time, and that's all
there is to it."

"Well, Elsa, I'll say this--that I don't believe that there was ever a
schooner built that could outgame and outsail this one. She's a
wonder!"

For a while they talked of trite and inconsequential things. It was
very necessary that they become firmly grounded on their new footing
of genuine friendship before departing into personalities; and so, for
two days, they avoided any but the most casual topics.

As the weather was exceptionally warm, with a spicy salt breeze that
seemed to bear the very germ of life in its midst, they had breakfast
and luncheon on deck, dining below in the rosy little dining-room.

Thirty-six hours before they expected to catch the fishing fleet (it
had been maneuvered so that Code should be restored to the _Charming
Lass_ after dark), Elsa opened the subject of Code's trouble with Nat
Burns. It was morning, and his recent days of ease and mental
refreshment had made him see things clearly that had before been
obscured by the great strain under which he labored.

Code told her the whole thing from beginning to end, leaving out only
that part of Nat's cumulative scheme that had to do with Nellie
Tanner. He showed Elsa how his enemy had left no stone unturned to
bring him back home a pauper, a criminal, and one who could never
again lift his head among his own people even though he escaped years
in prison.

It was a brief and simple story, but he could see Elsa's face change
as emotions swept over it. Her remarks were few, but he suddenly
became aware that she was harboring a great and lasting hatred against
Nat. He did not flatter himself that it was on his own account, nor
did he ask the reason for it, but the knowledge that such a hatred
existed came to him as a decided surprise.

When he had finished his narrative she sat for some little time
silent.

"And you think, then," she asked at last, "that his motive for all
this is revenge, because his father happened to meet death on the old
_May?_"

"So far it has seemed to me that that can be the only possible reason.
What else--but now wait a moment while I think."

He went below into his room, secured the old log of the _M.C. Burns_
and the artificial horizon. Together they read the entries that
Michael Burns had made.

"Now, Elsa," said Code by way of explanation, "it was a dead-sure
thing that Nat could never have beaten me in his schooner, and for two
reasons: First, the _May_ was a naturally faster boat than the old
_M.C._, although Nat would never admit it. That is what really started
our racing. Secondly, I am only telling the truth when I say that I
can outsail Nat Burns in any wind from a zephyr to a typhoon.

"He is the kind of chap, in regard to sailing, who doesn't seem to
have the 'feel' of the thing. There is a certain instinct of forces
and balance that is either natural or acquired. Nat's is acquired.
Why, I can remember just as well when I was eight years old my father
used to let me take a short trick at the wheel in good weather, and I
took to it naturally. Once on the Banks in a gale, when I was only
eighteen, the men below said that my trick at the wheel was the only
one when they got any sleep.

"Now, those two things being the case, Elsa, how did Nat Burns expect
to win the second race from the _May_?"

"I don't know. It doesn't seem possible that he _could_ win."

"Of course it doesn't, and yet his father writes here that Nat 'swears
he can't lose.' Well, now, you know, a man that swears he can't lose
is pretty positive."

"Did he try to bet with you for the second race?" asked Elsa.

"Did he? I had five hundred dollars at the bank and he tried to bet me
that. I never bet, because I've never had enough money to throw it
around. A good deal changed hands on the first race, but none of it
was mine. I raced for sport and not for money, and I told Nat so when
he tried to bet with me. If I had raced for money I couldn't have
withdrawn that day and gone to St. John for cargo the way I did."

"Then it seems to me that he must have _known_ he couldn't lose or he
would not have tried to bet."

"Exactly."

"But how _could_ he know it?"

"That is what I would like to find out."

Code absently thrust his hand into his coat pocket and encountered the
mirror he had found aboard the _Nettie B._ He drew it out and polished
its bright surface with his handkerchief.

Elsa was immediately interested and Code told her of its unexpected
discovery.

"And he had it!" she cried, laughing. "Of all things!"

"Yes, and he always wanted it. I remember when father first gave it to
me and I was working out little problems in astronomy, Nat used to
take the thing and handle it and admire it. You see the back and edges
are silver-plated and it is really quite valuable. He tried to get his
father interested, but, so far as I know, never succeeded.

"It was a strange thing, but that simple mirror appealed to Nat
tremendously, and you know how that would act on a man of his nature.
He is and always has been utterly selfish, and if there was any object
he wanted and could not have it increased his desire."

"But how did he get it, I wonder?" asked the girl, taking the object
and heliographing the bright sun's rays from the polished surface.
"When did you have it last?"

Code knitted his brows and thought back carefully. He had an
instinctive feeling that perhaps in this mirror lay the key to the
whole situation, just as often in life the most unexpected and trivial
things or events are pregnant with great moment.

"I had it," he said slowly, thinking hard; "let me see: the last time
I remember it was the day after my first race with Nat. In the desk
that stood in the cabin of the old _May_ I kept the log, my sextant,
and a lot of other things of that kind. In a lower drawer was this
mirror, and the reason I saw it was this:

"When I had made fast to my moorings in the harbor I immediately went
below to make the entry in the log about the race--naturally I
couldn't leave that undone. I remember I looked in the top drawer for
the book, but didn't find it. So then I looked in the other drawers
and, in doing so, opened the one containing the mirror.

"I distinctly remember seeing it, for the lamp was lighted and the
glass flashed a blinding glare into my eyes. You see we raced in about
the worst winter weather there was and the lamp had to be lighted very
early.

"The log-book wasn't there, and I found it somewhere or other later,
but that hasn't anything to do with the case. I never saw the mirror
after that--in fact, never looked for it. I took for granted it had
gone down with the _May_, along with all my other things, except the
log-book, which I saved and use now aboard the _Lass_."

"And you didn't take it out or give it to anybody?"

"No. I am positive of that. I didn't touch it after seeing it that
once."

"Then it is very plain, Code, that if Nat Burns came into possession
of it he must have taken it himself. He was very angry with you for
winning, wasn't he?"

"Terribly. For once I thought he might be dangerous and kept out of
his way until the thing had worn off a little."

"Just like him," said Elsa in that tone of bitter hatred that Code had
heard her use before when speaking of Burns. "He must have gone aboard
the _May_ and taken it, because you prized it so much. A fine
revenge!"

"Yes, but we don't do those things in Freekirk Head, Elsa. You know
that. We don't steal from one another's trawl-lines, and we don't
prowl about other men's schooners. I can't understand his doing a
thing like that."

"Perhaps not, but if not, explain how he got it."

"You're right," Code admitted after a moment's thought; "that's the
only way."

They were silent for a while, pondering over this new development and
trying to discover where it might lead. Under sharp commands the crew
brought the schooner about on the starboard tack, for the wind was on
the bow, and set a staysail between the fore and main masts. The
splendid ship seemed to skim over the surface of the sea, touching
only the tops of the waves.

"No, it's no good!" broke out Code suddenly. "Much as I hate Nat
Burns, I don't believe he would come aboard my schooner just for the
purpose of stealing a silver-plated mirror. That isn't like him. He's
too clever to do anything like that. And, besides, what kind of a
revenge would that be for having lost the race?"

"Well, what can you suggest? How else did he get it?" Elsa was frankly
sceptical and clung to her own theory.

"He might have come aboard for something else, mightn't he, and picked
up the mirror just incidentally?"

"He might have, yes, but what else would bring him there?"

Code sat rigid for a few minutes. He had such a thought that he
scarcely dared consider it himself.

"It's all clear to me now," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "Nat came
aboard to damage the schooner so that he would be sure to win the
second race."

"Code!" The cry was one of involuntary horror as Elsa remembered the
tragedy of the _May_. Hate Nate though she might, this was an awful
charge to lay at his door.

"Then he killed his own father, if what you say is true!" she added
breathlessly. "Oh, the poor wretch! The poor wretch!"

"Yes, that solves it," went on Code, who had hardly heard her. "That
solves the entries that Michael Burns made in his ship's log before
he went to St. John on his last business trip. Nat swore he could not
lose, and the old man, who was honest enough himself, must have
wondered what his son was up to.

"This mirror proves that Nat must have been aboard the schooner
secretly; what he told his father and his eagerness to bet with me on
a proposition that seemed foolhardy on the face of it clinch the thing
in my mind. The misguided fool! That, Elsa, is an example of how low a
man will go who has been spoiled and brought up without the slightest
idea of self-control."

"Why, you're preaching to me, Code," laughed the girl, and he joined
her. But she sobered in a moment.

"This is all very fine theory," she said, "and I half believe it
myself, but it's worthless; you haven't a grain of proof. Tell me,
have you ever thought over the details of the sinking of the _May?_"

"Only once," groaned Schofield, "and I--I hate to do it, Elsa. I'd
rather not. Every time I think of that awful day I sweat with sheer
horror. Every incident of it is engraved on my brain."

"But listen, Code, you must think about it for once, and think about
it with all your mind. Tell me everything that happened. It is vital
to our case; it may save the whole thing from being worthless. Even
if we get nothing you must make the effort."

Code knew that what Elsa said was true. With an effort he focused his
mind back on that awful day and began.

"There was a good sea that day," he said, "and more than half a gale
out of the northeast. If it had been any other day I shouldn't have
taken the old _May_ out at all, because she was loaded very deep. But
the whole trip was a hurry call and they wanted me to get back to
Mignon with the salt as soon as I could.

"Old Burns saw me on the wharf and asked if he could go along as
passenger. I said he could, and we started early in the morning. Now
that day wasn't anything unusual, Elsa. I've been in a lot worse gales
in the _May_, but not with her so deep; but I didn't think anything
would happen.

"Everything went all right for three hours, with the wind getting
fresher all the time, and the vessel under four lowers, which was a
pretty big strain on any schooner. As I say, she should have stood it,
but all of a sudden, on a big lurch, the fore topm'st that hadn't a
rag on her broke off short and banged down, hanging by the guys. With
one swipe it smashed the foregaff to splinters, and half the canvas
hung down flapping like a great wing.

"I couldn't understand it. I knew the topm'st was in a weakened
condition, but not as rotten as punk, and I supposed my foregaff was
as solid a piece of timber as ever went into a vessel.

"But listen!" as Elsa started to speak. "That isn't all. The flapping
canvas, with part of the gaff, pounded around like the devil let loose
for the ten seconds before we couldn't loosen the halyards and lower
away the wreckage, but in that time it had parted the mainstay in two
like a woman snipping a thread.

"Mind that, Elsa, a steel mainstay an inch thick. I never heard of one
parting in my life before. Things were happening so fast that I
couldn't keep track of them, and now, just at the crucial minute, the
old _May_ jibed, fell off from the wind, and went into the trough of
the sea. A great wave came then, ripped her rudder off (I found this
as soon as I tried to use the wheel) and swept the decks, taking one
man.

"Meanwhile the mainmast, with one stay gone, was whipping from side to
side like a great, loose stick. I put the wheel in the becket and in
one jump released the mains'l throat-halyards, while another fellow
released the peak. The sail came down on the run in the lazy jacks and
the men jumped on it and began to crowd it into some kind of a furl.

"I jumped back to the wheel and tried to bring her up into the wind,
but I might as well have tried to steer an ocean liner with a
sculling sweep. Not only was her rudder gone, but the tiller ropes
were parted on each side. It was damaged beyond repair!

"Once I read in school the funny poem of an American named Holmes. It
was called the 'One Hoss Shay,' and it told about an old chaise that,
after a hundred years of service, suddenly went to pieces all at the
same time and the same place. Even, in that time of danger, the memory
of the 'One Hoss Shay' came to me, and I thought that the _May
Schofield_ was doing exactly the same thing, although only half as
old."

"And then what happened?" asked Elsa, who had sat breathless through
Code's narrative.

"There's not much more to tell," he said, with an involuntary shudder.
"It was too much for the old girl with that load in her. She began to
wallow and drive toward the Wolves that I had caught a glimpse of
through the scud. She hadn't got halfway there when the mainmast came
down (bringing nearly everything with it) and hung over the starboard
quarter, dragging the vessel down like a stoat hanging to a duck's
leg.

"After that it was easy to see she was doomed. We chopped away at the
tangle of wreckage whenever we got a chance, but that wasn't often,
because, in her present position, the waves raked her every second
and we had to hang on for dear life.

"And then she began to go to pieces--which was the beginning of the
end. All hands knew it was to be every man for himself. We had no life
preservers, and our one big dory had been smashed when the wreckage
came down."

Code's face was working with suppressed emotion, and Elsa reached out
her hand and touched his.

"Don't tell me any more," she said; "I know the rest. Let's talk about
the present."

"Thanks, Elsa," he said, gratefully.

"How long have you thought that the schooner was a second 'one hoss
shay'?"

"Until this talk with you. I would never have thought anything else.
It's the logical thing to think, isn't it? All my neighbors at
Freekirk Head, except those who believe the evil they hear, have told
me half a dozen times that that is what must have happened to the
_May_. She had lived her life and that last great strain, combined
with the race the week before, was too much for her. I simply could
not explain those things happening."

"Yes, but you can now, can't you?" she asked coolly.

Reluctantly he faced the issue, but he faced it squarely.

"Yes, I can. Nat expected me to sail the _May_ in a race, so he
weakened my topm'st and mainstay. Of course, when there is sport in it
you set every kite you've got in your lockers and, you know, Elsa, I
never took my mains'l in yet while there was one standing in the
fleet, even ordinary fishing days."

"I know it; you've scared me half to death a dozen times with your
sail-carrying."

"And mind, Elsa, I'd been warned by all the wiseacres in Freekirk Head
that my sticks would carry away sometime in a gale o' wind. Nat banked
on that, too, and it shows how clever he was, forever since the _May_
sank I've had men tell me I shouldn't have carried four lowers that
day.

"He planned to weaken me where I needed sail most and he succeeded.
Why, Elsa, that topm'st must have been sawed a quarter of the way
through and that mainstay as much again. I don't really believe he did
anything to the foregaff; it appeared to be the natural result of the
topm'st's falling, but the damage he did resulted in the wreck of the
schooner--"

"And the death of his own father. Yes, Code, we've got him where he is
probably the wretchedest man in the world. Fury and hurt pride made
him injure the _May_ so he would be sure to win the second time, and
instead of that fate intervened, sent you on the cargo voyage, and
killed his father. Now it is perfectly plain to me why he is charging
you with all these crimes."

"Why?"

"Nat is a weak nature, because uncontrolled, and when weak natures do
wrong they suffer agonies of fear that they will be found out. Nat
committed this double crime in a momentary passion. Then as the weeks
passed by and the village talked of nothing else, he finally began to
fear that he would be found out.

"There was no one who _could_ have found him out, but there was that
haunting terror of the weak nature.

"Somebody spoke a word, perhaps in jest, that you must have wanted a
new schooner since the _May's_ policy was to run out so soon, and he
seized the thought in a frenzy of joy and began to spread rumors. This
grip on you gave him courage. He remembered that his revenge against
you was still unsatisfied and it became clear to him that perhaps,
after all, he could get one much more complete.

"Code, the picture of that man's mind is a terrible one to me. He may
have hated you before, but just think how he must have hated you after
knowing how he had wronged and was going to ruin you. It is only the
one of two people who _does_ the injury whose hatred grows. An injured
person who is sensible in regard to such matters, as you have been
with Nat all your life, throws them off and thinks nothing more about
them.

"So Nat's hatred of you and the fear of discovery, preying on his
mind, finally urged him into the course he has taken."

"And he went into it with open eyes," rejoined Code, "for his plans
were perfect. He pays his crew double wages and they ask no questions.
Had it not been for you on two occasions I should have been in jail
long before this."

"Yes, but now that is past--"

"No," interrupted Code, "it isn't, Elsa. He has just as much power
over me as he ever had. I am still a criminal at large to be arrested,
and you can wager your last dollar that if he can bring it about I
will be picked up by the first gunboat that finds me."

"But after all this?"

"Yes, after all this. We have made a beautiful case against him and it
fits, but, Elsa, there's one thing we haven't got, and that is a
single word of proof! We haven't enough to even bring a charge against
him. Do you realize that?"

The girl sat back, unable to reply. Code had expressed the situation
in a sentence. Despite all they had pieced together he, Code, was
still the man against whom the burden of circumstantial evidence
rested. Nat was, and always could go, scot free.

"Code, this is terrible!" she said. "But there may be a way out yet.
No man with the right on his side has ever failed to triumph, however
black things looked."

"But how?" he cried despairingly. "I have racked my brains for some
means of closing the net about him, but there seems no way."

"Now there is not," she returned, "but, Code, you can rest assured
that I will do everything I can."

"God bless you," he said, taking her hand; "you are the best friend a
man ever had."




CHAPTER XXVI

WETTING THEIR SALT


Pete Ellinwood, alone except for the cook, who sat peeling potatoes
just outside the galley, paced the quarter-deck of the _Charming
Lass_.

He seemed to be an older man than that night when, goaded beyond
endurance by the taunts of the big Frenchman, he had fought a fight
that would long be remembered in the streets of the roaring town of
St. Pierre.

He felt that he had broken his promise to Ma Schofield that he would
keep guard over her boy. Now, for all he knew, that boy was lying in
jail at St. Andrew's, or was perhaps defending his life in the
murderer's pen.

The night of the fight had been a wild one for Ellinwood.

At the cry of "Police!" the crowd had seemed to melt away from him
like the bank fog at the sweep of a breeze. A dozen comrades had
seized the prostrate Jean and hurried him away, and Pete, with the
instinct of self-preservation, had snatched up his clothes and dodged
down a dark alley toward the dirty drinking-shops along the
water-front.

There, as he dressed himself, he first asked the question, "Where is
Code?"

Then, in a frenzy of remorse, he returned to the street and began a
wild and fruitless search all night. Then he accidentally learned that
the _Nettie B._ had been in port two days and that her crew had been
ashore on the night of the fracas.

Sorrowful, bedraggled, and bruised, he rowed out to the _Charming
Lass_ just as the whole crew was setting out for shore to search for
Code and himself.

During the night the barrels of fresh bait had been lightered to the
_Lass_, and there was nothing for it but to make sail and get back on
the Banks as soon as possible, leaving Code to his fate but carrying
on the work he had begun.

In accordance with Code's instructions, Pete automatically became the
skipper of the schooner, and he selected Jimmie Thomas as his mate. By
nightfall they had picked up the fleet, and early the next morning the
dories were out. Then for eight days it had been nothing but fish,
fish, fish.

Never in all his experience had Pete seen such schools of cod. They
were evidently herding together in thousands, and had found but scanty
food for such great hosts, for they bit almost on the bare hook.

Now, as he looked around the still sea, the white or yellow sails of
the fishing fleet showed on all sides in a vast circle. Not five miles
away was the _Rosan_, and to the southward of her the _Herring Bone_
with mean old Jed Martin aboard. Bijonah Tanner had tried his best to
shake Martin, but the hard-fisted old skipper, knowing and recognizing
Tanner's "nose" for fish, had clung like a leech and profited by the
other's sagacity.

Nor was this all the Grande Mignon fleet.

There were Gloucestermen among it, the champion fishers of the world,
who spent their spare time in drifting past the English boats and
hurling salty wit--at which pastime they often came off second best.

There were Frenchmen, too, from the Miquelon Islands, who worked in
colored caps and wore sheath-knives in belts around their waists. Pete
often looked over their dirty decks and wondered if his late enemy
were among them. There were also vessels called "toothpicks" that did
an exclusive trawling business, never using dories except to underrun
the trawls or to set them out. These vessels were built on yacht lines
and, because they filled their holds quickly, made quick runs to port
with their catches, thus getting in several trips in a season.

Also, there were the steam trawlers, the most progressive of the
fleet, owned and operated by huge fish firms in Boston or Portland.
These were not dependent on the vagaries of the wind and steamed
wherever their skippers divined that fish might be.

Last of all were the seiners after herring and mackerel, schooners
mostly, and out of Gloucester or Nova Scotia ports, who secured their
catch by encircling schools of fish that played atop of the water with
nets a quarter of a mile long, and pursued them in by drawstrings much
as a man closes a tobacco-pouch.

This was the cosmopolitan city that lived on the unmarked lanes of the
ocean and preyed upon the never-failing supplies of fish that moved
beneath.

Among the Grande Mignon boats there was intense rivalry. In the holds
the layers of salted fish rose steadily under the phenomenal fishing.
The salt-barrels were emptied and crowded out by the cod, hake, and
pollock. It was these boats that Ellinwood watched with the eye of a
hawk, for back in Freekirk Head he knew that Bill Boughton stood ready
to pay a bonus for the first cargo to reach port. Now was the time
when the advance orders from the West Indies were coming up, and,
because of the failure of the season on the island itself, these
orders stood unfilled.

One or two of the smallest sloops had already wet their salt and
weighed anchor for home, taking letters and messages; but these, Pete
knew, could only supply an infinitesimal portion of the demand. What
Boughton looked for was a healthy load of fifteen hundred to two
thousand quintals all ready for drying.

Night and day the work went on. With the first signs of daylight the
dories were swung outboard and the men took their positions. A catch
of two hundred good-sized cod was now considered the usual thing for a
handliner, and night after night the piles of silver fish in the pens
amidships seemed to grow in size.

Now they dressed down under lantern light, sometimes aided by the
moon, and the men stood to the tables until they fell asleep on their
feet and split their fingers instead of the fish. Then, after buckets
of hot coffee, they would fall to again and never stop until the last
wet body had been laid atop of its thousands of brothers.

The men were constantly on the trawls. Sometimes they did nothing all
day but pick the fish and rebait, finding, after a trip to the
schooner to unload, that a thousand others had struck on the long
lines of sagging hooks while they were gone.

It was fast and feverish work, and it seemed as though it would never
end.

The situation had resolved itself into a race between the schooners,
and Ellinwood was of no mind to come off second best. Like a jockey
before a race, he watched his rivals.

He knew that foxy Bijonah Tanner, who sometimes looked like an old
hump-backed cod himself, was his most dangerous rival. Tanner said
nothing, but his boats were out early and in late, and the lanterns on
his deck over the dressing pens could sometimes be seen as late as ten
o'clock at night.

Visits among the fleet had now ceased, both because there was no time
for it, and because a man from another schooner was looked upon as a
spy.

At the start of the season it had been expected that Nat Burns in the
_Nettie B._ would prove a strong contender for premier honors, but,
because of his ceaseless efforts to drive home his revenge, Nat had
done very little fishing and therefore could not possibly be in the
market.

Other Freekirk Head men shrugged their shoulders at this. Nat had the
money, and could act that way if it pleased him, they said. But,
nevertheless, he lost favor with a great many of his former friends,
for the reason that the whole fishing expedition had been a concerted
movement to save the people and credit of the island, and not an
exploitation of individual desires.

Burns had, with his customary indifference to others, made it just
exactly such an exploitation, and the sentiment that had been strong
for him at the outset of the cruise was now turning decidedly the
other way; although he little guessed this or would have been
influenced had he done so.

In reality, then, the race for fish was keenest between the _Charming
Lass_, the _Rosan_, and the _Herring Bone_, with three other schooners
very close on their heels.

At the end of the nine days there was little space beneath the deck
planks of the _Charming Lass_, but every night Pete would come up,
slapping his hands free of salt, and say, "Wal, boys, I guess we can
crowd another day's work into her," and the exhausted men would gather
themselves for another great effort as they rolled forward into their
bunks.

Every twenty-four hours they did crowd another day's work into her, so
that she carried nearly a hundred and fifty tons and the dripping
brine had to be pumped out of the hold.

It was the night of the day that opened this chapter.

The lanterns by which the men had dressed down had been lifted from
their supports, the cod livers dumped into the gurry-butt, and the
tables removed from the rails. The two men on the first watch were
sharpening the splitting knives on a tiny grindstone and walking
forward occasionally to see that the anchor and trawl buoy lights were
burning.

The still air resounded with the snores of the exhausted men forward
in the forecastle.

Silently out of the darkness a dory came toward the schooner, pulled
by the brawny arms of two men. In the stern of the oncoming boat sat a
solitary figure, who strained his eyes toward his destination.

The dory was within fifty yards of the _Lass_ before the men on deck
became aware of its approach. Then, fearing some evil work in
connection with the last desperate days of fishing, they rushed to the
bulwarks and challenged the newcomers. They did not see, a mile away,
a schooner without lights gently rising and falling on the oily sea.

"Who is that?" demanded one man, but he received no answer except "A
friend," and the boat continued its stealthy approach. It drew
alongside the ladder in the waist, and the man in the stern-sheets
rose. Kent of the _Lass's_ crew leaned over the side and threw the
light of his lantern upon the man.

"By God," he cried like one who has seen a ghost, "it's the skipper."




CHAPTER XXVII

THE REWARD OF EVIL


The _Nettie B._ was surging north, nearing Cape Breton. Nat Burns sat
moodily on the top of the house and watched the schooner take 'em
green over her bows.

Within the last day a fog with a wind behind it had drifted across the
lead-colored ocean; and now, although the fog was gone, the wind was
still howling and bringing with it a rising sea.

The equinoxes were not far off, and all skippers had a weather eye
out, and paid especial attention to the stoutness of lashings and
patched canvas.

Never had Burns been in a blacker mood, and never had he better
cause.

He was three days from St. Andrew's, and there he had become
acquainted with several facts.

The first was that no Canadian gunboat by the name of _Albatross_ had
called at said port and left any prisoner by the name of Code
Schofield--in fact, such gunboat had not called at all.

Investigation at the admiralty office proved to Nat that the real
_Albatross_ had reported from St. John's, Newfoundland, on the very
day he supposed he had met her. As the waters near St. Andrew's and
St. John's are several hundreds of miles apart, Nat was not long in
forming the opinion that he had been duped.

Fuming with rage, he began to investigate. Gradually he learned the
story (from sailors in wine-shops and general hearsay) of the
mysterious schooner that had twice saved Code Schofield from actual
capture, and had aided him on one or two other occasions.

One man said he had heard of a retired naval officer named Foraker,
who was supposed to be in command. As a matter of fact, there was a
Captain Foraker aboard the schooner who navigated her and instilled
the "run and jump" discipline that had so excited Code's admiration.
Outside of this vague fact, Nat's knowledge was scant.

He was ignorant of who owned the swift vessel. He would never have
connected Elsa Mallaby with her in ten years of hard thinking. All he
did know was that some unknown agency was suddenly at work in behalf
of the man he hated.

He notified the admiralty that a strange schooner had impersonated the
gunboat of H. I. M. George V, and gave a very accurate description of
her.

As this was a new offense for the vessel that had already interfered
with justice twice, the skippers of all the revenue cutters along the
coast bent their energies to capturing or sinking this semipiratical
craft, upon the receipt of radiograms to that effect.

Not only had Nat set the machinery of the law in motion against the
mystery schooner, but he had provided against any future dabbling with
his constabulary powers by the simple expedient of having with him an
officer of the law who was empowered to bring the accused murderer of
Michael Burns before the bar of justice without transfer.

When the supposed gunboat had removed the prisoner from his deck and
borne away (for a while) on the course to St. Andrew's, Nat, relieved
of responsibility, ran over to Grande Mignon and into the harbor of
Freekirk Head.

His purpose in this was twofold, and treacherous in both cases. First
he lost no time in spreading the details of how Code Schofield had
been captured in a drunken brawl at St. Pierre and was fighting the
jailers in St. Andrew's. Secondly, he had a long private interview
with Bill Boughton, in which he tried to get the storekeeper to sign a
contract for his (Burns's) fish at a certain price.

While the former was meanness of a hideous kind, this latter move was
one of treachery against the men of Freekirk Head. The worst part of
it was that Nat had about a hundred quintals of splendid-looking cod
(every pound he had caught) in his hold, and these he handed over to
Boughton as a sample of what was to come from him very shortly.

Boughton was hard up for fish, for none had come from the Banks, and
bought them at a big price. But as to the signing of the contract, he
demurred. When Nat could not explain why he had caught so few fish in
such a long time, the storekeeper became wary and refused to commit
himself. Finally he agreed to the price if Nat would deliver a
thousand quintals before any of the rest of the fleet arrived home.

Consequently it was up mainsail and sway 'em flat and a fast run north
for the _Nettie B._

During his day's stay in Freekirk Head he had received a great bag of
mail for the men of the fleet from their women-folk at home, and this
he had in his cabin, now all distributed and tied into bundles, one
for each schooner, so that they could be easily sorted and thrown
aboard as he met them.

Burns caught the fleet of a Thursday morning, just as they had dropped
anchors after making a night berth, and the dories were out sampling
the ground and the fish. It was just three days after Code had arrived
aboard the _Charming Lass_ again.

As Nat worked his way in and out among the vessels, throwing their
mail aboard attached to pieces of coal, he kept an eye out for the
_Rosan_. One very important piece of business that had brought him
North was a reconciliation with Nellie Tanner, and he meant, while his
men were out in the dories, to accomplish this first.

At last he sighted her near the very front line of the fleet. The
_Charming Lass_ he could not see, for Code had taken a different
direction from the _Rosan_, and was one of the score of sails
scattered around the horizon. But Nat was in no great hurry to get him
on the minute; if the mystery schooner were attended to, then it would
be merely a matter of time until the capture of Code.

He ranged up astern of the _Rosan_ with a cheery yell and let go his
anchor, ordering the dories over the side in the same breath. But his
aspirations received a chilling setback from none other than Bijonah
Tanner himself. The old man had been sleepless for a week, trying to
nose out the _Lass_ for the top haul of the fleet, and here was a
young scapegrace who came and cast anchor within a hundred yards of
his chosen ground.

Nat laughed carelessly at the storm of abuse that rattled over the
stern of the _Rosan_ and rowed over to her in his dory with the
package of mail.

"Forget it, papa," he said, easily insolent, as he climbed over the
rail in the teeth of a broadside. "We're not goin' to foul your rodin'
or steal your fish. I've just come to make a call and tell you the
news from home."

He handed Bijonah a couple of letters and a package containing those
of the men. Two others he kept in his hand.

For a few moments he chatted with the old man, telling him what had
happened in Freekirk Head. Then he asked for Nellie, whom he had not
seen. As he asked she came up out of the cabin, having just finished
breakfast.

She was dressed in white this morning; a white canvas blouse with a
broad blue collar and V-neck held to modest stricture by a flowing
blue tie, a white duck skirt and whitened shoes--a costume that set
off her pink cheeks and bright eyes.

Since the violent emotions of the fire at the Head, her courtship, and
her self-analyzation since her split with Nat, she had seemed to
become more of a woman.

Nat had not the slightest doubt but that Nellie by this time would
have recovered from her angry pet of their last interview. He was very
certain that their ruction had only been temporary.

Nellie was unfeignedly glad to see him.

He stretched out his arms to her impulsively, but she refused him, and
he laughed the rebuff off good-naturedly.

"Oh, did you bring any letters for me?" she cried eagerly.

He held out the two he had kept in his hand.

"Oh, goodness, Nat--only from mama and Lutie Bissell. You excited me
so!"

He spread a tarpaulin amid the clutter amidships and they sat down.

She excused herself and began to read her letters, first opening the
one from the girl friend, which, as such letters usually do, contained
nothing of importance. Then she opened the one from her mother. It was
long, and she settled back to the pleasure of deciphering it.

Nat smoked and whistled and looked out to sea, waiting for her to
finish. Therefore he did not observe the changes that passed across
her face. Near the middle of the letter the color rose to her forehead
in a hot wave, but at the end it had receded, leaving her pale.
Methodically she folded the letter and returned it to its envelope.

"Well, dearest," he said cheerfully, "all through? Now I want to talk
to you--" He reached for her hand, but she withdrew it beyond his
reach and looked at him with the steady brown eyes whose level gaze he
hated.

"Come on, now, Nellie," he said impatiently, stung by her relentlessness,
"you ain't goin' to be mad forever about that other time, are you? I was
out of temper an' said things--"

"Mother was up to Mallaby House for dinner a little while ago,"
interrupted Nellie, as though she had not heard him.

"Yes? That's good. Fine place, ain't it? As I was sayin', I forgot
myself--"

"They talked about us, too; mother says that's nearly all they talked
about."

"Must've been short of conversation. An' I want to say, Nellie, that
I'll try never to speak like that to you again. I--"

"Mother says she learned things about you that she never had
imagined before," persisted Nellie, with quiet insistence. But
again Nat did not seem to have heard her. With an awkward motion he
drew from his pocket the little glazed paper box that contained the
engagement-ring.

"Please," he said, "I want you to take this again." He was in
earnest.

"It's strange Elsa Mallaby should be able to tell mother things about
you."

Nat lost his patience. He had tried his best to make peace, and the
girl was only baiting him for her own amusement.

"What the deuce is all this about that Mallaby woman?" he asked. "I
should think you'd listen to me, Nellie."

"If you will listen to me first, then I'll listen to you as long as
you like."

"I agree," he said, thrusting the ring-box back into his pocket, "only
make it short, will you, little girl?"

"Yes, I will," she promised, without smiling. "I merely said that
mother and Mrs. Mallaby had discussed you and me, and our marriage,
and that Mrs. Mallaby had said some things about you."

"Well, lots of people do that," he smiled.

"Yes--but they haven't said just this thing, Nat."

"What was that?"

"I'm going to let you think. Just suppose that Mrs. Mallaby hated you
very much and wanted to do you harm. What would she tell my mother?"

The girl, pale and on the verge of an hysterical outburst, watched his
face out of her mask of self-control.

The blood beneath his tan receded and was replaced by a sickly
greenish hue. That flash had brought its memory--a memory that had
lain buried beneath the events of his later life. Did she know? How
could she know?

To the girl watching him there was confirmation enough. She was
suddenly filled with inexpressible distaste for this man who had in
days past smothered her with caresses and dinned into her ears
speeches concerning a passion that he called love.

"I see it is all true," she said quietly. "This is all I have to say.
Now I will listen to what you were going to tell me a few minutes
ago--that is, if you still wish to say it."

Nat read his doom in those few calm words. The things that had been in
his mind to say rose and choked his throat; the thought of the ring in
his pocket seemed like profanation. He gulped twice and tried to
speak, but the words clotted on his tongue.

Still she sat quietly looking at him, politely ready to listen.

With a horrible croaking sound he got to his feet, looked irresolutely
at her for a moment, and then went to the side where his dory lay. She
next saw him rowing dazedly to the _Nettle B._, and then she turned
her face from the sight of him.

And suddenly into her mind, long prepared, came the thought of Code
Schofield. Amid the chaos of her shattered ideals his face and figure
rose more desirable than all the earth.

"Oh, Heaven, give him to me--some time!" she breathed in a voice of
humble prayer.

Nat Burns went back to his schooner, squarely defeated for the first
time in his life. Humbled, and cringing like a whipped dog, he made
his dory fast to the _Nettie's_ rail and slunk aft to the solitude of
his cabin. He was glad that even the cook was looking the other way.

"She has flouted me, and the whole of Grande Mignon will know it," he
said to himself. "Then they will want to know why, but that is easy
enough to lie about. Hang that Mallaby woman! Who would ever think
she'd squeal? Yes, and Schofield, the smug crook! They're the two that
are doin' the damage to me."

Nat's lifelong knowledge of Code's and Nellie's affection returned to
him now with a more poignant pang of memory than he had ever
experienced. With the hopeless egotism of a totally selfish nature, he
laid his calamity in love to activity on Code's part. He was pretty
well aware of Elsa's extravagant favoritism of Code, and he
immediately figured that Code had enlisted Elsa on his side to the
ruin of Nat.

"So I've got to beat 'em all now, have I?" he asked grimly, his jaw
setting with an ugly click. "Schofield and Mallaby, and--yes--while
I'm about it, Tanner, too. The old man never liked me, the girl hates
me, and I wouldn't mind giving 'em a dig along with the rest. Just to
show 'em that I'm not so easy an' peaceful as I look! But how?"

For a considerable space of time he sat there, his head low on his
breast, and his eyes half closed as his brain went over scheme after
scheme. The detective that Nat had brought from St. Andrew's stuck his
head down the cabin and remarked:

"Look here, captain, I want to arrest my man and get back. Why don't
you hunt up that ship and let me finish?"

"I've got something a lot better on hand, Durkee," remarked Nat with a
grin, rising from his chair, a plan having leaped full blown into his
mind. "Just stick along with me and you'll get your man, all right."

He went outside and called the men in with a revolver-shot and a trawl
tub run to the masthead. It was about noon when they came in, and,
after eating, three o'clock passed before they had finished dressing
down.

"Any of you boys run across a dory from the _Night Hawk?_" asked Nat
as the men came inboard with their shower of fish.

"Yes," said a youth, "I f'und one of 'em an' he told me the _Hawk's_
luck was Jonahed this trip."

"Where's the packet lyin'?"

"About twelve mile sou'east near the edge of the Bank."

Nat went to the wheel himself.

"Up jib an' fores'l," he sung out, "and sway 'em flat! Mains'l and
tops'ls after that! Raymond, overhaul the balloon, stays'l, and
trys'l! Mebbe we'll drive her a little afore we're through."

Burns found the _Night Hawk_ in a patch of sea by herself, more or
less deserted by the other schooners because of the Jonah report that
had gone abroad concerning her. Her dories were just coming in from
the day's work partially loaded with fish.

"Hello!" bawled Nat. "Is Billy Stetson aboard?" Billy was the
skipper.

"Yas; d'ye want to see him?"

"Yes, send him along over. It's mighty important, but I ain't goin'
aboard no Jonah boat. Tell him he'll be glad he came."

Presently Stetson came and the two retired into the cabin of the
_Nettie B._




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE RACE


It was dawn of a heavy, dark day. There was a mighty sea rolling and a
forty-mile wind off the Cape shore that promised a three-day ruction.
The _Charming Lass_ at her anchor reared and plunged like a nervous
horse.

Weighty with fish, she struggled heroically up the great walls of
water, only to plump her sharp bows into the hollow with a force that
half buried her. Between times she wriggled and capered like a dancing
elephant and jerked at her cable until it seemed as though she would
take her windlass out.

In the midst of all this Code Schofield struggled aft and began
hauling forth the mains'l that at the first edge of the Bank had been
relegated in favor of the triangular riding sail.

Pete Ellinwood saw him, and in a great voice bawled down the hatchway
to the fo'c's'le.

"Salt's wet, boys; the skipper's haulin' out the mains'l!" At which
there broke forth the most extravagant sounds of jubilation and all
hands tumbled up to help bend it on.

The crew of the _Lass_ did not know it, but Bijonah Tanner and the
_Rosan_ had actually been gone twelve hours, having stolen away from
the fleet before dressing down the night before when darkness had
fallen. And so successfully had Jed Martin stolen Bijonah's thunder
that he had left but three hours later--when the fish had been
dressed.

Schofield was honest with himself, and he waited until morning to see
if the great stacks of fish would not settle enough to allow of
another day's work to be crowded in. But when he saw that space above
the fish was very small he waited no longer.

Four men heaved on the windlass brakes, and the others got sail on her
as fast as they could haul halyards. She started under jib, jumbo,
fore and mains'l, with the wind a little on her port quarter and every
fiber of her yearning to go.

When the sails were apparently flat as boards Schofield made Ellinwood
rig pulleys leading to the middle of the halyards so that the men
could sway on them. She was fit as a racing yacht; her load was
perfectly distributed and she trimmed to a hairbreadth.

An hour later they snored down upon the _Night Hawk_, the last vessel
at the edge of the fleet.

"Better hurry!" megaphoned Stetson, tickled with himself. "Burns
cleared six hours ago for Freekirk Head with a thousand quintal. He's
got Boughton sewed up to buy 'em, too."

"Bring her to!" snarled Code, and the _Lass_, groaning and complaining
at the brutality, whirled up into the wind enough to take her sticks
out. "Burns's going home, you say? And with fish? Where'd he get
'em?"

"From me. I sold him my whole load at a better price than I would have
got if I had waited to fill the _Hawk's_ belly and then gone home.
Gave me cash and threw in a lot of bait, so I'll stay right out here
and get another load. Petty good for a Jonah--what? Ha, ha!" The man
roared exasperatingly.

"Damnation!" rapped out Schofield. "Lively now! Tops'ls on her, and
two of you stay aloft to shift tacks if we should need to come
about."

"Hey, you!" bawled Stetson as the _Lass_ began to heel to the great
sweep of the wind. "There's two ahead of him, Bijonah Tanner an' Jed
Martin! Better hurry if you're going to catch the market!"

"Hurry, is it?" growled Code to himself. "I'll hurry so some people
won't know who it is."

It was the first time that Code had had occasion to drive the _Lass_,
for the Mignon fishermen heretofore had confined their labor to the
shoals near home or, at farthest, on the Nova Scotia coast. The
present occasion was different.

Between where he lay and the friendly sight of Swallowtail Light was
more than eight hundred and fifty miles of wallowing, tumbling ocean.
Treacherous shoals underran it, biting rocks pierced up in saw-toothed
reefs, the bitterest gales of all the seas swept in leaden wastes.

It was a cutthroat business, this mighty pull for the market; but upon
it not only depended the practical consideration of the highest market
prices, but the honor and glory of owning the fastest schooner out of
Freekirk Head. The task of the _Charming Lass_ was delightful in its
simplicity, but fearful in its arduousness.

Jimmie Thomas came aft and stood by the wheel on the port side. It
took two men to handle her now, for the vast, dead weight in her hold
flung her forward and sidewise, despite the muscular clutch on the
wheel, and when she rolled down she came up sluggishly.

"Isn't she a dog, though, Code?" exclaimed Jimmie in admiration. "Look
at that now! Rose to it like a duck. See her now jest a-playin' with
them waves! Jest a-playin'! Oh, she's a dog, skipper--a dog, I tell
ye! Drive her! She loves it!"

"I'll drive her, Jimmie; don't you worry. Before I get through some
fellers I know'll wish they'd never heard of driving." He motioned
Pete Ellinwood aft with a free hand.

"Tell the boys," said Code, "that what sleepin' they do between here
and home will be on their feet, for I want all hands ready to jump to
orders. They can mug-up day and night, but let nobody get his boots
off."

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied Pete involuntarily. This bright-eyed,
firm-mouthed skipper was a different being from the cheerful, careless
boy he had been familiar with for years. There was the ring of
confidence and command in his voice that inspired respect. "Look out
there! Jump for it!"

The head of the _Lass_ went down with a sickening swoop and the sound
of thunder. A great, gray-and-white wall boiled and raced over her
bows. Ellinwood leaped for the weather-rigging and the other two
clutched the wheel as they stood waist-deep in the surge that roared
over the taffrail and to leeward.

"Pass the life-lines, Pete," ordered Code, and all hands passed stout
ropes from rigging to house to rail, forward and astern, so that there
might be something to leap for when the _Lass_ was boarded by a
Niagara.

Ellinwood got out two stout lines and made one fast around Code's
waist, leading it to the starboard bitt. The other fastened Jimmie to
the port bitt, so that if they were washed overboard they might be
hauled back to safety and life again.

"Looks like she was blowin' up a little!" remarked Pete later in the
day as the _Lass_ rolled down to her sheerpoles in a sudden rain
squall. "Better take in them tops'ls, hadn't ye, skipper?"

"Take in nothing!" snapped Code across the cabin table. "Any canvas
that comes off this vessel between here and Freekirk Head blows off,
unless we have passed all those schooners ahead of us. Haven't raised
any of 'em, have you?"

"Not yet, skipper; but we ought to by night," said Ellinwood as though
he felt he was personally to blame. "But let me tell you somethin',
skipper. It's all right to carry sail, but if you get your sticks
ripped out you won't be able to get anywhere at all."

"If my sticks go, let 'em go, I'll take my medicine; but I'll tell you
this much, Pete, that nobody is going to beat me home while I've got a
stick to carry canvas, unless they have a better packet than the
_Charming Lass_--which I know well they haven't."

"That's the spirit, skipper!" yelled Ellinwood, secretly pleased.

There is no telling exactly what speed certain fishing schooners have
made on their great drives from the Banks. Some men go so far as to
claim that the old China tea clippers have lost their laurels both for
daily runs and for passages up to four thousand miles.

One ambitious man hazards his opinion (and he is one who ought to
know) that a fishing schooner has done her eighteen knots or upward
for numerous individual hours, for fishermen, even on record passages,
fail to haul the log sometimes for half a day at a time.

Schofield, however, took occasion to have the log hauled for one
especially squally mile, and the figures showed that the _Lass_ had
covered fifteen knots in the hour--seventeen and a half land miles.

She was booming along now, seeming to leap from one great crest to the
next like a giant projectile driven by some irresistible force. She
was canted at such an angle that her lee rail was invisible under the
boiling white, and her deck planks seemed a part of the sea.

The course was almost exactly southwest, and that first day the _Lass_
roared down the Atlantic, passing the wide mouth of Cabot Strait that
leads between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia into the Gulf of St.
Lawrence. They passed one of the Quebec and Montreal liners, and took
pleasure shooting the schooner under her flaring bows.

The next morning at seven, twenty-four hours out, found them three
hundred and fifty miles on their course, but what was better than all,
showed three sails ahead. Then did the crew of the _Charming Lass_
rejoice, climbing into the spray-lashed rigging, and yelling wildly
against the tumult of the waters.

Nor did the wind subside. It had gone to forty-five miles an hour over
night, and in landlocked harbors the skippers of big steel passenger
vessels shook their heads and refused to venture out into the gale.

As well as could be judged, the _Nettie B._, _Rosan_, and _Herring
Bone_ were nearly on even terms twenty miles ahead, all with every
stitch set and flying like leaves before a wind.

"Bend on balloon jib!" snapped Schofield when he had considered the
task before him. Pete ran joyfully to execute the order, but some of
the men hesitated.

"Up with her!" roared Pete, and up she went, a great concave hollow of
white like the half of a pear. The _Lass's_ head went down, and now,
instead of attempting to go over the waves, she went through them
without argument.

Tons of divided water crashed down upon her decks and roared off over
the rails, the men at the wheel were never less than knee-deep. The
sheets strained, the timbers creaked, and the sails roared, and back
of all were the wind and the North Atlantic in hot pursuit.

By noon it could be seen that the three vessels ahead were commencing
to come back, but with terrible slowness. Code, lashed in the
weather-rigging, studied them for more than an hour through his
glasses. Then he leaped to the deck.

"Hell's bells! No wonder we can't catch 'em! Burns has got stays'l
set, and I think Tanner has, too. Couldn't see Martin. Set stays'l,
all hands!"

Under the driving of Ellinwood the staysail was set, and from then on
the _Charming Lass_ sailed on her side.

At every roll her sheerpoles were buried, and it seemed an open
question whether she would ever come up or not. It was at this time
that Tip O'Neill, a daring young buck of Freekirk Head, performed the
highly dangerous feat of walking from her main to her forerigging
along the weather run, which fact shows there was foothold on her
uppermost side for a man crazy enough to desire it.

That Ellinwood and the daring Jimmie Thomas were thoroughly in accord
with Schofield's preposterous sail-carrying was a foregone conclusion.
But others of the crew were not of the same mind. An hour more here or
there seemed a small matter to them as compared to the chance of
drowning and leaving a family unprotected and unprovided for.

Schofield sensed this feeling immediately it had manifested itself,
and he called his lieutenants to him. He wished to provide against
interference.

"House the halyards aloft!" he commanded, and at this even those
two daring souls stood aghast, for it meant that whatever the
emergency no sail could be taken off the _Charming Lass_. With the
end of the halyards aloft no man could reach them in time to avert a
catastrophe.

"You're sure drivin' her, skipper!" roared Pete in amazed admiration.
"Up them halyards go. Oh, Lord, but she's a dog, an' she'll stand
it."

So up the halyards went, and with them went a warning that whoever
jumped to loosen them would get a gaff-hook in his breeches and be
hauled down ignominiously.

This time when the log was hauled for the hour from three to four in
the afternoon it showed a total of seventeen knots, or a fraction
under twenty miles for the hour. And best of all, the three flying
schooners had come back five miles. By ten o'clock that night Code
judged they had come back five more, and knew that the next day would
bring the test.

They were not in over-deep water here, for the coast of Nova Scotia is
extended for miles out under the sea in excellent fishing shoals and
banks.

At Artimon Bank they switched their course to westward so as to pass
inside of Sable Island and round Cape Sable in the shoalest water
possible. Down across Western they roared, and almost to Le Have
before midnight came.

Now it is one thing to sail like the Flying Dutchman with the sun up
and one's eyes to use, but it is another to career through the night
without taking in a stitch of canvas, trusting to luck and the
Providence that watches over fishermen that the compass is good and
that no blundering coasters will get in the way.

When dawn broke wild and dirty, the _Charming Lass_ was reeling
through the water less than a quarter of a mile astern of the _Rosan_
and the _Herring Bone_. Through the murk Code could see the _Nettie
B._ three miles ahead.

An hour and she had drawn abreast of her two rivals; another hour and
she had left them astern. Day had fully broken now, and Code, grinning
over his shoulder at the defeated schooners, gave a cry of surprise.
For no longer were there two only. Another, plunging through the mist,
had come into view; far back she was, but carrying a spread of canvas
that gave indications enough of her speed.

But Code spent little time looking back. He gripped the wheel, set his
teeth, and urged the _Lass_ forward after the _Nettie_ with every
faculty of his power. After that terrible night the crew had lost
their fear and worked with enthusiasm.

Some hands were always at the pumps, when they could be worked, for
besides the brine from the fish gathering below, Code feared the
vessel had spewed some oakum and was taking a little water forward.
Now, too, the horrible stench of riled bilge-water floated over
all--compared to which an aged egg is a bouquet of roses.

At eight o'clock that morning they rounded Cape Sable at the tip of
Nova Scotia, and laid a course a trifle west of north for the final
beat home. There was a hundred miles to go, and Burns still held his
three-mile lead.

By herself and loaded only with ballast, the _Nettie_ was a better
sailor in a beating game, for she was older and heavier than the
_Charming Lass_. But now she had but a thousand quintal of fish
compared to the sixteen hundred of her rival. This difference gave the
_Lass_ much needed stability without which she could never have hoped
to win from the Burns schooner.

The two were, therefore, about equally matched, and it was evident
that the contest would resolve itself into one of sail-carrying,
seamanship, and nerve.

"That other feller's comin' up fast!" said Pete Ellinwood, and Code
looked back to see the strange schooner looming larger and larger in
his wake. He knew that no vessel in the Grande Mignon fleet could ever
have caught the _Lass_ the way he had been driving her, and yet she
was not near enough for him to get a good view of her.

"If she's a fisherman," said Code, "I'll pull the _Lass_ out of water
before she beats us in."

It was killing work, the last beat home.

"Hard a-lee!" would come the command, and some men would go down into
the smother of the lee rail and haul in or slack away sheets, while
others at the mastheads would shift top- and staysail tacks.

Her head would swing, there would be a minute of thrashing and roaring
of gear, and the gale would leap into her sails and bend her down on
her side again. Then away she would go.

The station of those on deck was a good two-handed grip on the
ringbolts under the weather-rail, where, so great was the slope of the
deck, they clung desperately for fear of sliding down and into the
swirling torrent.

Hour after hour the _Nettie_ and the _Lass_ fought it out, and hour
after hour the gale increased. Hurricane warnings had been issued all
along the coast, and not a vessel ventured out, but these stanch
fishing vessels cared not a whit.

It was evident, however, that something must give. Human ingenuity had
not constructed a vessel that could stand such driving. Even Pete
Ellinwood began to lose his heartiness as the _Lass_ went down and
stayed down longer with each vicious squall.

"Shut up, Pete!" said Code, when the mate started to speak. "No sail
comes off but what blows off, and while there's all sail on the
_Nettie_ I carry all sail if I heave her down for it. Watch him,
he'll break. Burns is yellow."

The words were a prophecy. He had hardly uttered them when down came
the great balloon jib of the _Nettie B._ At once the _Lass_ began to
gain in great leaps and bounds. They were fifty miles from home and
two miles only separated them.

But fortune had not finished with Code. Half an hour later there came
a great sound of tearing like the volley of small arms, and the
_Lass's_ balloon jib ripped loose and soared to heaven like some
gigantic wounded bird.

"Let it go, curse it," growled Code. "Anyway, I didn't take it down."

The loss of her big jib was the only thing that saved the _Lass_ from
being hove down completely, for two hours later the gale had reached
its height, and she was laboring like a drunken man under her
staysail, topsail, and four lowers.

Twenty miles from home and the two schooners were abreast, tacking
together on the long leeward reaches and the short windward ones, as
they made across the Bay of Fundy.

"Look at her comin' like a racehorse!" cried Ellinwood again, and this
time Code recognized the vessel that was pursuing them. It was the
mystery schooner, and in all his life at sea Code had never seen a
ship fly as that one was flying then.

"Wonder what she's up to now?" he asked vaguely. But he gave no
further thought to the matter, for the _Nettie B._ claimed all his
attention. Suddenly from between the masts of the Burns schooner a
great flutter of white appeared as though some one had hung a huge
sheet from her stay.

"Ha, I told you he was yellow!" shouted Code in glee. "Somebody's cut
away one edge of the stays'l. Now we've got 'em!"

And they had; for within a quarter of an hour they left the _Nettie
B._ astern, finally defeated, Nat Burns's last act of treachery gone
for nothing.

But the mystery schooner would not be denied. Though the _Lass_ made
her seventeen knots, the wonderful Mallaby schooner did her twenty,
with everything spread in that gale; and when the white lighthouse of
Swallowtail Point was in plain sight through the murk, she swept by
like a magnificent racer and beat the _Charming Lass_ to moorings by
twenty minutes.

Half an hour behind Schofield came the Burns boat, but in that time
Code Schofield had already hurried ashore in his dory and clinched his
sale price with Bill Boughton, who also assured him of the bonus
offered for the first vessel in.

Like Code, the first thing Nat did, when his schooner had come up into
the wind with jib and foresail on the run, was to take a dory ashore.
In it, besides himself, was a man. These two encountered Code just as
he came out of Boughton's store.

The second, who was tall and broad-shouldered, threw back his coat and
displayed a government shield. Then he laid his hand on Code's arm.

"Captain Schofield," he said, "you are under arrest!"




CHAPTER XXIX

A FATAL LETTER


For the last of many days the light-housekeeper had watched from his
aerie for the coming of the fleet--and had not been disappointed.

His horse and buggy stood by the tower doorstep, and into it he
leaped, whipping up the horse with the same motion. Then down the road
he had flown like Paul Revere rousing the villagers, and followed by
an excited, half-hysterical procession of women and children.

So thick had been the murk and scud that he had only caught sight of
the approaching leader while she was a bare two miles off the point,
and even when Nat had landed the crowd was momentarily being augmented
from all the houses along the King's Road and as far south as
Castalia.

When the officer of the law laid his hand on Code's arm and spoke the
words that meant imprisonment and disgrace in the very heart of the
village festival, a groan went up that caused the officer to look
sharply about him.

Despite the work Nat had done on his brief stop at the Head, Code was
the hero of the day, for he had come in with the first cargo of fish
and had won the distinction of being the first to effect the salvation
of the island.

"Oh, let him go!" said a voice. "He ain't goin' to run away!" Nat,
standing behind his captive, turned sharply upon the offender.

"No, you bet he ain't!" he snapped. "He's been doin' that too long
already. He's got somethin' to answer for this time."

Into the harbor at that moment swept the Tanners' _Rosan_, and abreast
of her the steamer from St. John's. Five minutes behind came Jed
Martin's _Herring Bone_, and the first of the fleet was safely in.

As the discontented and muttering mob followed Code toward the little
jail back of the Odd Fellows' Hall, none noticed that the lovely
schooner that had led the procession in was stealing quietly out again
into the thick of the gale.

And those who did notice it thought nothing of it in the excitement of
the moment, probably judging her to be some coaster who had run in to
look for a leak. She had been tied up just ten minutes at the Mallaby
wharf.

As the sorry procession passed the Schofield cottage, Code's mother
ran out sobbing and threw herself upon him. She had not seen her son
before (although orphan Josie had told her the _Lass_ was in), for
Code had been closeted with Boughton, and now her first glimpse of him
was as an accused criminal.

But, regardless of watching eyes and public opinion, she walked all
the way to the jail with him and went inside; and the two were
absolutely oblivious to their surroundings, so overjoyed were they to
see each other and so intimate was their companionship.

Along the edge of the crowd great Pete Ellinwood slouched, looking
with dimmed eyes at mother and son.

"Ain't she the mother, though?" he said to himself. "Just like a girl
she is--not a day past thirty by her looks!"

The jailer, who was regularly employed as janitor of the Free Baptist
Church, opened the little house for his unexpected guest. It consisted
of a room, fitted for sleeping, and a cell. These were not connected,
but were side by side, facing the passage that ran through from front
to back of the building.

Code was taken to the cell, and only his mother and Pete stayed with
him to talk over the situation. It was determined to have Squire Hardy
come over in the evening (it was now five o'clock) and give his
opinion on the legal situation.

Ma Schofield went home and prepared her boy's supper herself, and
brought it with her own hands for him to eat. Code was in the best of
spirits at his success of the afternoon, and had no fear whatever as
to the outcome of his present situation.

Pete had gone away for an hour, and Ma Schofield had taken the dishes
back home, when the detective came in, saying that a little girl who
called herself Josie had come with a message.

Code asked to see her, and the great-eyed, dark little thing wept
bitterly over him, for to her fourteen years he represented all the
heroes of romance. Even as she passed him the message she knew that
she could never love again and that she would shortly die of a broken
heart.

Code kissed her, promptly forgot her presence, and opened the note.

It was from Elsa.

"Will be down to see you to-night at eight. Have sent a note to Nat in
your name, telling him to be there, too. I think we have him on the
hip, so be sure and have the squire and the officer present."

Code wondered vaguely how they had Nat on the hip, as he had been
unable to find a single iota of proof to push home the case he and
Elsa had built up against him.

The note brought him stark awake and eager for the conference. He had
begun to drowse after a good home dinner and sixty hours without
sleep, but this acted like an electric shock. He was keen and alert,
for he knew that this was the night of his destiny. Either he should
triumph as he had in the grueling race, or he should have to face the
ignominy of transfer and legal proceedings at St. Andrew's.

At half-past seven Squire Hardy, his round, red face fringed by snowy
whiskers, came in. He dragged a chair into the passageway in front of
the bar and was beginning a long and laborious law opinion when the
detective, who had been to Mis' Shannon's boarding-house for dinner,
returned.

The two began to fight the matter out between them when, at a quarter
to eight, Nat came in, dressed in his best clothes and smoking a land
cigar.

"Well, what do you want of me, Schofield?" he asked. "You sent for me,
but you needn't try to beg off. I won't listen to it. Now, go ahead."

On the instant a feminine voice was heard outside, and a moment later
Elsa Mallaby stepped into the little four-foot passage.

"Oh, how many there are here!" she said in a surprised voice.
"Perhaps, Code, I had better wait until later."

"Hey, Roscoe!" sung out Code, hardly able to control his desire to
grin. "Bring Mrs. Mallaby a chair." Roscoe obeyed and added two more,
so that all were placed within a small compass just outside Code's
cell.

From Elsa Mallaby's first entrance Nat had observed her with a certain
flicker of fear and hatred in his eyes. She, on the other hand,
greeted him with the same formal cordiality she had used toward the
others. Though utterly incongruous in such surroundings, she seemed
absolutely at her ease and instantly assumed command of the
situation.

"Excuse me," said Nat, who had not sat down and shifted from one foot
to the other, "but Schofield sent for me, an' I would like to find out
what he wants. I've got to go along."

"Schofield didn't send for you--I sent for you. There are several
things about this imprisonment of Code that don't look right to me,
and we may as well settle the whole business once and for all while we
are here together. Now, Mr. Durkee," she said, turning to the
detective, "would you mind telling me what the charge is against
Captain Schofield?"

"To tell you the truth, ma'am," said he respectfully, "there are two
charges out against him. One, by the insurance company, sues for
recovery of money paid on the schooner _May Schofield_, and charges
that the said schooner was sunk intentionally, first because Schofield
wanted a newer boat, and second because the policy of the _May_ was to
expire in a few days and could not have been renewed except at a much
advanced rate."

"And the other charge?"

"Is for murder in the first degree, growing out of the intentional
sinking of the schooner. Captain Burns is the complainant."

"Thank you." She flashed one of her radiant smiles at him and made him
a friend for life.

"That was a great race to-day," she remarked irrelevantly, but with
enthusiasm. "How much did you beat the _Nettie B._, Code?"

"A half an hour," he replied, mystified at the turn of the conversation.

"Well, that _is_ a coincidence." She looked from one to the other.
"It's exactly the same amount of time he beat you seven months ago
when he raced the old _May_ against the _M. C. Burns_, isn't it?" Her
glance shot to Nat.

"Why, I believe it is, Mrs. Mallaby," he stammered. The quick
transition to that painful and dangerous period had caught him off his
guard.

"That was a great race, too," she said cheerfully, "and it's too bad
you never sailed the second one. Especially after you wanted to bet so
much. You thought you would win the second race, didn't you, Nat?" She
was sweetness itself.

"Why, yes, I thought so," he admitted guardedly. "But I don't see what
all this has got to do--"

"Well, it hasn't very much," she said deprecatingly, "but I was just
interested. What made you so sure you would win that second race that
you tried to bet?"

"Oh, I don't know," he answered easily. "I just had confidence--"

"In what, Nat Burns? Your schooner had easily been beaten the first
time and she was notoriously slower than the _May_. Every one in the
island knows that you can't sail a vessel like Code Schofield can, and
that you are afraid to carry sail. To-day proved it. Anybody with half
an eye could see that that stays'l was cut with a knife and didn't
blow off. All these things being so, what made you so sure that you
would win that second race seven months ago?"

Nat looked at her steadily. His nervousness had gone, apparently, and
he was his old crafty self once more.

"That is none of your business, Mrs. Mallaby," he said insolently.
"And now if you'll let me pass I'll keep an engagement."

"Mr. Durkee," she said, "please keep Mr. Burns here until we have
entirely finished."

"Yes, ma'am, I will," said the hypnotized man, and Nat, after a glare
around upon the unsympathetic audience slumped down into a chair and
smoked sullenly.

"Steady as she goes my friend," broke in Squire Hardy, looking at Nat.
"Answer the lady's question. What made you think you would win?"

"I refuse to answer."

"He really doesn't need to answer," said Elsa. "I will answer for him.
Code kindly let me have the log of the _M. C. Burns_."

Schofield drew the old book from his pocket and handed it through the
bars. Then Elsa, opening it to the last pages, read aloud the few
entries that Code had discovered that day when he was a prisoner
aboard the _Nettie B._ As she read the silence was intense, but all
eyes were upon Nat, who, startled at the sudden appearance of this
document he had so long forgotten, chewed savagely upon his dead
cigar. His face had grown pale and his rough hands were clasped
tightly together.

"You see," said Elsa, when she had finished, "that Burns had
determined upon the winning of his next race. It is perfectly clear,
is it not?"

The breathless circle nodded.

It was a strange setting for the working out of the drama. Overhead a
suspended oil-lamp flamed and smelled. Outside the crash of surf
against the rocks came to them, and the wind whistled about the eaves
of the little stone building.

"Now the mirror," she said to Code, and, still wondering, he handed
the trinket to her. "Tell about this," she directed him with a smile
and a long look from her deep dark eyes.

And Code told them. He told of the time his father first gave it to
him, of his experiments in astronomy, and of Nat's coveting the
mirror. He told of that night after the first race when he had looked
for the log-book of the _May_ and had seen the mirror in its drawer.
He told of its final discovery in the secret box of the storeroom on
the _Nettie_.

As he talked the memory of the wrongs against him flamed in his
breast, and he directed his story at Nat, who sat silent and immovable
in the corner.

"If I found this aboard the _Nettie_ it proves that he must have come
and got it!" he cried. "He boarded the old _May_, but it was not for
this that he came!"

"What, then?" asked Hardy.

"To damage the schooner so that she would break down under the strain
of the next race," flared Code, facing Nat dramatically. Burns only
clenched his jaws tighter on his cigar.

"You don't believe this, perhaps, squire, but listen and I'll tell you
how the old _May_ sank." And once again he described the crashing
calamity aboard the overloaded boat as she struggled home to Freekirk
Head with the last of her strength.

"You, squire, you've sailed your boats in your time! You know that
never could have happened even to the old _May_ unless something had
been done. And something _was_ done! Burns had weakened the topm'st
and the mainstay!"

All eyes were fixed on Nat, but he did not move. He was very pale now,
but apparently self-possessed. Suddenly, with a hand that appeared
firm, he removed the cigar from his mouth and cast it on the floor.

"That," he said with deadly coolness, "is a blasted fine plot that you
have all worked out together. But every word of it is a lie, for the
whole thing is without a single foundation in fact. Prove it!"

"I'll give you a last chance, Burns," said Elsa in a level voice that
contained all the concentrated hatred that Code had detected in her
before. "Dismiss these charges against Code."

"Never!" The word was catapulted from him as though by a muscular
convulsion. "He murdered my father, and he shall pay for it!"

Without a word Elsa rose from her chair and walked back into the
adjoining room. A moment later she reappeared, leading a beautiful
girl who was perhaps twenty years old.

The effect was electric. The people in the little group seemed frozen
into the attitudes they had last assumed.

Only in Nat Burns was there a change.

He seemed to have shrunk back into his clothes until he was but a
little, wizened man. His face was ghastly and clammy perspiration
glittered on his forehead in the lamplight.

"Caroline!" he cried in a hoarse voice that did not rise above a
whisper.

"Yes, Caroline," said Elsa, her black eyes flashing fire. "You had
forgotten her, hadn't you? You had forgotten the girl who loved you,
that you drove away from the island! You had forgotten the girl that
gave you everything and got nothing! But that has come back upon you
now, and these people are here to see it. Even your father, in his
log-book, mentioned when my sister left Grande Mignon, apparently to
work in the factory at Lubec. As though my sister should ever work in
a factory!"

"So this explains why she went that time," said Squire Hardy gently.
"We all wondered at it, Elsa--we all wondered at it."

"And well you might. But he is the cause! And he wouldn't marry her! I
have waited for this chance of revenge, and now he shall pay."

Caroline Fuller, who was even more beautiful than her sister, looked
at Nat in a kind of daze. Suddenly there was a spasmodic working of
her features.

"Oh, that I could ever have loved him!" she said in a faint voice.
"Here, Elsa, read it to them all!"

From under her cloak she drew a crumpled envelope which she passed to
her sister.

With a snarl like that of a wild animal Nat leaped from his chair
toward the girl, but Durkee struck him violently and he reeled back
into it.

"You swore you burned them all!" muttered Nat. "You swore it! You
swore it!"

"Yes, and she did, the innocent child--all but this one that she had
mislaid in a book you once sent her," cried Elsa. "But I found it,
Burns. Where do you think I've been all this while? At St. John's,
where she lives with my aunt. And do you think there was no reason for
that letter being saved? God takes care of things like this, and now
you've got to pay, Nat Burns! I knew there would come a time. I knew
there would!"

She was still standing, and she drew the letter out of the envelope.

"Look, squire, Code, any of you who know. Is this Nat's writing?"

"Yes," they all declared as the letter passed from hand to hand.

"Read it," said the squire, forcing Caroline Fuller to sit down in his
chair.

"I'll spare him hearing the first of it," said Elsa. "It is what men
write to women they love or feign to love, and it belongs to my
sister. But here"--she turned the first sheet inside out--"listen to
this."

Involuntarily they all leaned forward, all except Durkee, who went
over and stood beside Nat. The latter gave no sign except a dry
rattling sound in his throat as he swallowed involuntarily.

"I've got him, Caroline--I've got him!" she read. "He'll beat me
again, will he? Well, not if I know it! Everybody in the Head seems
tickled to death that he won, but you know how little that means to
me. It is simply another reason why I should beat him the next time.

"Dearest little girl, it's the easiest thing in the world. I've just
come back from going over the _May_ (it's midnight), and the thing
looks good. You know Schofield is a great hand to carry sail. Well,
when you hear about the race, maybe you'll hear that his foretopmast
came down in a squall. If you don't, I'll be much surprised, for I've
attended to it myself, and I don't think it will take much of a
squall.

"Maybe you'll hear, too, that his mainstay snapped and his sticks went
into the water all because he carried too much sail. I shouldn't be
surprised. I've attended to that, too. So I guess with his foretopmast
cracked off and his mainstay snapped the old _M. C._ ought to romp
home an easy victor, if she is an old ice-wagon. I tried to get
Schofield to bet, but he's so tight with his cash he wouldn't shake
down a five-cent piece. Good thing for him, though, he doesn't know
it. Nothing would do me more good than to get his roll, the virtuous
old deacon!"

She stopped reading as a rumble of mirth went round the circle. Code
in the rôle of a virtuous deacon was a novelty. Even the hard lines of
Elsa's face relaxed and she smiled, albeit a trifle grimly.

"That's all," she said, folding up the letter and putting it back into
the envelope. "The rest is personal and not ours. Now, Mr. Durkee, if
you still care to consider Captain Schofield as the defendant in those
two suits I want your arguments."

"I don't, Mrs. Mallaby," said the detective, and called the Freekirk
Head jailer. "But I know who is going to take Schofield's place."

He glared at Nat Burns, who cowered silent and miserable in his
corner. Despite his sailing as Nat's guest he had never brought
himself to like the man, and now he was glad to be well rid of him.

Code stepped out a free man, and his first action was to take both of
Elsa's hands and try to thank her. Her eyes dropped and she blushed.
When he had stammered through his speech he turned to Caroline Fuller
and repeated it, but the sad smile she gave him tore at his heart.

"I came because Elsa asked me to save a friend," she said, "not
because I wished to revenge myself on Nat. I am glad it was you, for I
would do anything on earth for Elsa."

Code turned mystified eyes upon Mrs. Mallaby.

"I thought you did this to revenge yourself on Nat," he half
whispered.

"I did, partly," she replied. She lifted her eyes to his and he saw
something in them that startled him--something that, in all his
association with her, he had never seen before. He stood silent,
amazed, overwhelmed while she turned her face away.




CHAPTER XXX

ELSA'S TRIUMPH


Code Schofield's appearance at his schooner the next morning to
help the crew unload was the signal for a veritable native-son
demonstration. Not only had the story of Code's sudden liberation
and Nat's as sudden imprisonment spread like wild-fire clear to
Southern Head Light, twenty miles away, but the tale was hailed with
joy.

For Nat had come into his own in the hatred of his townsfolk. Among
the fleet he was heartily unpopular because he had not fished all
season and then had tried to catch the first market with a purchased
cargo, merely to revenge himself on Code and the Tanners. Throughout
his conduct had been utterly selfish, whereas others had worked for
the island and for its salvation.

With the landing of the two schooners from the fleet the women-folk
were soon apprised of Nat's action, and, had it not been for Elsa's
sensational disclosures in the little jail that made him the sudden
occupant of a cell, there is no question but what the women of
Marblehead would have been equaled by the women of Freekirk Head; and
Skipper Ireson would not have ridden down history alone in tarry
glory.

But now, since Code was free, the whole town exulted, and there was a
steady procession to the jail to look in upon the first real criminal
the village had mustered in years.

Code, after checking the scale-tally all morning as his stalwart men
swung the baskets of salted fish out of the hold, went along the road
to Squire Hardy's house after dinner and interviewed that worthy man.

"You've got him where you want him," said the squire, "but you can't
get much except damages."

"I don't want even damages," said Code. "I want him to take all his
things and go away from here and never come back. Since he didn't do
any _real_ damage to anybody I don't care what becomes of him so long
as he leaves here."

"Well, all you must do is to withdraw your charges against him--they
were put in your name so that Mrs. Mallaby's would not have to
appear."

"But even if I do, won't the State take it up. You know a murder
case--"

"Yes, my boy, but this is no murder case now. On the face of it Nat
did not set out to murder his father; he did not set out really to
_sink_ your schooner--merely to disable it; the proof is indisputable
and self-evident by his own confession and letter.

"Well, now, in a private racing agreement between gentlemen, if both
vessels are registered and rated seaworthy, nothing that happens to
one can be laid to the other unless, as in the present case, one
deliberately damages the other. The principal punishment is a moral
one administered by the former friends of the dishonest man, but the
victim can collect money damages. Naturally the insurance company will
change its charge so as to accuse Nat instead of you.

"They have a proven case against him already, and he will have to pay
them nearly all they gave you--so that, in the end, he really pays you
for the damage he did that day. Then, I understand, he is going to pay
an amount to the family of each man who lost his life in the _May_, on
condition that they will never sue him."

"Whee-ew!" whistled Code. "When he gets through he won't have much
money left, I guess."

"No, I guess he won't," agreed the judge, "and it serves him right.
He'll probably have to sell his schooner and start life over again
somewhere else. I hope he starts honestly this time. Then you won't
take any action against him, Code?"

"Me? Oh, no!" said Schofield. "I've nothing against him now. Let him
go. But I'll tell you one thing, squire--he had better be smuggled
away to-night quietly, because, if the crowd gets hold of him, it
might not be good for his health."

The squire agreed and Code went back to his work. Late that afternoon
Pete Ellinwood swung the last basket of the catch to the scales and
Code completed his tally.

"Sixteen hundred and seventy quintal," he announced, "and forty-three
pounds. At a hundred pounds a quintal that makes 167,078 pounds, and
at three cents a pound totals to $5,012.34. Not bad for a two months'
cruise, but my soul and body, Bill Boughton, how the fish did run!"

"It's a good catch, Code, and fine fish," answered Boughton, who had
been writing. "How will you have the money--in a lump or individual
checks?"

"Separate checks." Boughton went back to his glass-surrounded desk to
write them.

Code, being the sole owner of the _Charming Lass_, took two thousand
dollars as his share, and the rest was divided almost equally among
the other nine men, a trifle extra going to Pete Ellinwood for his
services as mate.

"It was a toppin' haul," declared Pete jovially, slapping his
well-filled pocket after a visit to the bank, "an' the rest of them
poor devils won't get over two and a half a pound--some of 'em only
two, when there's lots of fish. Half a cent a pound is a pretty good
bonus!"

Code had dinner with his mother that night, and appeared for it
carefully dressed. What was his surprise to see his mother in her one
silk dress.

"I'm going up to Mallaby House," he said in answer to her inquiring
look. "But you! What's all this gaiety, mother?"

"I am going to hear an account of how you behaved yourself on the
voyage, Code," she said, attempting severity.

"By an eye-witness?" Visions of Ellinwood, painfully arrayed, danced
in his head.

"Yes."

"Um-m. Well, I won't be home until late, then, because it's a long
story."

"You rascal!" said his mother, and kissed him.

On the way to Mallaby House (it was up the old familiar path that he
had raced down so recklessly the night of the great fire), he thought
over the thing that his eyes had seen for an instant the night before
in the jail.

Elsa loved him, he knew now, and she had always loved him. He cursed
himself for a stupid fool in that it had taken him so long to find
out, but he was relieved to know at last upon what footing to meet
her. She was no longer a baffling and alluring creature of a hundred
chameleon moods; she was a lonely girl.

Martin, who had been his body-servant while aboard the mystery
schooner, opened the door, and bowed with decided pleasure at seeing
his temporary master. He ventured congratulations that Schofield was
free of the law's shadow.

"Mrs. Mallaby is up-stairs, sir," he said, taking Code's hat. "Just
step into the drawing-room, sir, and I'll call her."

It was a sample of Elsa's taste that she illuminated all her rooms
with the soft flame of candles or the mellow light of lamps. The
mahogany furniture, much of it very old and historic among the island
families, gleamed in the warm lights. There were built-in shelves of
books against one wall, splendid engravings, etchings, and a few
colored prints of the daughters of Louis XV.

Presently Elsa came down the broad staircase. Her hair was parted
simply in the middle and done into two wheels, one over each pink ear.
Her dress was a plain one of China silk with a square Dutch neck. It
fitted her splendid figure beautifully.

Never had she appeared to Code so fresh and simple. The great lady was
gone, the keen advocate had disappeared, the austere arbiter of
Freekirk Head's destinies was no more. She seemed a girl. He arose and
took her hand awkwardly.

"I am glad you came so soon," she said; "but aren't you neglecting
other people? I'm sure there must be friends who would like to see
you."

"Perhaps so, but this time they must wait until I have paid my
respects to you. As far as actions go, you are the only friend I
have."

"You are getting quite adept at turning a phrase," she said, smiling.

"Not as adept as you in turning heaven and earth to liberate an
innocent man."

"I have no answer to that," she replied. "But seriously, Code, I hope
you didn't come up to thank me again to-night. Please don't. It
embarrasses me. We know each other well enough, I think, to do little
things without the endless social prating that should accompany
them."

"You've been a dear!" he cried, and took one of her hands in his. She
did not move. "Elsa, I want you for my wife!"

"What can I say?" she began in a low voice. "You are noble and good,
Code, and I know what has actuated you to say this to me. Some women
would be resentful at your offer, but I am not. A week ago, even
yesterday, I should have accepted it gladly and humbly, but
to-day--no.

"Since last night I have thought, and somehow things have come clearer
to me. I have tried to do too much. I have always loved you, Code,
but I can see now that you were not meant for me. I tried to win you
because of that love, not considering you or others--only myself. And
I defeated my own end. I overshot the mark."

"I don't understand," said Code.

"Perhaps not, but I will tell you. In the first place, I deliberately
managed so that Nat Burns and Nellie could never be married. I know
now that they have separated for good. I hated Burns for his part in
my sister's life, and I resolved to wreck his happiness if his
engagement to Nellie was happiness. So now she is free and you can
have her, I think, for the asking."

"But," cried Schofield in protest, "I have never said--"

"You did not need to say that you loved some one," she told him, with
a faint smile. "That night at dinner on the schooner with me proved
it. I have talked to your mother since I came home, and she told me
what Nat's engagement meant to you, so that I know Nellie is the girl
you have always loved. Isn't it so?"

"Yes," he replied gently.

"Now is it plain to you how I have undone my own plans? Two things I
desired more than anything else on earth, you, and Burns's ruin. I
ruined Burns and paved the way for the loss of you, for, unscrupulous
as I am in some things, I could never marry you when Nellie was free
and you loved her. I have wanted happiness so hard, Code, that when I
see others who have it within their grasp, I cannot stand in their
way.

"But I don't mind now--I really don't. That was all in the past, and
it's over now. If you want to make me happy, be happy yourself. I see
there are forces that guide our lives that must have their will
whatever our own private plans may be, and, having learned that
lesson, I feel that perhaps now I shall be happier, somehow, than I
ever would have been if my own selfishness had triumphed."

Code lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"What a splendid woman you are! I know that happiness and joy will
come to you. One who has done what you have done cannot fail to
realize it. This hour will always be a very sweet one in my memory,
and I shall never forget it."

"Nor I," she said softly, "for, through you, I have begun to find
myself."




CHAPTER XXXI

PEACE AND PROSPERITY


The village of Freekirk Head prospered once Code Schofield, Bijonah
Tanner, and Jed Martin had started the ball rolling. Inside a week
another large consignment of fish arrived. Boughton was ready for it,
and for all that could come, he said, in the next two months.

This was music to the ears of Code Schofield and the crack crew of the
_Charming Lass_, and nine days after they had picked up their mooring
in the little crescent harbor they were off again, salt and
bait-laden, for the Banks, expecting to do a little haddocking if they
failed to load down with cod before they disappeared in October.

Seven schooners sailed with him that day, and, at the end of nine
weeks, the _Lass_ weighed anchor and charged home with the first
halibut that had come into Freekirk Head in years. On this trip, when
he was left in peace, Code displayed all the remarkable "nose" for
fish that his father had had before him.

And when he had weighed out the last of his halibut Bill Boughton led
him into the little office of the fishstand and offered him a quarter
interest in the business.

Thereafter Code was to make only such trips as he could spare time
for, and Pete was to have charge of the _Lass_ on other occasions.

He had proved himself worth his salt in the eyes of the whole village,
and Boughton needed some one to do the heavy work, while he collected
most of the profits. This business future, and three thousand dollars
in the bank, led Code one day to send to St. John's for an architect,
and to haggle with Al Green concerning the cost of a piece of land
overlooking the blue bay.

The very night that Code and Elsa had their last talk Nat Burns was
smuggled aboard a motor sloop lying in Whale Cove and taken over to
Eastport, where he was turned loose in the United States.

Half of the value of the _Nettie_ was eaten up by his debts and damage
settlements, and so, the better to clear the whole matter up, he sold
her at auction inside a week and departed with the remnants of his
cash to parts unknown.

Since that time not a word or trace of him had been heard in Freekirk
Head except once. That was when the St. John's paper printed a
photograph of an automobile that made a trip across the Hudson Bay
country.

Beside the machine stood a man in furs who was claimed by all who saw
the picture to be Nat Burns. Was he running a trap line in the wilds
with the Indians, or was he a passenger in the car under an assumed
name?

Elsa Mallaby did not even wait for the departure of the _Charming
Lass_ on her second voyage before she acted on a determination that
had come to her. She shut up Mallaby House entirely, and, with
Caroline as her companion, started on a trip around the world,
promising to be back in three years.

But she did not go on the mystery schooner, nor did anybody ever see
or hear of it again.

It soon developed that the government officials were hard after the
boat that had impersonated a gunboat, and would make it very hot both
for owners and crew. Elsa knew this the day she made her final
triumphant dash into Freekirk Head, and that was the reason that the
ship only stayed ten minutes.

So quietly and skilfully was the whole thing managed that, in the
excitement of Code's arrest, every one thought Elsa and her sister had
come on the evening boat from St. John's.

Not three men in the island would have connected her with this strange
craft, and two of those weren't sure enough of anything to speak above
a whisper. The third was Code Schofield.

Captain Foraker took the mystery schooner outside the harbor, pointed
her nose straight south by the compass, and held her there for a
matter of ten days. At the end of that time he was in danger of
pushing Haiti off the map, so he went to Port-au-Prince and sold the
schooner at a bargain to the government, which, at that time, happened
to need a first-class battle-ship. Then Captain Foraker and the crew
divided the money (by Elsa's orders), and returned to the States.

It was only after the return from his second cruise that Code paid
attention to Nellie Tanner. Something in him that respected her
trouble and Elsa's confession at the same time had kept his lips
sealed during that short stay at home. But one Sunday after the second
trip they climbed to the crest of the mountain back of the closed
Mallaby House, and Code told her what had been in his heart all these
years.

For a while she said nothing. The sun was setting over the distant
Maine coast and the clouds all round the horizon were wonderful masses
of short-lived rainbow texture. The sea was the pink and greenish blue
of floating oil.

"You get me a trifle shop-worn," she said at last, laughing
uncertainly.

"Then I get you?" He had turned toward her with a flash of boyish
eagerness. One look at her radiant face and shining eyes found the
answer.

"Shop-worn?" he said after a while. "Well, so am I, a trifle, but not
in the way you mean. If having the down knocked off one and seeing
things truer and better for it is being shop-worn, then thank God for
the wearing.

"It has been a roundabout way for us, little girl, but at last our
paths have met, and from now on, God willing, they shall go together.
Come, I want to show you something."

They walked through the woods until they found the place where the
surveyors had laid out the foundation plan for the little house. There
they found an interested couple gravely discussing a near-by
excavation with the aid of a blue-print.

Presently the couple turned around, and the lovers clutched each other
in amazement.

"Bless me," gasped Code, "if it isn't ma and Pete Ellinwood!"

THE END




JOHN FOX, JR'S.

STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.

THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The "_lonesome pine_" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree
that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine
lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he
finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the
_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and
the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder
chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine."

THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." It
is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often
springs the flower of civilization.

"Chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he
came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood,
seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered
this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the
way, who could play the banjo better than anyone else in the mountains.

A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of
moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine
a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Two impetuous young
Southerners fall under the spell of "The Blight's" charms and she learns
what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the
mountaineers.

Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some of
Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.

Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York




JACK LONDON'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

JOHN BARLEYCORN. Illustrated by H. T. Dunn.

This remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing experiences.
This big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol from
boyhood, comes out boldly against John Barleycorn. It is a string of
exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetable idea and
makes a typical Jack London book.

THE VALLEY OF THE MOON. Frontispiece by George Harper.

The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster and
ex-prize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and love and
marry. They tramp from one end of California to the other, and in the
Valley of the Moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation.

BURNING DAYLIGHT. Four illustrations.

The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the foundations of
his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing his fortunes to the
States he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers it
only at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts out as a merciless exploiter
on his own account. Finally he takes to drinking and becomes a picture of
degeneration. About this time he falls in love with his stenographer and
wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read the story!

A SON OF THE SUN. Illustrated by A.O. Fischer and C.W. Ashley.

David Grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from England
to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned like a native and as
lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. The life appealed to
him and he remained and became very wealthy.

THE CALL OF THE WILD. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles
Livingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E. Hooper.

A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. Here
is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to transport
the reader to primitive scenes.

THE SEA WOLF. Illustrated by W. J. Aylward.

Told by a man whom Fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into the
power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A novel of adventure
warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail with
delight.

WHITE FANG. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull.

"White Fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen
north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and
surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. Thereafter he is
man's loving slave.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York




NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY

WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED.

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.

MAVERICKS.

A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations
are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One of
the sweetest love stories ever told.

A TEXAS RANGER.

How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into
the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling
adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed through deadly
peril to ultimate happiness.

WYOMING.

In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the breezy
charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with
all its engaging dash and vigor.

RIDGWAY OF MONTANA.

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and
mining industries are the religion of the country. The political contest,
the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great
strength and charm.

BUCKY O'CONNOR.

Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the
dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing
fascination of style and plot.

CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT.

A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter
feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual
woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly
characteristic of the great free West.

BRAND BLOTTERS.

A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of the
frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love
interest running through its 320 pages.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York




ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS

Colored frontispiece by W. Herbert Dunton.

Most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent Mexican
border of the present day. A New York society girl buys a ranch which
becomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal cowboys defend her
property from bandits, and her superintendent rescues her when she is
captured by them. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful
close.

DESERT GOLD

Illustrated by Douglas Duer.

Another fascinating story of the Mexican border. Two men, lost in the
desert, discover gold when, overcome by weakness, they can go no farther.
The rest of the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and
ends with the finding of the gold which the two prospectors had willed to
the girl who is the story's heroine.

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

Illustrated by Douglas Duer.

A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon
authority ruled. In the persecution of Jane Withersteen, a rich ranch
owner, we are permitted to see the methods employed by the invisible hand
of the Mormon Church to break her will.

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN

Illustrated with photograph reproductions.

This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones,
known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert
and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep canons and
giant pines." It is a fascinating story.

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

Jacket in color. Frontispiece.

This big human drama is played in the Painted Desert. A lovely girl, who
has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New Englander. The
Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second
wife of one of the Mormons--

Well, that's the problem of this sensational, big selling story.

BETTY ZANE

Illustrated by Louis F. Grant.

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young
sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. Life along the
frontier, attacks by Indians, Betty's heroic defense of the beleaguered
garrison at Wheeling, the burning of the Fort, and Betty's final race for
life, make up this never-to-be-forgotten story.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York







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