WHEN THE COCK CROWS

CHAPTER I

Ichabod's Island

The tide was at ebb. The noisily rushing spume-spotted waters of the sea were pounding the hard-sand shore of the easterly side of a beautiful island, nestling as a jewel in its setting just within the Capes, which form the shores on either side of Beaufort Inlet, but so exposed that when the winds blow from the sea the full force of the breakers is felt at this point. As this small bit of land is low-lying, more than once when a southeaster has raged, the tiny isle has become entirely submerged.

Man has placed but one habitation upon this toy of the great waters, and that a fisherman's shack, surrounded with the usual net-drying racks and other crude tools of the fisherfolk. One would rightly guess that the occupant of an abode built upon such a tiny bit of old mother earth must be a hardy customer, who understood the ways of the winds and sea and who dared combat them.

It is sunrise. The door of the hut swings on its heavy hinges. A sturdy-looking old fellow with grizzled beard and flowing locks steps out of the shack, and, as has been his wont for years, he scans the horizon for a sail or perchance for other more modern craft of the sea.

In his arms, he is tenderly carrying a large Dominick rooster, which, judging from his length of spurs, and scaly legs, has lingered many summers. Satisfying himself that there is no boat in sight, to break the monotony of the view, Captain Ichabod places his only living companion—as he expresses it, his poultry alarm clock—upon the ground, and from a pocket produces a handful of corn, which the old cock greedily devours.

These two have been companions for a long time. Captain Ichabod found him one morning perched upon the top of a floating crate, washed from the deck of a schooner that had gone upon the beach in a booming southeaster. The Captain had proved a life-saver indeed to the proud old bird. Ichabod, when he first spied Shrimp, as he afterward named this bit of flotsam, was wildly anxious to save the creature so it might have a life on shore suited to its nature and desires. Then it flashed upon him that his antiquated and well-worn alarm clock had ceased to work. It occurred to him that the rooster's crowing would suffice to advise him of the hour, and that there would be no need to buy another clock.

The Captain was a woman-hater. This fact accounted for his choosing to live as a hermit on the bit of sand, which he had grown to love. But that loneliness was a trial to Shrimp, who naturally desired a harem of his own. Many times, when the wind was from the mainland, Captain Ichabod had heard the far-away crow of a barnyard fowl, and had gravely and criticizingly listened as Shrimp returned the salute in lusty manner. He had seen the bird swell in rage, and his comb turn red in jealous envy of the other rooster on the mainland.

Captain Ichabod had now come to busying himself with fishing by hook and line for blue fish and sheepshead. In addition he set a line of gill nets in the cove for mullet or any other fish that might become entangled within their meshes. On all his excursions Shrimp accompanied his master. He would perch himself proudly upon the center-board box. More than once, before becoming a seasoned sailor, he had failed to dodge the boom to which the little leg o' mutton sail was attached, and had been knocked from his perch when Uncle Ichabod for a joke let the boat jibe in a flaw of the wind. But Shrimp learned. He learned to dodge the boom. He became, under stress of circumstances, an expert sailor—and was never seasick.

When Shrimp had finished his meal, Ichabod addressed the mangy-looking bird very gravely:

"Shrimp, thar hain't nary sail nor steamer smoke in sight off the Capes and I 'low thar has a dozen skippers seen that-thar same mare's tail as did I last night, and has had the good common sense to haul to in the hook o' the Cape ter ride out the blow that is sure ter come. May the sarpants o' Davy Jones' have mercy on him or her as don't take kivver; me an' you, rooster, 'll have ter do our hook an' linin' in the Spar Channel on this ebb fer so soon as she hauls a leetle more to the south'ard thar is goin' ter be hell kicked up in the Inlet an' me and yo', ole feathers an' comb, had better do our anglin' clost enough that we can shoot inter this home harbor without loosin' o' our rag."

Captain Ichabod busied himself with getting his leads and lines in shape. He cut up a half-dozen mullets for bait. Then he picked up the mast, around which was wrapped a patchwork of canvas, very snugly. It felt at home there for it had been thus rolled around the mast time and again through many years. Captain Ichabod now walked to the red skiff. At his heels Shrimp stalked with great dignity. The Captain stepped the mast, arranged the halyards, and pushed off. The sail caught the wind and Captain Ichabod at the tiller was off for the Spar Channel fishing grounds.

When he had arrived and thrown his anchor overboard, the Captain addressed Shrimp with much solemnity.

"Shrimp, ye air a heap o' company to the ole man, but ye wa'n't built by God A'mighty fer a sailin' mate, all he fixed ye fer was to peck an' scratch an' fight—oh, yes, an' I like ter forgot the crow."

Then nonchalantly he remarked:

"An' thar would be a heap more peace in the world to-day if he had o' built all kinds o' Hens without thar tarnation cackle."

When Captain Icky mentioned the word cackle he thought he could detect a dejected look upon the countenance of his feathered friend, and in a sympathetic voice to ease the rooster's feelings, said:

"Wall, rooster, I must say that yo'r women folks was made with the only kind of cackle that has done men folks any good, but gosh darned if it hain't a right-smart bit since I's et an aig!"

Then, having thus relieved himself, Ichabod tossed his heavily sinkered lines into the swift tide. The fish were hungry, and he was kept busy hauling them in.

The swell began to increase. The small craft began to rock uncomfortably. The sun was hidden by a red cloud that banked in the eastern sky. Captain Ichabod knew the signs. He pulled in his line and hooks, made sail, and beat across to the point where nestled the life-saving station. There he would read the barometer, have a chat and a meal with the men, and afterward make a quick run home before the wind.

At the life-saving station, he found the barometer indicated storm, as he had feared.

After a hearty dinner, and a pipe with yarns, Captain Ichabod set sail for the Island, and made it safely, in spite of the rising storm.

The Captain realized that a gale was brewing. He gathered up his nets from their racks. He made them snug in the shack, and stowed away everything movable. He was weather-wise. He would not be caught unawares. A high tide had more than once taught him the lesson of that beach. He had the red skiff hauled well up out of harm's way. There was, too, an extra anchor tied to the painter. Captain Ichabod and the rooster entered their cottage, for refuge from the wind that was now blowing dangerously.

The storm reached such proportions that from his window to seaward it was no longer possible to make out through the rain and spray the broad crêpe-like bands of black and white painted upon the great, towering lighthouse, at the extreme point of Cape Lookout, a few miles to the eastward. The shack was fairly shaking in the West India hurricane—for such it proved to be.... And great was the devastation wrought that night by both wind and wave.

About midnight, Captain Ichabod, feeling that it was not quite safe to retire, stood in the open doorway. He little minded the pelting of the rain as it drove against his weathered cheek. He had donned his oilskins, hat and slicker, and was peering intently seaward. He had been to his skiff and had dragged it a couple of rods further up on the sand as a measure of safety. A yellow flash showed dimly on the black storm clouds that banked the horizon to the north of the Cape—wherein nestled a tiny harbor of refuge. Those who knew took advantage of this retreat in times of tempest.... Woe unto the hapless seafarer, unknowing the way.

It did not take a second flash for the practised eye of the lone man in oilskins to recognize that this was the thing he had expected—even while praying God that it might not be. It was the rocket signal of a boat in distress. Within sound of the breakers, that could not be seen in the pitch black, was somewhere a mass of timber and iron, burdened with cargo and human freight. And that mass, which was a ship, dragged its anchor, as if that anchor were a toy—foot by foot to sure destruction on a beach that has known a hundred wrecks.

The rockets continued to flare. Closer and closer to the outer shoals of the beach they beamed. The ship was swiftly and surely going to its doom.

Turning his face to the clouded heavens, and raising his voice in a final appeal, Uncle Ichabod prayed:

"God help the boys in such a surf."

At the point where the ship was making the distress signals, the coast offered only a narrow strip of sand, running from the Cape to Ocracoke Inlet—many miles to the northeast.

The old fisherman's face was ashen. There was nothing that he could do except stand and helplessly watch the final disaster. He realized that the craft was doomed. He was powerless to interfere, although in despair over this catastrophe before his very eyes. He turned away, and entered his little house, and tried to sleep. But he was wakeful, and found himself murmuring prayers for those who went down to the sea in ships.

CHAPTER II

Among the Breakers

Ordinarily, Captain Ichabod Jones enjoyed being crooned to sleep by the weird sounds of the winds as they beat about the corners of his cottage. Now, his mind was filled with a memory of last frantic cries uttered by men, women and children as their clinging hold was loosed from the derelict, the sturdy frame of which he had heard strike on the rocks, as she went to her grave in the sea. Now, he heard the clamors of despair, voiced in the shrieking of the gale. He tossed uneasily upon his bed, offering ever and anon a prayer to the God that rules mad waters to have mercy upon those even then fighting a last grim battle with death.

The first gray gleam of dawn showed a tinge of storm red, radiant and calm above the wildly tossing surges of the sea.

Uncle Icky got out of his bunk, built a fire in the stove and set his coffee to boil. Then, of a sudden, he forgot his preparations for breakfast. His sharp ears had caught the far-away chug-chug of a naphtha-driven craft. He listened, and knew that the boat was making its way toward the Island.

"Well, I'll be blowed," said the Captain to himself—and the rooster. "What fool skipper would come down this shore, even on the inside, in such a kick-up as is goin' on? He shore must be plumb daffy, or arter an M.D. for a mighty sick human. I'll try an' hail him as he passes; but the Lord knows he can't pass to the wind'ard o' this-here Island till she ca'ms a heap, an' if he tries to go to lee'ard he'll shore as shootin' take up on the oyster rocks, an' stove her through to her vitals."

Captain Ichabod was right. No land lubber, unacquainted with the dangerous currents and powerful surf breaking over the bar at the Inlet, could pilot a craft safely past the little Island in good weather—let alone the doing of it in this tail-end of a gale. Uncle Icky rushed from the cottage, lantern in hand. He tried to wave a warning to the foolhardy adventurer who was thus darting down at breakneck speed on the mill-race of the ebb tide to certain destruction.

Captain Ichabod ran with his lantern to the far point of land, and waved it frantically in warning. The wind-driven spray of the surf soaked and chilled him to the bone. But he swung his light in desperate earnestness, though his efforts seemed of no avail, for the launch swept on toward its doom. Ichabod now could see that it was a palatial yacht, of trim build, with a prow that cut the waves like a razor. But, too, he knew that, after rounding the point, the tiny vessel would meet the full fury of the sea, and must be destroyed.

Day broke. In the increased light, the old man cast his lantern aside as useless and swung his arms as a semaphore. The yacht, buffeted by the tumbling seas, swept within hailing distance. Captain Ichabod yelled to the man who was at the tiller to keep her off. In answer, there came three shrill, pitifully wavering blasts of the whistle—a salute that was derisive, the absurd response of a madman. And the man at the wheel waved his hand in pleasant salutation and grinned in a most amiable manner. Captain Ichabod stared aghast. Then, he realized that the man at the helm must be a maniac.

The yacht was in the breakers. The first wave spilled clear over her. Ichabod, watching from the shore, shuddered. He believed her already lost in the coil of waters. But, to the Captain's amazement, the yacht eddied and tossed, dived and floated again. Then, at last, it was swept on the rocks. The hull broke in two under the impact, and the racing waves swept over the wreck.

Out of the ruin of the yacht, the surge bore a mattress, on which rested the seemingly lifeless body of a beautiful young woman. Captain Ichabod saw the strange raft sweep toward the strand. He rushed to seize it, and pulled it beyond the power of the tide to snatch it back into the maw of the ocean. Thereafter, he worked over the girl to save her from death by drowning.

It was a long time before she showed signs of life. But, after a time, the breast began to rise and fall in the perfect rhythm of health. Captain Ichabod, wild with anxiety, could hear the breathing of this woman whom he had saved from the sea. He was glad. He stood working over her in desperate haste. And then, presently, the lashes of the girl unclosed, and she stared wonderingly into the face of this old man, who stood over her with so much tenderness in his expression. The girl, suddenly arousing to consciousness, spoke anxiously:

"Doctor, tell me, where am I?"

Ichabod felt himself embarrassed. He spoke emphatically.

"No, Miss, I hain't no doctor—that is, I hain't no medical M.D., but folks says I'm a right smart o' a water doctor fer fever an' sich, but in yo'r case, I's a-takin' o' the water out instead o' puttin' it in or rubbin' it on, an' you lacks a heap o' havin' a fever, but arter I gits ye ter the shack I'll warm up yer little cold frame an' vitals with a swig o' brandy. That is, if ye has come to 'nough ter swaller."

The young woman was now breathing normally. The Captain raised her in his arms and bore her to the shack—across the threshold of which hitherto no woman's foot had stepped. The room was warm with the heat from the cook-stove, which had been left with the drafts open. He laid the girl on his bed, and then brought to her a glass of old brandy, salvaged years before from a wreck, and held intact by him during all this time as if for just such an emergency.

It was with difficulty that he aroused the victim of the wreck sufficiently to swallow the liquor, but in the end he was successful. Then he removed her outer garments, and wrapped her in woolen blankets.

Yet, even after it was plain that the heart was working normally once again, since there was a delicate flush showing in the girl's cheeks, the Captain was puzzled by the mental vagueness. She did not show any revival of intelligence, although she seemed to recover all her physical powers. He came to believe that she must have been injured on the head, by a blow from some bit of wreckage. But, though he went over her skull with deft fingers, he could find no trace of a bruise. He finally decided that her mental condition must be merely the result of the strain undergone by her, and that it would be remedied by an interval of sleep. So, he tucked the blankets snugly about her, and then left her alone, that he might see what could be done toward bringing the marooned skipper from his perilous place on the wrecked boat.

While Captain Ichabod was busy with the rescue of the girl, there had come a lull in the storm. The wind had hauled around to the southwest, and was now blowing a stiff breeze off shore, which, taken together with the fast-running tide still on the ebb, had caused the seas to lessen in the Inlet. Under these improved conditions, the Captain decided to make a try at relieving the castaway from his sorry plight.

He launched the red skiff, and set out to row toward the wreck. He was encouraged in the difficult task by the frantic gestures with which the victim of the storm called for succor. Captain Ichabod reflected grimly that this fellow who had disregarded his warnings must be plainly a maniac. Yet he was sufficiently sane to have a normal desire to be saved from death. He guessed that perhaps the yachtsman had been temporarily unbalanced in his mind when in the grip of the raging waters—then, afterward, had regained his self-control, and with it a wholesome desire to live.

Captain Ichabod managed to bring the skiff up under the lee of the wreck. He threw a rope to the man, and bade him make it fast. The order was obeyed. Ichabod then directed the yachtsman to collect his valuables and come aboard the skiff. The castaway lost no time in obeying. Presently, carrying a small black bag, he seated himself in the skiff, and Ichabod turned the boat's nose toward the shore, and bent to the oars, in haste to get back to his patient, and so to complete his list of rescues for that eventful day.

During the short interval of time consumed in going from the wreck to the Island, the stranger made anxious inquiries as to the fate of the girl. He had thought that she was dead. When he heard from Captain Ichabod that the girl still lived he was obviously startled and surprised, but, too, he showed every symptom of intense pleasure. He displayed anxiety as to what the girl might have said. Then, when he learned that she had said nothing at all, he appeared greatly relieved. He seemed pleased to learn that she was still unconscious.

Ichabod, wonderingly, thought that he heard the stranger say:

"Thank God!"

The boat was no sooner beached than the man who had been rescued leaped ashore, still carrying in his hand the small physician's bag. He raced toward the cabin, as if he felt that life or death depended on his haste.

Captain Ichabod suddenly felt very old and worn. He had used too much energy in this work of rescue, and now the reaction set in. He dawdled over the securing of the skiff. Then he made his way with lagging steps toward the cabin. He pushed open the door, and was startled to behold the man he had rescued kneeling beside the couch of the girl. At the noise of the opening door, the man sprang to his feet.... Ichabod wondered as he glimpsed an object that shone like silver, and then was slipped cautiously into the man's coat pocket.

Captain Ichabod approached the bed upon which the girl lay motionless. He noticed on the forearm a tiny drop of blood. He wondered also over this, then solved the puzzle to his satisfaction by thinking that a mosquito had left this trace of its attack. He was confirmed in the opinion by the fact that there was a white blotch beneath the touch of crimson.

Captain Ichabod tried to question the man he had saved, but found every answer baffling and unsatisfactory. The yachtsman refused any sort of information. His reticence angered the old man, and he at last spoke his mind freely, with something of suspicion engendered by a new thought concerning that curious drop of blood on the girl's arm.

"She acts ter me like a woman chuck-er-block with Bateman Drops or opium. A heap o' that kind o' truck is used by the women about these-here islands o' the Sound, an' I've seed a heap o' the effects o' it in the years past, but the good Lord knows it's a spell since Captain Icky has seed a woman a-hitten dope, as new-fangled folks calls it."

The man who had been rescued by Ichabod started violently as he heard the word "dope." He cast a probing glance on the old man, but spoke never a word.

"Thar is one thing fer sartin," continued the fisherman, "if it hain't dope that is a'lin' o' her, it's somethin' that calls fer an M.D., an' if she hain't come to her senses in an hour, I'll put the rag on the skiff an' run up to Beaufort an' bring back Dr. Hudson to pass on the case. Thar has never been a death o' a human in Ichabod Jones' shack, an' Lord have mercy, the first passin' sha'n't be a woman!"

The condition of the girl continued such that Ichabod felt it necessary to summon the physician. He must make the trip in his sailboat to Beaufort, the nearest town along the coast. The yachtsman now approved the idea.

When Captain Ichabod went to make ready his boat for the trip to town, the yachtsman followed him, and then presently, walking down to where the wreckage had come ashore, proceeded to right and clear of débris a little cedar motor boat, which had come ashore from the wrecked yacht, practically unharmed, except that the batteries were wet.

In the absence of Captain Ichabod, the stranger removed all the wire connections in this small boat, and placed the batteries over the stove to dry. When they were in fact thoroughly dried, he waited patiently for the departure of Captain Ichabod in search of a physician. Presently, the old man set out on his errand of mercy. The stranger yachtsman grinned derisively as he saw the boat slip into the smother of storm-tossed waters.

CHAPTER III

A New Calamity

Perhaps there is no point upon the Carolina coast where there is more interest shown in weather conditions than at Beaufort, the present terminus of the great inland water-route from Boston to the Gulf. There are vital reasons for this. First: a fleet of small fishing vessels makes this their home port. Hardly a family in the town that has not one or more of its members going to sea in the little craft. To be caught off shore in one of the West India hurricanes, which, at irregular intervals, touch this point, means almost certain destruction. Again: there is always danger to the low-lying town from a tidal wave. The town is built on flat ground almost level with the surface of the water. There is no sea wall to keep off the angry waves. The dwellers in the town have learned their danger through dear experience in times past when the waves have swept over it, bringing desolation and death.

Luckily, the storm that brought the strangers to Captain Ichabod Jones did not blow long enough from the southeast to cause severe damage to the town. Nor was there loss of life at sea. The masters of the fishing boats had seen the weather flags—angry red, with sullen black centers—flying from the signal mast. They had taken warning and remained in port through the time of tempest.

When Uncle Icky rounded the point of marsh land, and headed his skiff for Beaufort, the eyes of the storm-bound fishermen and the other lounging natives gathered at the market wharf quickly espied the familiar patched rag of sail and were filled with wonder as to what could have tempted the old man from his snug Island out into the teeth of the gale. When he sped into the slip, there were many hands ready to grasp the hawser tossed to them by Captain Ichabod, and make it fast to a "punchin."

If the loungers had expected to hear something startling, they were doomed to disappointment. He had no time then to stop and gossip with friends. He hurried on, with an air of unaccustomed self-importance on account of the serious nature of his mission. He was in quest of Dr. Hudson, a great-hearted man, who had spent the best years of his life in ministering to the ills of these fisherfolk. They, in their turn, looked upon him with a feeling of grateful fondness, tinctured with awe—so miraculous to them seemed many of his cures. And, too, they honored him for the manner in which he did his duty toward them. Never a night too black, never a storm too high, for him to fare forth for the relief of suffering. Latterly, however, he had felt the weight of work over much, had felt perhaps as well the burden of advancing years. He had so contrived that a young medical graduate opened up a practise in the neighborhood. He had adroitly used the influence of suggestion so diplomatically that most of the chronic cases—those that took comfort in telling of their maladies, in detailing their symptoms to unwilling listeners—had gladly availed themselves of the new treatment offered by the young physician. In this way, the old Doctor was spared a tedious and unnecessary routine of labor, yet was left free for such urgent calls as might come to him.

Ichabod found the physician at home, and declared:

"Thar's sick folks at my shack what needs ye an' needs ye bad."

The doctor was aware that Ichabod's sole companion in the shack was the rooster. Knowing also the Captain's fondness for the Dominick, he was inclined to be suspicious that this call for his services was as a veterinary.

"I suppose," he said, "your Shrimp has the pip." Then, of a sudden, he guessed something of the truth. He spoke anxiously. "There hasn't been a wreck, has there?"

"Right ye air, Doctor, there has been a fool shipwreck on my oyster rocks. The captain of the ship an' his mate air at the shack this very minute. He's batty as a toad arter swallerin' shot. An' she's outter her haid—leastways she ain't got sense 'nough left ter talk."

In answer to questions, Ichabod gave a full narrative of what had occurred, telling all the events in his own quaint fashion, to all of which Doctor Hudson listened with the closest attention.

His comment was crisp.

"It sounds like whisky—more likely, morphia. I reckon it's my duty to go." As a matter of fact, the physician's curiosity had been aroused. He was professionally anxious to get at a solution of the mystery. He hurriedly changed his clothes in preparation for the rough voyage to Ichabod's Island, and equipped himself with the old, worn leather bag stocked with medicines, which, for years, had been a familiar sight throughout the whole region in every household where disease came to terrify and destroy.

"Hurry, Ichabod," the Doctor cried. "We'll shake a leg, or the tide'll be running against us."

Ichabod's skiff was tailed to the physician's little launch. The motor power made the voyage to the Island swift, although it was rough, even to the point of danger on account of the storm-driven waters. When they had made fast at the landing, the two hurried to the shack. The door was swinging wide. But to their amazement and dismay not even Shrimp was there to give them welcome. The place was utterly deserted. The visitors so strangely cast up from the sea had vanished as mysteriously as they had come. There was the bed on which the girl had been lying—now it was empty. Not even a vestige of her clothing remained to prove that she was more than the figment of a crazed brain. Ichabod stared about him with distended eyes. He could make no guess as to the meaning of the strange thing that had befallen. Then, abruptly, his dazed mind was aroused to a new calamity.... Shrimp, too, was gone!

Presently, Ichabod looked for the yacht's tender, and found it likewise gone. He was able to understand in some measure what had occurred. The batteries had been dried by the hot stove in the shack, and—the little craft thus restored to running condition—the man had undoubtedly fled with the girl. And with them Shrimp had voyaged. A sudden overwhelming desolation fell on the old man. He had been through much that day. He had been strained to the utmost resources of his energies. And he was an old man. He had small reserves of force with which to meet the unexpected. Now, he felt himself bewildered over all the strange happenings. And there was something more. The one constant companion of his lonely life was Shrimp—and Shrimp, too, had fled from him.

The Doctor, very much puzzled over this absence of an expected patient, started to leave the shack. He halted at the head of the steps, and looked down in a bewilderment touched with pity.

For Ichabod was on his knees before the steps of his own house, and his form was shaken with the sobbings of despair.

CHAPTER IV

Under the After Awning

Sidewalks along Fifth Avenue were packed with persons of all nationalities, representatives of every variety of industrial activity in the life of the City. There was a reviewing stand erected in front of the massive library that displayed its lines of architectural beauty in place of the sloping, age-gray walls of the old reservoir at Bryant Square. City officials and families of officers in the troops soon to pass were assembled there to witness this march of soldiers on their way to entrain for the Mexican border. They were filled with the zeal of patriots, because their comrades had been foully killed on that same border by a treacherous foe, and they were being sent to avenge that insult against the life and dignity of their nation.

Came the rhythmic beat of feet on the pavement; came the blare of the band. The two swung together into a harmony of marching. These boys, ordered to the front, were going, steadfastly, as in duty bound. They loved this "send-off." They marched with vigor in their steps, because ten thousand handkerchiefs waved from the windows along the line of march.

On the sidewalks was assembled a strange crowd. There were the stenographers taking their noonday outing. Many were carefully over-powdered and perfumed. They were dressed after the latest fashion—a long way after it!

But the Midinettes were a very small proportion of those wild to see the real soldiers.

All New York had heard the troops were to march that day. And all New York turned out to see the regiments.

There are a myriad phases of metropolitan life. Those phases were illustrated that day in the crowds along the line of march. The bulk of those clustering at the curb were of a sort eager for a free show. In the countless loft buildings bordering the avenue were hordes of men and women too busy in earning a pitiful wage to think of anything so frivolous as a procession, with banners waving and bands playing. But while these had no thought of marching troops, there were innumerable others. For New York is a city gigantic. Within it are hosts. Some of these always are idle. Some, always eager for the free show of the streets.

So, to-day, when the troops are to march by with shrill of fife and blatant noise of band, the multitude comes scurrying, curious to see, patriotic with the emotional patriotism of one just become a citizen of a free country, where before he was the unrecognized and unhonored subject of despotism, from which he fled in search of liberty.

New York is a city of millions. It is the biggest city on earth. It is the melting pot of nations. The crowd that lines the curb is of one sort. There is another sort marching the length of the avenue. And this is a mixture to bewilder any beholder. A countryman from New Jersey, with his wife and children comes to-day for this splendid free show of the troops that are to march; the countrymen from the reaches of New York along the Hudson, with the same purpose; his fellows from Long Island, from Connecticut. With these alien figures, treading the principal city street of the world, are others. Those who walk there daily walk there again to-day. The clubman, coated, hatted, gloved to perfection, takes his accustomed stroll on the avenue, and looks with contemptuous disgust on the crowd that forces him to walk gingerly where usually he struts as a master. He, too, is a patriot and he means to see the march of the troops, and to applaud it—but from his club window, if ever he is able to make his way there through the perspiring congestion of the motley crowd.

There is a crew of money-makers, busy along the avenue on an occasion such as this. These are hordes of itinerant merchants moving up and down with things to sell to the crowd. They offer canes and instruments of noise that by a twist of the wrist make a horrible din. Especially, they offer American flags—bigger or smaller according to the purchaser's taste and purse. These are bought with eagerness by the crowd, and the fakers reap a harvest from the enthusiasm of those assembled to witness the marching soldiers.

The boy with a box is dominant. Wherever a short, but eager watcher stands to look, the boy comes, with his offer of a box to stand on, a box to sit on, as the purchaser may please, for the nominal cost of ten cents. Always, one finds at hand this boy, with the box that he offers for your sitting or for your feet, as you will. One box bought, he shows another, offering it for sale. Whence he comes with boxes so multitudinous none may guess. But he goes away with nickles and dimes enough perhaps to provide an income that will continue over until another day of parade.

In the reviewing stand, there was seated a girl who watched the marching troops with an intentness that had in it something of desperation, something of despair. Yet, as the soldiers passed, she gave them little heed. She was always looking toward those advancing, as if in search for something that meant more to her than this moving mass of troops.

A band passed. Behind it, at the head of his men, rode Colonel Marion. As he came opposite the reviewing stand, his eyes swept over the crowd seated on the tiers of benches. They rested on the face of the girl, who had been so anxiously watching. He smiled and saluted. The girl—his daughter Ethel—waved her handkerchief eagerly in response. Then she turned, and spoke to the young man who sat beside her. There was love, touched with reverence, in her voice.

"Isn't Daddy splendid!"

Her companion, Roy Morton, answered with sincerity, in which was a tincture of irrepressible bitterness.

"He's every inch a soldier."

The bitterness came from the fact that a broken tendon—received during his last football fight for Yale—disqualified him for military service, for which he longed more than ever in this hour when he saw the girl beside him so thrilled by the pomp of war, when he saw her pride and exultation in the military bearing of the father she revered. He felt that he must seem a slacker in her eyes, even though she knew that no fault of his own kept him at home, while others marched away to serve their country.

For Roy loved Ethel and his chief desire always was to show perfect in her eyes. For that matter, he was successful enough, since the girl loved him. Their troth was plighted, and in due time they would be married with the full approval of Colonel Marion, who both liked and respected his prospective son-in-law. So, in preparation for his own absence from home on military service, he strictly charged Roy to watch over Ethel and guard her from any possible peril. It was only a father's instinctive act in protection of his child. As a matter of fact, what danger could by any possibility threaten the well-being of this Ethel, who would remain living quietly in her father's New York house, along with the elderly cousin who acted as chaperon to the motherless girl, and the staff of old and faithful servants?

During the summer weeks that followed the departure of her father, Ethel lived happily enough, content with a routine of life that included entertainments of the usual social sort and especially the almost constant company of her lover.

One of her favorite diversions was a visit to her father's yacht, which lay at its moorings off Eighty-fourth Street in the North River. There was only a caretaker left on board during the Colonel's absence, but Ethel was fond of spending an afternoon in solitary enjoyment on the yacht. Under the after awning she would sit at ease in the low wicker chair, by turns reading, watching the ceaseless traffic of the river, musing on love and happiness—which meant, always, Roy.

Came a day when Roy was summoned home by the illness of his mother. Ethel went with him to the station and saw him off. It was long after noon when she had given the last word of farewell and the last kiss of tenderness to her lover. Ethel thought that she would like to seek the repose of the yacht for a period of tranquil meditation in the luxurious depths of her favorite chair under the after awning.

She rode to the dock in a taxicab, and the yacht's tender took her to the vessel. It was just then that a great steamer passed, and as she would have mounted the stairs to the yacht's deck an unexpected swell from the passing steamer smote the stairs so violently that Ethel was thrown back into the boat she had just left, with an ankle crushed under her own weight.

The girl realized that it was badly sprained. She gave orders that she should be carried on board the yacht forthwith. She decided then that she would send home for whatever might be needed—and, too, for the family physician.

With the assistance of the caretaker she managed to reach her cabin, and then sent the fellow to bring the physician in all haste. She pulled off her outer garments and donned a kimono, and crawled into her berth, to await the Doctor's coming.

It was within the hour that the little tender came back toward the yacht, carrying a passenger.

This was Doctor Gifford Garnet, the family physician. He hurried up the companion way, and went at once to his patient's stateroom. A very short examination sufficed. He saw the girl was suffering excruciating pain from the injury to her ankle.

The physician himself was a victim of morphia. And, too, he was a man of imagination—a most dangerous quality in one of his profession. Now, as he regarded the girl, he realized the intense suffering caused to her by the wrenched tendons in the ankle. That thought of suffering sickened his sensitive nature, so that he felt an emotion almost of nausea from the pain he knew her to be enduring.... And he was a coward. Pain had come to him often. Because he was a coward, he had fled from it—interposing morphia as a shield against its attack. So, now, in sympathy for the anguish endured by the girl he turned to the drug to give her relief from suffering. He made an injection into Ethel's arm.... The girl watched his movement with listless eyes. Then she sighed and smiled as she felt the gentle sting of the needle. At once she sank into an untroubled sleep.

Dr. Garnet regarded her for a moment with a curiously contemplative stare. Then he grinned grimly, pulled up his coat and shirt-sleeve, and pressed the piston of the hypodermic, driving a heavier charge of the drug into his own blood.

One minute he spent in deft examination of the injured ankle, then bandaged it. Afterward, he left the girl, and went up on deck, where he stood staring through long minutes toward the fleecy masses of cumulus clouds that lay along the New Jersey horizon.

CHAPTER V

A Prisoner of Morphia

It was mid-forenoon of the following day when Ethel awoke from the profound sleep superinduced by the drug. It was with a vast astonishment that her startled eyes took in the surroundings of the stateroom. There was a blank wall straight opposite her widely gazing eyes, where should have stood a dressing table of Circassian walnut, topped by the long oval mirror always ready to show her the reflected loveliness of her face. And there should have been also lying exposed on the polished surface of the table an orderly and beautiful array of those things that make for a woman's beauty—the creams that cleanse a skin too delicate for the harsh water poured from city mains; in a gold-topped bottle a lotion for the hair, delicate and effective; in dainty phials essences of perfume, subtle, yet curiously pervasive, with the fragrance of joyous springtime. Indeed, a medley of the arts evolved through the ages for the perfecting of that beauty, which, after all, is God-given—a thing not to be attained by the processes of even the most skilled beauty-doctors....

But Ethel possessed the thing itself. To her the accessories were but absurdities—unnecessary and wanton, means whereby to emphasize a natural loveliness.

There should have been a glimmer of pure white light from the back of a hair brush, lying on the dressing table. Ethel had loved the purity of that ivory surface. She had loved it so much that she refused to have it broken by the superimposition upon it of initials wrought cleverly in silver or gold or platinum. That brush meant so much to her! Night by night, she toiled with it. After she had undone the masses of her bronze-gold hair, she worked over them, with a sybaritical, meticulous care.

She was used to sitting in negligée and having her maid brush the strands. That brushing made the hair resplendent.... Now, Ethel looked—there was no dressing table—no mirror—nothing, of the sort that she was accustomed to see when she awoke in the morning.

She thought again of her own bedroom at home. She was minded to take her bath, which must be drawn and waiting.... And then, suddenly, that blank wall there before her eyes hammered upon her consciousness.

She was stricken with a curious sense of horror in this instant of realization that she was in some unknown place—absolutely apart from the dear, familiar things of home.

For a few horrid instants that shock of a vague terror pressed upon her like a destroying incubus.

A moment later, recollection thronged upon her. She remembered everything—the coming to the yacht, the fall, the wrenched ankle, the arrival of the physician, the almost dainty pain of the needle thrust into her flesh. And then Ethel began to think that it would be pleasant to be an invalid on board the yacht for a long time. It would need only a judicious selection of guests to make a voyage the most agreeable of diversions.

Just then she was startled into a new emotion. She realized the rhythmic beating of the engines.... The yacht was already under way.

For a little, Ethel was too stunned by the shock of surprise to take action. To her, it was inconceivable that the yacht should be thus voyaging. It should be still lying at anchor in the North River. Her father could have given no orders for its sailing. She had not. There was no one else with authority to command the movements of the craft. It should be lying at anchor in its berth.... But it was not. There was the pulse from the engines, the gentle swing of the hull to prove that a journey was begun. A journey—whither or wherefore she could not even guess.

Ethel put her feet out of the berth, and winced with pain from the movement of the injured ankle. But she set her teeth in grim determination, and stood up, putting her weight on the sound foot. Then she hobbled to the port, and looked out. She saw the highlands of New Jersey slipping gently past. She recognized the lightship. There was no longer room for doubt. The yacht had put to sea.

Ethel remained staring out of the port-hole for a long hour, during which the New Jersey coast unrolled a panorama of varied loveliness. And throughout all that hour, the girl was in a maze of wonder over this thing that had befallen. She could make no guess as to the meaning of it all. She found herself dazed by the unexpected situation. Yet, a certain instinct warned her of danger. She did not in the least understand the nature of the peril, the cause of it, the effect. But somehow a subconscious intelligence guided her to the realization that this inexplicable situation was fraught with portents of evil. Her fear sharpened when she found that the door of the stateroom was locked from the outside.

Moving with care that she might not cause herself more pain by strain in the injured ankle, she looked for and found a pencil and a sheet of paper, on which she scribbled a note to her lover.

"Mr. Roy Morton,
"Birchwood Camp,
"Nahassane, N. Y.

"Dearest Roy:

"I fell and injured my ankle and concluded to stay aboard The Isabel under the care of Dr. Garnet. I awoke this morning and to my surprise, found the yacht headed down the New Jersey coast. I tried to go on deck. I found I had been locked in my stateroom.... Boat still headed south. Come to my rescue!

"I am going to place this note in a face-powder can. I see ahead a fisherman's boat. It is near enough for me to attract its attention. I shall throw the can near the boat, with the hope that the fisherman will open it and find this note. We are heading toward the Delaware Capes.

"Love to you and father,

"Ethel Marion."

She folded the note and scrawled a few words on the outside very hurriedly, for they were now almost abreast the fleet of fishing yawls.

"Mr. Fisherman, I am a prisoner on my own yacht. Please help me and telegraph this letter to Mr. Morton's address." She crammed the bit of paper into the can from which she had emptied the powder. She thrust her head out of the port and uttered a shrill cry to attract the attention of the fisherman. Then she threw the can with all force toward the nearest boat.

Ethel watched in a mood of half hope, half despair. She saw the can fall into the sea. But one of the fishermen also observed the container of her message as it was thrown into the water. Ethel, watching with strained eyes, perceived the figure of a man in oilskins who suddenly thrust a boat-hook overboard, fished with it for a moment, then drew alongside the tin can, bent over, and picked it out of the water.... The girl thrilled with relief over the success of her attempt to send news of the trouble come upon her.

Nevertheless, there was, there could be, no immediate effect of the message. The engine of the yacht throbbed steadily, carrying her moment by moment further from home and lover and father and friends, to a destination unknown—a destination fraught by imagination with unguessed horrors.

Suddenly, Ethel forgot all the difficulties of this strange situation in a realization of the fact that she was hungry—atrociously hungry! It dawned upon her that she had not eaten a single morsel of food since the luncheon of the previous day. She realized then that she was entirely dependent upon her unknown captor, even for food to keep her body alive.

The distraught girl thought of the locked stateroom door, and was made frantic by the fact that she was thus shut in, a prisoner. She stared longingly at the small, round port-hole. She regarded that swinging window of heavy plate glass with an anxiety of desire that thrilled through every atom of her blood. She wondered: Could she by any chance thrust her slender body through that narrow aperture? She even went so far as to measure the width of the disc—comparing the space to her own slender breadth of shoulders.

She thought that it might be possible for her to thrust her lithe form through the meager opening. She believed that she could push her body through the port-hole. She dared to hope that she might thus escape. Down below was the runway used by the sailors. It seemed to her that the matter of escape would be simple.

Her hunger urged Ethel to make the desperate attempt. She was sure that could she once reach the runway she would be safe from detection on the part of the one directing the course of the craft from the pilot-house. She had heard no noise from the galley, which was near her room. She was certain that it was unoccupied, and that she could slip into it unnoticed, there to satisfy her longing for food from the abundant supply of canned goods. Then, after relieving her hunger, she could determine her future conduct. She might decide to act the brave part by showing herself and demanding to know the cause of her confinement; or she might return in the way by which she had come to the stateroom, with a supply of food, and thus await developments.

The distracted girl took a full hour for consideration of the matter. Betimes, she was bold to the point of desperation; betimes, she was flaccid with despair, helpless before the mysterious horrors of her situation. But at last courage rose in her, became dominant. She resolved to make the attempt at a descent through the opening. Now, she was not in the least intimidated by the very real danger of being unable to secure safe footing upon the narrow runway. The deck below was without a solid rail. It had only the light hand rail with an open space beneath, through which her body might easily plunge into the sea. Moreover, the peril of the exploit was increased for her by the fact of her injured ankle, which must make her footing awkward and unsteady at the best.

Ethel found some comfort on a final examination of the injured ankle. The swelling from the sprain had lessened very perceptibly. She discovered, too, that now she could bend the joint a little without experiencing the excruciating pain which such movement had produced before she lost consciousness from the effect of the opiate. The fact that the injury was not so severe as she had thought and that she could at least depend upon the hurt member for some support, painful though it might be, heartened her anew. Without further pause for reasonings pro and con, she began to force her body through the opening.

The berth was so located that by placing her sound foot upon the edge of it she was able to thrust the upper part of her body out of the port-hole. But this aid would not serve for the remainder of the progress. To get her hips through, she would have to depend on being able to seize the hand rail and thus pull herself outward and downward. She had no fear of being caught midway and held fast, for her measurements had proved that her shoulders were a trifle broader than her hips. The danger would lie in getting a firm grip with her hands on the rail and in the subsequent swinging down of her body to the tiny width of the runway. Now, as she lunged forward, she held her hands outstretched, as if she were about to dive into the sea. In this moment of stress she thanked God for the strictness with which her father had insisted on athletic training. She knew that her eye was keen and accurate, that her muscles were strong, ready with instant response to the commands of will.

But, to her dismay, Ethel found that, notwithstanding measurements, her shoulders would not pass through the opening. She writhed in fruitless endeavor until she was exhausted by the strain. Finally, she gave up the attempt and drew back into the cabin, utterly downcast by her failure. Then, when she was somewhat refreshed, she tested the accuracy of her measurements. To her astonishment she found that she had made no mistake. The port-hole was in fact a little wider than her shoulders. For a time she was puzzled by the mystery of it all. Then, suddenly, understanding came to her. She realized that the outstretching of her arms had caused a lifting and consequent broadening of the shoulders. Once again hope filled her. She repeated her attempt, but now with arms dropped close to her sides. She thrilled with delight as her shoulders slid easily through the opening.

Then, in the next instant, the joy vanished. In its place came stark terror. For she found herself held motionless, when half way through the port-hole, with her arms bound fast by the pressure. She struggled violently, but to no avail. She was caught prisoner with a ruthless firmness that could not be escaped. Her frantic strivings did not budge her body the fraction of an inch either forward or backward. Indeed, it seemed that her futile endeavors to free herself only succeeded in wedging her more securely. She fancied that her own physical violence was causing her body to swell so that it should be gripped more fiercely by the unyielding circumference of the window. There flashed on her a memory of how once she had tried on a friend's ring, had tried it on a finger too large; of how she had pushed it down easily enough over the joint; of how she could not push it back again. She remembered how the finger had swiftly swollen until the ring was deep sunken in the reddened flesh. Now, she imagined her body, caught within the metal rim of the port-hole, was thus reddened and swollen. Her plight filled her with anguish. The dread of it made her forget in this new, overmastering fear all that she had so greatly dreaded hitherto.... Her voice broke in a scream:

"Help! Oh, help! Help!"

Almost instantly, as her voice ceased, Ethel heard the sound of hurrying feet on the deck above. She twisted her neck to look upward, and saw the pleasantly smiling face of Doctor Gifford Garnet, as he peered over the hurricane rail. In that moment of relief, the girl welcomed the familiar countenance of the family physician. She had no thought for the cunning smile that answered to her anguished appeal. She realized only that here was one to succor her in her extremity. She called out to him imploringly:

"Oh, Doctor, help me please. I am caught here. My body is swelling, I think. You must get me out at once or I shall die. Oh, hurry!"

The Doctor grinned at her with sardonic enjoyment of her predicament. But his bland words soothed her alarm:

"I come to your rescue with all speed, Miss Ethel. Never fear, little one, you will soon be quite safe. I hasten to relieve your suffering."

He vanished. Then, a few seconds later, she saw him making his way along the runway. She did not see the hypodermic syringe he carried in his left hand. She did not understand even when he came to her, and put his two hands to her shoulders as if to help her. She felt the sting of pain in her right arm, but thought it no more than the twinge of a strained muscle. Doctor Garnet deftly slipped the hypodermic syringe into his pocket without the girl's observing it. He spoke to her gently, encouragingly, awaiting the action of the drug. Then, a few moments later, Ethel's lids drooped, her form grew limp, her head lolled to the slight swaying of the yacht. She was held now in a clutch more terrible and more relentless than that of the metal band about her body. She was the hapless prisoner of morphia. Dr. Garnet stared into the face of the unconscious girl for a long half minute, with a curious gloating in his gaze. Then, abruptly, he strode away, and as he went he chuckled softly, with infinite relish over some evil jest known only to himself.

CHAPTER VI

Hunting a Clue

The Morton camp was not unlike other Adirondack camps owned by the wealthy New Yorker. It consisted of vast acres of wonderful forests, where conifers and hard wood intermingled. Through the tract wandered a pellucid trout stream. At a glance, one would know that those waters were teeming with wonderful trout, that many a big fellow of the finny tribe inhabited the depths that waited for the angler's lure.

The comfortable camp, built of rough-hewn logs with low sloping roof overhanging broad verandas, was built upon a bluff immediately above and overlooking the home of the most elusive, the most splendid speckled beauties—the trout that are the most savory on the table and the gamest in the water.

This morning, Roy Morton was well content with the world. It was late summer, and something of the languor of the season coursed in his blood. He sat on the porch, watching idly the dimpling waters below in a pool. He had an eager eye for the occasional leap of a trout to the surface in search of prey. He watched appreciatively the glint of rainbow tints on the iridescent sides as the fish rose and the sunlight showed all its splendor. While he gazed, at intervals, Roy worked on his fisherman's tackle. As the trout leaped, he studied that for which they leaped—with an idea of fashioning flies to suit their capricious taste. He finally determined just the fly that he should use for a cast at this hour of the day in order to entice the appetite of the trout. He had that particular fly upon his leader in readiness for a cast, and had started toward the stream to test his judgment in playing on the appetite of a fish, when his attention was distracted by the approach of an ungainly boy, evidently a native.

The boy held in his hand a telegram. Roy dropped his tackle, and held out his hand for the message. Mechanically, he tossed a coin to the lad. Then he ripped open the envelope and read the message.... And he read there Ethel's frantic appeal for help.

Roy was equally amazed and alarmed as he read and its meaning penetrated his brain. Usually, he was a young man distinguished for his coolness, resourcefulness and courage. Now, however, for the time being his brain was dazed; his heart leaped with fear. Through long minutes he stood motionless, staring with unseeing eyes, as if striving in vain to penetrate the veil of this terrible mystery that hung between him and the girl he loved. His thoughts were a miserable whirl of confusion; his will was powerless to marshal them in order. He did not note the going of the messenger boy, who sauntered casually back over the way he had come, whistling in happy unconsciousness as to the suffering of which he had been the harbinger.

Then, presently, Roy's mind cleared; his heart grew brave again; he felt a frantic desire for instant action. He looked about for the messenger boy, and uttered an exclamation of anger as he saw that the fellow was gone. He was desirous of sending on that very instant a telegram to the police authorities in New York, asking them to begin an investigation at once. He shouted for the boy, but there was no answer, and he realized that the messenger was gone beyond recall.

Roy wheeled, and rushed into the house. He ordered a horse saddled, and within five minutes was galloping at breakneck speed for the station. He knew that the next regular train was not due for three hours, but he had decided without any hesitation that he would order a special. He felt that no haste could equal the necessity now when Ethel was momently being carried further and further away from him, when perhaps her life, her honor, were imperilled by the scoundrels who had her in their keeping.

On his arrival at the station, Roy issued his orders with a crisp air of authority that won instant obedience from the man who served as station master and telegraph operator. The telegraph key sounded busily for a few minutes, and the matter was arranged. A special would be ready for him within an hour. This would get him to Albany in time to make connection with the limited express for New York.

That accomplished, Roy cantered leisurely back to the camp. As he rode, his mind was concentrated on plans for his future course. He resolved to keep the matter secret from his elderly mother, who was by no means in good health. Instead, he would merely tell her that a friend of his was in trouble, and that he must go immediately to New York, in order to straighten out the affair. His mother accepted his explanation without any suspicion that he had told her only a half-truth. She merely mourned over this interruption of his visit, and made him promise to return at the earliest possible moment. Roy felt shame over the subterfuge with which he had deceived his mother, but he knew that it was necessary for her own sake, while her knowledge of Ethel's plight could do no good.

Roy hastily, but methodically, packed his traveling bag, and then, after an affectionate farewell to his mother, stepped into the town wagon, and was driven to the station.

After reaching the station, Roy occupied the short interval of waiting for the special by writing out two messages, which he had put on the wire to New York. The first of these was addressed to the Collector of the Port, asking whether or not clearance papers had been taken out for The Isabel. The other telegram was to the most noted detective agency in the city, which contained a request that their best operative should meet him at the arrival of his train in the Grand Central Terminal. He directed that the replies, in each instance, should be sent to him at Albany, in care of the limited train with which he would make connection there.

The second message was barely completed and delivered to the telegrapher when the special roared to a standstill by the station platform. Roy sprang quickly up the steps, and almost before he had entered the car the locomotive was again snorting on its way.

The loungers about the station watched greedily this unexpected interruption of the day's routine. And, too, there was bitter envy in their hearts directed toward this handsome, young aristocrat, who could thus summon a train for his private pleasure. They could not guess anything of the black misery that marked the mood of the young man whom they deemed so favored of fate.

Roy's impatience was such that he could not sit for a minute at a time. Instead, he strode to and fro with the feverish intensity of a leopard padding swiftly backward and forward in its cage. So he moved restlessly, though walking in the car was none too easy. There was need of haste if the special would catch the limited express at Albany. It was evident that the engineer and fireman had no mind to fail in the task set for them. The fireman gave steam a plenty, and the engineer made use of it with seemingly reckless prodigality. The car swayed and leaped with the excessive speed. On the curves, sometimes, it appeared as if it must be thrown off the track, and Roy was compelled to cling fast to his seat in order to avoid falling. But he felt no distress over the rocking, lurching progress. Rather, he found a grim joy in it, since it was haste, and always more haste, for which he longed.... And then, at last, the special thundered into the Albany station and clanged to a standstill. Roy breathed a sigh of relief. The limited express had not yet pulled in.

He had time to make inquiry concerning telegrams, and found one awaiting him from the Collector of the Port of New York. This simply stated that no papers had been issued for the clearing of the yacht Isabel. The message added that if the vessel had sailed it must have been stolen. Just as he finished the reading of this dispatch, the operator handed him a second telegram—one from the detective agency. It announced that their best operative would meet him in the terminal at the gate on the arrival of the limited express in New York. There was a direction added to the effect that the operative might be recognized by his standing apart from the crowd and wearing two white carnations in the lapel of his coat.

Arriving at the Grand Central terminal, Roy walked rapidly to the exit gate. His eyes roamed for a moment over the passing throng in search of the man with the boutonnière of white carnations, and presently picked him out where he stood a little apart. Roy hurried to him, and made himself known. At once then the two men left the station and crossed over to the Biltmore, where they took seats in the lobby for a conference.

Jack Scott, the detective, had won fame for his agency by his masterly work in solving the problems of many skilful jewel robberies among the wealthy residents of the metropolis. He yet lacked some years of thirty, but his reputation was already of the highest among those who knew what his occupation was. For, as a matter of fact, the young man was of old Knickerbocker stock, and the inheritor of wealth. He had a genius for detective work and a love of the calling that compelled him to make it his vocation. But his employment in this wise was known only to the head of the agency with which he had associated himself, and to a few trusted intimates. The better to guard his secret he adopted the plebeian alias of Jack Scott for professional purposes instead of his own aristocratic name.

He had first won the admiring attention of the detective agency's chief by an exploit when he was only eighteen years of age. At that time his mother was robbed of a fabulously valuable pearl necklace. Extraordinary rewards were offered for its recovery, and detectives big and small hunted high and low for the gems. They failed utterly in their search. But the lad worked out a theory as to the theft, gained evidence to prove it the truth—in short, within a fortnight, he had recovered the pearls, and the thieves were safely lodged in jail.

Already at this early age, the boy was profoundly interested in uplift work among criminals. When his mother smilingly turned over to him the reward she had offered for the recovery of her necklace, he devoted the whole sum to this charitable work. And ever since he had made a like disposal of the proceeds from his professional services. Now, Roy recognized in the detective assigned to him by the agency, an acquaintance of his own, Arthur Van Dusen. He expressed his astonishment at this revelation concerning one whom he had regarded merely as a social butterfly. But explanations were soon made, and Roy could not doubt Van Dusen's ability since it was guaranteed by the agency.

He immediately made known his need of help.

"I'm afraid," he began with a tremor of anxiety in his voice, "that you have been assigned to a case which will prove hard to solve. The woman I love—the woman I had expected to marry soon—has been taken from me in a most mysterious way. Somehow she's been kidnapped, and taken to sea a prisoner on her father's yacht."

"Her name?" Van Dusen demanded crisply as the speaker paused.

"It's Ethel Marion," Roy answered huskily. "The daughter of Colonel Stephen Marion, who, at present, is with his regiment on the Mexican Border." He drew Ethel's message from his pocket and extended it to the detective.

"The only clue I have," he continued, "is this letter from her. She managed somehow to toss it near enough to a fisherman's dory so that they picked it up, and forwarded it to my mother's camp in the Adirondacks. I wired the Collector of the Port for information about the yacht's clearance papers. I had a reply from him at Albany on the way down here. He said that the yacht has not been cleared, and that if it's not in port, it has been stolen."

Roy fairly groaned, and made a gesture of despair.

"That's all I know of the affair," he added drearily. "I am distracted for fear something dreadful may have happened already. You understand now how badly I require your help. I can think of nothing—do nothing. You are not to think of expense. Just rescue Ethel Marion and run down and jail those guilty of this crime against her." His voice suddenly became pleading. "And you must let me enlist as a lieutenant to serve under you. Inactivity under such stress would drive me mad, I know. I was stunned at first, but now I have my faculties again, and I believe that I may be able to be of use in the case under your guidance."

Van Dusen stretched out his hand and clasped that of Roy warmly. Something in the firm contact comforted the distraught lover. It was as if strength and courage flowed into him from the other man.

"Rely upon me," Van Dusen said quietly, but with a note of confidence in his voice that still further served to hearten his hearer. "And I shall certainly make use of you—and at once. First off, I'll ask you to get in touch immediately with Captain Halstead, the master of my yacht. Arrange to have it properly equipped and provisioned, so that we may sail at a moment's notice. Luckily," he added musingly to himself, "the new wireless outfit is already installed on The Hialdo. We'll need it."

Van Dusen stood up abruptly, and again spoke to Roy, almost curtly.

"After you've attended to the matter of the yacht, report to me at the agency. You should be there well within an hour. If you arrive first, wait for me."

"But you——?" Roy began eagerly.

Van Dusen replied to the unfinished question.

"I'm off now to seek a clue from Miss Marion's maid." His voice grew gentle as he spoke again after a moment's silence. "It's a curious case; curious and—difficult. But, please God, we'll win."

Roy's answer came brokenly.

"Heaven bless you, Van Dusen! And," he added with fierce intensity, "we will win—we must!"

CHAPTER VII

Stormbound

Van Dusen hurried to the Marion address, where he found Ethel's maid thoroughly enjoying the vacation that had resulted for her from Doctor Garnet's action. Using his alias of Jack Scott, Van Dusen explained to the girl the situation that had developed, which was so perilous to her young mistress. When the maid had recovered from her first dismay, she told freely all that she knew, and this was sufficient easily to give Van Dusen the suspicion that the family physician might be in fact the guilty man, who was responsible for Ethel's disappearance.

The detective's next visit was to the office of Doctor Garnet. There he found the physician's secretary much worried over the prolonged and unexplained absence of his employer. He declared that the last time he had seen Doctor Garnet was several days before when he had left in answer to a hurry call from the victim of an accident. The secretary added that he had made careful inquiries in every possible direction, but had been unable to find any trace whatsoever of the missing man.

Van Dusen gave only vague answers to the anxious questions put by the secretary. He stated merely that a client of his was anxious to get in touch with the physician. Then, without more ado, he hastened to keep his appointment with Roy. His own face, now he was alone without any necessity for the mask of indifference, was deeply perturbed. Consternation was written in his expression. His deductions brought him face to face with the fact that Garnet was actively concerned in the mystery. Either the physician was actually guilty of abducting his girl patient for some evil purpose of his own, or else he himself was also a victim of the kidnappers along with Ethel. Or, finally, the man had suddenly become deranged from nerve strain and overwork, and in this irresponsible condition had stolen away the girl, with what crazy design none might guess. This possibility was even more dreadful than the others since there could be no certainty as to what the madman might intend. Van Dusen realized, with a shudder of horror, that in haste must lie the only chance of rescuing the girl from some horrible fate. It seemed to him that the single feasible plan would be to follow down the coast according to the directions given in Ethel's letter to Roy. While doing this the wireless on his yacht would keep constantly in touch with all Southern ports and with the coastwise steamers for news of The Isabel. Then whenever the stolen yacht should be located, if fortune so favored, it would be pursued with all speed in the hope of effecting a rescue.

Van Dusen found Roy pacing uneasily to and fro in an outer room at the agency. He had performed the duties entrusted to him by the detective and was now wild with impatience for further action. His first glance into Van Dusen's face stirred him to new excitement.

"Oh, Arthur!" he exclaimed, "I can see by your expression that you have obtained important information. Tell me!" he insisted. "Tell me! I must know—even if it's the worst. In these hours of suspense and despair, I've braced myself to stand any shock. Tell me!"

Van Dusen answered soothingly.

"Roy, old man, the mystery will be solved, I think, and that before long. That is to say, it will be cleared up unless The Isabel founders at sea before we can reach it. I have discovered that in all human probability Miss Marion has been carried away in the yacht by Doctor Garnet."

"Are you positive about that?" Roy demanded fiercely.

"I am positive this far," came the quiet reply. "Doctor Garnet has not returned to his office since the time when he answered the call to attend Miss Marion on the yacht. It is fairly to be deduced from her message to you that he appeared on board in answer to her summons. I am of the opinion that Doctor Garnet is the one responsible for this outrage. He is either the victim of a sudden fit of insanity, or he has become a man-beast, sacrificing position and honor and every decent instinct in order to gratify a heretofore smoldering lust, which has suddenly flamed forth and got beyond his control."

"Your deductings are doubtless right—at least in part," Roy admitted, though with obvious reluctance in his tone. "But I find it hard to believe the possibility of Doctor Garnet's being the brute you suggest. He is universally esteemed not only for his ability, but also for his manliness and his many deeds of kindness and charity. If he has done this thing it must have been as you also suggest because he has gone crazy."

Roy mused for a moment, and then spoke with a new note of excitement in his voice.

"How do we know that the Doctor was not murdered while on board the yacht, and that the murderer or murderers then made off with the vessel and Marion? Or, perhaps, the tender was capsized and he was drowned along with the caretaker. Afterward the kidnapping may have been done by others who knew nothing whatever of Doctor Garnet." Roy shook his head with decision. "Anyhow," he added, "I cannot believe that Doctor Garnet, in his right mind, could ever have been guilty of such a foul crime."

Van Dusen regarded the young man tolerantly, but his smile was a little cynical as he replied:

"When you have studied crime as thoroughly as I have during the past few years, Roy, you will not be so confident of finding nothing but good in any particular man, no matter how high his reputation may be. I cannot say with certainty that Doctor Garnet is vile; neither can I say that he is incapable of vileness. But in the work I have to do, I must entertain all possibilities if I would solve the problem."

"Well, Arthur," came Roy's reply after a moment of reflection, "I admit that I am amazed by what you have told me. I do not in the least understand the turn of affairs by which Doctor Garnet is implicated. But you are in charge of the case, and I am absolutely in your hands. I mean not to hamper you in any way—not even by throwing doubts on your judgment. So, now, just tell me what you mean to do next."

Van Dusen answered authoritatively:

"We must leave at once. On my way here, I sent out wires to Norfolk and other near-by coast points. These will be sufficient to keep the port officers on the lookout for The Isabel, as well as the coast-guard crews. I have a wardrobe on board my yacht. Whatever you may need beyond what's in your bag, I can supply you with. Let's be off."

Van Dusen's yacht was moored near the spot where The Isabel had been lying. The detective made diligent inquiry at the landing stage in the hope of picking up some bit of information concerning Doctor Garnet's presence there, but the effort was fruitless. No one seemed to have known anything concerning the physician's visit.

Forthwith, then, the two young men went aboard Van Dusen's yacht, and a few minutes later the vessel was under way, with instructions to the master to hug the New Jersey shore while keeping a sharp lookout for The Isabel.

The detective operated his own wireless outfit and for several hours at the outset of the voyage he kept busy, interrogating the different ships bound up and down the coast, and the shore stations as well, for any information concerning the stolen yacht. Finally, a tramp steamer answered that she had passed The Isabel the day before, and that the yacht at that time was headed down the coast, going slowly, in the direction of Hampton Roads. At once, on receiving this news, Van Dusen directed that the yacht's course should be set for Cape Charles and the Roads.

As a matter of fact, without this information, the yacht must have taken this same direction for the sake of safety, since the weather soon became so threatening that none but the most foolhardy would have ventured to navigate in the open sea a vessel of The Hialdo type.

The Hialdo pushed her nose through the waters of Hampton Roads in the early morning. Both Roy and Van Dusen were on the bridge, surveying with their glasses every detail visible of the bays and creeks. They dared hope to catch somewhere a glimpse of The Isabel, for they believed that she must be secreted somewhere hereabouts in some out-of-the-way place. They were justified in this by the fact that they had received no word of the yacht's arrival from the harbor authorities of Norfolk. Yet, now, their roving scrutiny was of no avail. Nowhere could they find a trace of aught that could possibly be mistaken for The Isabel.... With the approach of night the violence of the gale became such that perforce Van Dusen gave orders for the tying up of the The Hialdo at the Norfolk port, there to await the passing of this southeaster of hurricane force.

The hours during which the tempest raged were fraught with horror for Roy Morton. He was in despair now, for he could not believe that The Isabel would be able to ride out the gale. His imagination pictured for him with frightful vividness the wreck of the yacht and its carrying down to death the girl he loved. The young man's agony of spirit was so evident that Van Dusen became alarmed lest he should break down. The detective thought to distract Roy from his morbid thoughts by suggesting that they take a trip into the town to lessen the tedium of waiting until the storm should wear itself out. His persistence at last won a reluctant consent, and the two set forth.... In after years, Roy was to think often with shuddering of what must have been the dreadful result, had he indeed refused to accompany the detective on that excursion into the town.

CHAPTER VIII

The Efficiency of Clam Broth

The mere act of rapid walking had a beneficial effect upon Roy. His circulation was equalized by the exercise and something of his natural buoyancy of spirit was restored to him. The detective, too, found pleasure in the tramp, and the young men walked along many miles of the Norfolk streets, aimless, but well entertained. They swung at last into the square where a huge monument commemorates the Lost Cause and heroic dead. Suddenly Van Dusen's attention was attracted to a huge gilt sign over the door of a saloon. The outer aspect of the place was attractive enough, with something of distinctiveness about it. He turned to Roy and spoke with a tone of amused interest.

"That seems a bit different from other saloons. And I fancy the sign tells the truth." With the words, he pointed to the gilt lettering over the door.

Roy turned and looked in the direction of the detective's pointing finger. "Clam Broth King," he read, and smiled appreciatively.

"Well, old man," he remarked, "it's a straightforward way of advertising a food, as well as a novel one. And from the labels on the bottles in the window, it might prove a good place for us to visit before we start on the return journey to the yacht."

"I really know the place," Van Dusen declared, "and it is excellent. About a year ago, I was in this city on an important case. It was through the assistance of The King that I was able to locate a most valuable witness. And the probability is that but for the sign I would have missed it. I've always been a perfect fiend for clam broth. After seeing the sign, I knew, of course, there must be something particular in that line inside, and so I wandered in. Well, I was served by The King. When I first entered, I reconnoitered by stepping up to the bar and ordering a drink. Before I had a chance to question the man who was serving me, a gentlemanly appearing fellow touched me on the arm, and asked me pleasantly if I wouldn't like a cup of clam broth. He said that The King had just made a fresh batch, and that it was fine. I scrutinized the fellow closely. He had a kindly, youthful face, and his bearing was agreeable. I answered him promptly that good clam broth was just what I wished to have. 'But,' I demanded, 'who the devil is The King? It's a new one on me, to have a king for a chef.'

"The man laughed and then replied:

"'Oh, The King! Why, he's only me!'

"To cut it short, a few minutes later the broth was served to me, along with some dainty wafers, and while I drank it The King and I made friends."

Van Dusen's tone changed abruptly.

"But let's not loiter here on the outside any longer. Let us go into the presence of The King."

So it came about that Roy was duly presented to The King, and he was not disappointed in either that culinary monarch or the throne room. Perhaps his enthusiasm was the greater since he was sorely in need of food to nourish a mind and body exhausted by suffering.

The clam-broth King catered largely to the officers of ocean-going vessels. There's hardly a master sailing the main who has touched at Norfolk or anchored in Hampton Roads during recent years that has not known Harry the clam-broth King, and has called him friend. To-day the usual number of storm-bound seafaring men of the better class were gathered around the miniature tables in the place. The King was very busy indeed, passing from group to group to see that none of his friends were neglected. He greeted Van Dusen with obvious pleasure and had a welcoming smile for the newcomer when he was introduced to Roy. A moment later Van Dusen and Roy were seated at one of the tables, each with a bowl of piping-hot clam broth before him.

But before the contents of the bowls had been wholly swallowed both Roy and the detective paused to listen with avid interest to the words of a mariner seated at an adjoining table. And this is what they heard:

"Yes, boys, it was some blow and believe me it is still a-kicking up good and plenty outside the Capes. I missed the worst of it. My barometer had indicated that there was going to be some big doings long before the clouds begun to loom. I was half a mind to haul to in the hook o' the Cape at Lookout, but the sky seemed so clear and I was so near Hatteras that I made up my mind that we could get into the Roads by crowding the boilers a little. I'd a heap rather be laying up close to the King's clam broth than at that sorry, lonely, Lookout Bight. Don't understand me that I have got anything against that snug little harbor. I have every reason in the world not to have for she has saved my vessel and my carcass many's the time. The only thing is that it is such a desert place on land, not a house, not a human, with the exception of the light-keeper and his crew. When a skipper makes harbor he likes it to be where there are some shore pleasures on tap. I will venture that there was not less than half a dozen skippers put in there to get away from this blow and every last one whilst they knew the fact of that little nook o' safety being there had saved him and his ship, was just a-raring because he had not taken a chance rounding Hatteras and putting into Hampton Roads where he could run in here and gossip and inhale the fumes of King Harry's clam broth and feel the effects of his Scotch, while this-here West India hurricane wore herself out.

"You know, boys, I wish that I was a yachtsman with a good roll to back it up. Why, do you know them fellers take lots of chances and it's very seldom that they lose their craft? Of course, I have navigated over more of the sea than you, having been coasters all your lives. And do you know there is hardly a port in the world where I haven't seen a pretty, trim American yacht lying at anchor or haven't passed them on the seven seas? And never have I found one in great distress—except for being out o' some particular kind of liquor. With we fellers it's different. We're always in some kind o' trouble, not to mention being constantly out o' all kinds o' liquors. And then we are scairt o' our lives, or run aground or burn up, and so lose our master's papers, which means our job."

The speaker paused to clear his throat noisily. Then he went on:

"Speaking along these lines reminds me of a little yacht we passed on the run up, off Ocracoke Inlet. She was a long ways off shore, headed in. But I guess she made the inside all right in spite of the waves running high and breaking and the strength of the wind increasing with every flaw. Her name was The Isabel. And it's my opinion the captain of that yacht ought to be in the crazy house or dead."

Somehow at the outset, the narrative had riveted the attention of Roy and Van Dusen. It was as if their intuitions warned them that something significant was to issue from the mariner's rambling remarks. The utterance of the yacht's name thrilled them both, and they stared at each other for a moment with startled eyes. Then they listened again with new intentness as the speaker continued his account:

"It was just after daylight. I had been on the bridge all through the night, for I was anxious over our position, should the hurricane break with full force. I knew from the glass that it was close on us. I was looking dead ahead. Suddenly out of the mist appeared a craft as white and trim as a swan. She would plunge forward on a giant wave, then disappear for a moment in the trough, to appear again right side up, and coming at full speed to meet the next one. She was driving so fast that often she would force herself through, rather than over, the oncoming waves. I just naturally kept expecting from second to second that that fool skipper, sending her along at such reckless speed, would bury her so deep that it would be impossible for her to shake off the tons of brine, and so float on top again. If the fool only had sense enough to slow her down, I thought to myself, that bit of a craft would almost go through hell itself without a scorch. I realized that we were getting dangerously close, for I was going fast before the wind. So I quickly gave a passing-signal blast from our whistle, indicating that we would pass her on the port side. What do you suppose that fool at the wheel did then? Close as we were, and with no other reason that I could guess other than a desire to court death, he deliberately answered my signal with two blasts. They meant that he was going to starboard, almost diagonally across our bow. I saw it was too late to correct his error, so I simply had to accept his cross signal, and I did my best to avoid a collision. I was successful—no thanks to him. We missed The Isabel by a hair. As it was, I thought that in spite of all we could do the suction from our propellers would draw in and crush the smaller boat against our side. I fancy we missed it more through good luck and the grace of God than through good management. And now what do you think?

"That chap at the wheel, instead of appearing grateful and giving me three blasts in salute, stuck his head and shoulders out of the pilot-house window and shook his fist at me. He yelled, too, and the wind brought the words down to me. 'You're only a dirty tramp, but you think you own the seas!' You boys know that that word 'tramp' for a good honest trading steamer always did get on my nerves. I admit I swore a little at the bunglesome cuss, but he was well to windward, so I might just as well have saved my breath.

"I honestly believe that that ornery fellow in the pilot house was crazy as a bed-bug. Stranger still, there wasn't another soul in sight aboard of her. I'm thinking I'll report the affair to the inspectors. There's no doubt in my mind that The Isabel weathered the storm for the chap was headin' her straight as he could go for Ocracoke Inlet. As the yacht was of light draft she could easily get over the bar and into Pamlico Sound, where he could haul to under the lea of the sand dunes. Down there that craft would ride out 'most anything that might come along."

The detective, with a gesture to Roy that he should remain in his seat, arose and crossed over to the Captain of the tramp steamer. He called the man aside, and frankly explained how he had overheard the narrative concerning the yacht Isabel. He admitted that this information was of vital importance to his friend and himself.

The Captain at once became intently interested. Doubtless he foresaw something in store for the yachtsman that would settle his own score against the fellow, the fellow who had reviled him.

"If you really want to come up with that critter," the mariner declared, "it would be the easiest thing in the world according to my mind, provided you have the right sort of a boat."

Van Dusen described his yacht.

"How much does this Hialdo of yours draw?" the swarthy-faced skipper demanded.

"She draws, fully stocked, just eight and a half feet aft," the detective answered. "And we could shift the gasoline so that she would get through on eight feet of water."

The captain nodded appreciatively.

"That fellow, the chances are, is right this minute at anchor somewhere in Pamlico Sound, or else he's cruising around on some of those connecting inland waters. The one and only place where he could get to sea again would be where he went in at Ocracoke, or else at Beaufort Inlet—though he might head for Norfolk by way of one of the two canal routes. You can bet your bottom dollar that, even as crazy as he is, he won't tackle the open sea just yet while this heavy swell is still on. It's my idea you got your man sure enough, for he's in a trap. The thing for you to do is to get aboard your craft, and then hot-foot it through the Dismal Swamp Canal for Ocracoke by way of Albemarle, Coratan and Pamlico Sounds.

"If you like," the Captain added with a touch of embarrassment lest he might seem officious, "I'll keep a sharp lookout on the other canal, so that he can't pass you while you're going through old Dismal. You might post the authorities at Elizabeth City to keep an eye open for the yacht, and to detain her if she shows up while you're rushing on at full speed for Ocracoke and Portsmouth. They're the little towns, one on each side of the Inlet. If you don't happen to find the outfit at either of these places, there ain't a particle of doubt according to my judgment that those folks can inform you of the direction taken by The Isabel when she sailed, for they keep mighty close tabs on every vessel that comes or goes through the Inlet. If you find she headed south on the inside, you'll know that loony is making for Beaufort Harbor with the idea of waiting there for the sea to calm down before venturing on the outside. Or maybe he hasn't any intention of going out at all. It seems to me he's more likely to be heading for some one of those tributaries to the Sound that are narrow and deep, with the shores covered by a regular jungle growth. Boats of any size seldom go into them—except once in a while one run by a drag-net fisherman. This crazy man could expect to hide there for weeks on a stretch without danger of being disturbed. If it's actually a case of kidnapping he's certainly shown himself as cunning as mad folks sometimes are."

The detective motioned to Roy to join him and the Captain. Then in a few crisp words he explained the situation as it was indicated by the mariner. Both he and Roy joined in expression of gratitude to the skipper, who gave his name as Jake White. Then the two, realizing the need of haste, said farewell, and made their way back to the wharf with what speed they might.

CHAPTER IX

Once in a Lifetime

To the average humane person the loss of a pet, whether through thievery or death itself, brings a very real sorrow for a time. How much worse it must be for one who lives alone, a recluse on an island of sand in the sea, to suffer the loss of his only living companion, something to come at his beck and call, something that seems indeed to reciprocate its master's affection!

It is true that Shrimp was only a fowl—a Dominick rooster at that. Probably, from the standpoint of intelligence, a creature very low in the scale. But its association in this case had developed the qualities of the bird. The years of companionship had brought man and rooster to an intimate understanding of each other.

When Captain Ichabod stepped from his shack, his pocket bulging with corn for his favorite, and saw the rooster showing afar off against the snow-white sand where he was industriously scratching, and whistled a summoning call, Shrimp would come racing toward him at top speed, with wings beating a rhythm to his hurrying legs. Then would the rooster greedily pick the grain of corn from his master's horny palm, clucking the while guttural notes of gratitude. And at such moments Ichabod's heart would grow warm with pleasure in the realization that it was within his power thus to make one of God's creatures happy.

When Doctor Hudson came to the door of the shack, where the bereft old fisherman sat, shaken with sorrow over his loss, he tenderly smoothed the Captain's wrinkled brow. He asked to know the cause of this sudden misery.

Ichabod, with a boylike gesture, brushed away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he straightened himself, and met the physician's kindly gaze squarely.

"Thar ain't no call for explanations when a feller's feelin's are teched. Doc, do ye know o' some lonely codger that needs a good housekeeper?"

The earnest question came in such startling contrast to the old man's manner of a moment before, when he was shaken with sobs, that the Doctor was hard put to it to restrain a burst of laughter. But by a great effort he limited his expression of amusement to a broad smile as he replied:

"Yes, I know one—an old retired fisherman by the name of Jones, Captain Ichabod Jones. He's a man who has weathered many of the storms of life. Now, as his bark is getting nearer to the last port, he needs to be less alone." A note of very sincere sympathy had crept into the physician's voice. "He should no longer be troubled with the cares of looking after his own home. But, I suppose, there's no use mentioning this to the man himself."

"Yo'r in the right church, Doc," replied the fisherman, "but ye are approachin' the wrong pew. Ichabod Jones has proved himself this day. I did 'low that I was gettin' sort o' decrepit like, but this mornin' proved to me that I ain't as near all in as me and my friends thought. Didn't I tote a human woman nigh onto a quarter of a mile without a-hurtin' me a mite? No, sir, Doctor, I am the man that wants the job. Them scoundrels that I saved has stole all that I had in the world to come home to and now I'm ready to quit this island o' mine and go an' dust out an' cook vituals for some crabbid old customer that is meaner than me. The more he'd quarrel the more it 'ould suit fer it 'ould take my mind off of this woman business that took place here to-day, and then I might larn to forgit the rooster."

"Jones, I believe you're crazy!" The Doctor exclaimed half angrily. Then he added, with a grin: "I guess I'd better give you a sedative to quiet those overwrought nerves of yours. Then you can get inside the shack, lie down on your bunk and doze off for a spell."

The old fisherman took the remark with all seriousness. His face grew livid as he stared at the Doctor with widened eyes. He stretched to his full height and spoke in a tone of tense solemnity.

"I will have you to know, Doctor Hudson, that never again will Ichabod Jones occupy that bunk, for—God A'mighty, man!—it has been desecrated by a woman. Of course, it was my own fault, I suppose. But then there was death a-starin', an' what could I do? When I built that hut an' tossed the fust blankets on that bunk I swore by the power that rules the waters what washes over this sand-bank o' mine that no woman should ever be welcome. An', by the Eternal, I meant it! They may say that Icky Jones has quar notions, and like enough he has, but when that woman what I loved saw fit to take on the beach-comber o' Port Smith Town, an' left me to be the laughin' stock o' Cartaret County, I sure as shootin' made up my mind that it couldn't happen but once in my lifetime—an' it hain't—an' it won't! An' say, Doc, when that foreign woman, whilst I was a-bringin' her to, opened up them pretty eyes an' looked at me fer the fust time, I made up my mind or rather diskivered, that old as I be an' quar as I be, I can't trust myself agin whar thar's women. Sure as thar's clams and oysters on them rocks yonder, I'd play fool, an' try an' make it heigh-ho for the parson. You see, Doc, it ain't that I hate women that I located on this lonely island. It's because, by golly, I'm afeared of 'em."

This was the first time, so far as the physician knew, that Ichabod had ever thus frankly confessed the truth concerning his bitter marital experience and its effect on his life. Doctor Hudson was deeply impressed by the fisherman's display of emotion. He spoke seriously in reply:

"Captain, you can't imagine how glad I am to have heard you say this. Until now, I never could understand how a man of your honest character and kind heart could hate the sex to which we owe our being, the sex that has done so much to make life more beautiful, to make happiness for humanity. Now, at last, I understand. Your seeming hatred has been merely a mask for cowardice. You'd fight a giant, if need be—just as you have fought that giant, the sea, so often and so bravely. But, just the same, you're an arrant coward. You turn tail and run when a woman's in question, because you're afraid of the weaker sex. I suspect it's time for you to reform. I want you to come to town with me now, and stay there until you've fully recovered from to-day's excitement. While you're there, I'll look round and see what I can do toward finding you a place as housekeeper."

Ichabod shook his head with great emphasis.

"No, sir, Doc," he declared sturdily, "I ain't a-goin' to stir a step fer the town. But I'll let ye tow me as far as the Spar Channel. Then I'll set sail fer the coast-guard station. I'll spin my yarn thar to the boys, an' like's not spend the night with 'em. Then I reckon I'll come back to the Island. But, fust off, I'll stop at your office an' git some fumigatin' powders, so's to fix the house fit fer Ichabod again."

The Captain and the physician made some further examination, which convinced them that the strangers had in fact left the Island by means of the wrecked yacht's little tender. Assured of this, the two men set forth, the Doctor for Beaufort, Ichabod to pay his visit at the life-saving station near old Fort Macon, where he knew that he was sure of a royal welcome.

CHAPTER X

Eyes from the Deep

The staid little city of Beaufort had been stirred to its remotest corners with the exciting news brought back from Ichabod's Island by the physician. Doctor Hudson had told the story to little groups here and there as he called upon his patients. Needless to say that a shipwreck, even though it be only that of a medium-sized pleasure craft, was enough to set everyone all agog with excitement. And here, too, there was the added mystery, concerning the young and beautiful woman together with her strange companion, who had been rescued from death only to vanish so inexplicably.

Next day, Ichabod quite forgot to stop at the town in order to secure the fumigating powders from the physician. As a matter of fact, he was accompanied home by a number of the life-saving crew, who were eager to survey the wreck and make investigation on their own account. As he approached the Island, the old fisherman was astonished to see at least a dozen launches and fishing schooners gathered near the wreck. It was low tide, and all those aboard the craft seemed to be staring down into the pellucid waters. It was evident that something of an unusual sort attracted their gaze. As Ichabod drew near, accompanied by the boat from the life-saving station, one of the men, on a launch that had her nose resting on the tiny beach at the oyster rocks was seen to be busy arranging a block and tackle. In answer to Ichabod's hail, he shouted that there was a dead man in the wreck.

When the Cock Crows

WHEN THE COCK CROWS

By WALDRON BAILY

Author of "Heart of the Blue Ridge," "The Homeward Trail," etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY
G. W. GAGE

NEW YORK
BEDFORD PUBLISHING CO.
1918

Copyright 1918, by
BEDFORD PUBLISHING CO.

PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.

TO
Hon. Josephus Daniels
As a token of the author's admiration and respect,
for one who in the greatest crisis in
history has demonstrated to the public
those qualities of courage, determination
and achievement that his
friends have always
known him to
possess.

He bore her with what haste he could to the landing and gently placed her within the blankets.

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations