The Trey o' Hearts/Chapter 20
CHAPTER XX
The Rocket
AFTER several hours of good behaviour the demon charged with dominion over powerboats rammed the nose of the lifeboat deep into the flank of a skulking shoal of viscid mud quite fifty feet from shore.
While the motor and the men were labouring, panting, struggling, and splashing in a vain effort to work the boat off the shoal, the gasoline gave out. With a gasp, a grunt, and a sigh, the motor fell dumb. The two men, likewise breathless, looked at one another stupidly, but found no words. …
"Why not wade ashore?" Rose suggested mildly from the place she had taken astern in order to lighten the bow. "It isn't so far—and what's one more wetting?"
"But there's no sense in Miss Trine wading," Barcus suggested; "we're web-footed as it is; and she's too tired."
"Well, what then?"
"We can carry her, can't we?"
After a toilsome progress Rose at length slipped from the seat formed by the clasped hands of the two men. "Gee!" grunted Barcus frankly, "and it was me who suggested this!"
The girl responded with a quiet laugh, as natural of effect as one could wish until it ended in a sigh, and, without the least warning, she crumpled upon herself and would have fallen heavily, in a dead faint, but for Alan's quickness.
"Good Lord!" Barcus exclaimed, as Alan gently lowered the inert body of the girl to the sands. "And to think I didn't understand she was so nearly all in—chaffing her like that! I'd like to kick myself!"
"Don't be impatient," Alan advised grimly. "And you might fetch me some water."
It was an order by no means easy to fill; Barcus had only his cupped hands, and little water remained in these by the time he had dashed from the shallows back to the spot where Rose lay, while the few drops he did manage to sprinkle upon her face seemed to avail nothing. In the end Alan gave up the attempt. "She's all rights" he reported, releasing a wrist whose pulse he had been timing. "She fainted, right enough, to begin with, but now she's just asleep—and needs it, God knows! It would be kinder to let her rest, at least until I see what sort of a reception that lighthouse over yonder is inclined to offer us."
"You'll go, then?" Barcus inquired. "I'd just as lief, myself"
"No; let me," Alan insisted. "It's not far—not more than a quarter of a mile.
Barcus nodded, his face drawn and gray in the moon-glare. "Thank God!" he breathed brokenly, "you're able—afraid I'm not."
He sat down suddenly and rested his head on his knees. "Don't be longer than you can help," he muttered thickly.
The truth, however, was that Alan himself was hardly more fit for the tramp. Fatigue seemed to have fastened weights to heels that dragged with ever-heavier reluctance as he plodded along the beach.
But all at once he heard a series of staccato snorts, the mellow tolling of a brazen bell, the rumble of a train!
And then he ran, weariness altogether forgotten in the surge of hope attending this discovery that he was again in touch with civilization.
As he came round the headland he saw before him the quiet vista of a village street with a railroad station.
He burst into the station just as the agent was closing up for the night.
"Nah," the latter averred; "they ain't no more trains till mornin'. Can't y' see I'm shuttin' up?"
"But surely there must be a telegraph station"
"You bet your life they is—right here. An' I'm shuttin' it up, too. Call around at eight o'clock to-morrer mornin'."
"But I must send a telegram now," Alan protested. "It's a matter of life and death."
"Sure, young feller. It always is—after business hours."
Alan thrust a hand into his trousers-pocket. "Will a dollar influence your better judgment?" he suggested.
"Let's see your dollar," the other returned, open incredulity informing his countenance.
Alan brought forth an empty hand. "Make a light," he said sharply. "My money's in a belt round my waist. Open up your office. You'll get your dollar, no fear!"
Peremptorily he shouldered past the agent and entered the station; he quickly made good his word, unbuckling an oilskin belt beneath his shirt and extracting a fold of banknotes that struck sparks of respect from the agent's flinty arrogance.
"All right," he grumbled. "Write your message. It ain't often I do this, but I'll make an exception for you."
Alan delayed long enough only to make a few inquiries, drawing out the information that the quickest way to any city of importance was by boat across Buzzard's Bay to New Bedford. Boats, it was implied, were plentiful, readily to be chartered. A timetable supplied all other needful advice, and Alan wrote his message swiftly.
Addressed to Digby in New York, it required that gentleman to arrange for a motor-car to wait on the waterfront of New Bedford from 3:00 a. m. till called for in the name of Mr. Law, as well as for a special train at Providence, similarly instructed.
With hope like new life animating him, Alan hurried forth from the station, heedless of the interest in him betrayed by two village loafers, trotted up the street, ordered supper for three at the village hotel, and set off again down the beach.
But now, all unconscious of the fact, he went no more alone.
He found his sweetheart and his friend much as he had left them—with this difference, that Barcus now lay flat on his back and was snoring lustily. He was roused only with the greatest difficulty, and awoke grumbling.
He was placated quickly enough, however, by Alan's information.
But when it was the turn of Rose, both faltered. None the less, it must be done; Alan hardened his heart with the reminder of their urgent necessity, and eventually brought her to with the aid of a few drops of some brandy which he had purchased at the village.
Between them, they helped her up the beach, past the point, and at length to the door of the hotel, where—reanimated by the mere promise of food—Rose disengaged their arms and entered without more assistance, while Barcus in his own famished eagerness was deterred from treading her heels by the hand of Alan falling heavily upon his arm.
"Wait!" the latter admonished in a half-whisper. "Look there!"
Barcus followed the direction of his gesture, and was transfixed by sight of a rocket appearing into the night-draped sky from a point invisible beyond the headland. The two consulted one another with startled and fearful eyes.
As with one voice they murmured one word:
"Judith!"
To this Alan added gravely:
"Or some spy of hers!" Then rousing, Alan released his friend, with a smart shove urging him across the threshold of the hotel.
"Go on," he insisted," Join Rose and get your supper. I'll be with you as soon as I can arrange for a boat. Tell her nothing more than that—that I thought it unwise to wait longer before looking round."
He turned to find his landlord approaching. His question was barely uttered before the man lifted a willing voice and hailed a fellow townsman idling nearby.
"Hey, Jake—come here!"
Introduced as Mr. Breed, Jake pleaded guilty to ownership of the fastest and staunchest power-cruiser in the adjacent waters. His terms, though extortionate, were undisputed. And Alan readily consented to Mr. Breed's condition—that his crew (of one man) accompany the vessel to bring her back from New Bedford. Then, enjoining haste, and promising to be at the town-wharf within ten minutes, he hastened to join Rose and Barcus and complete the ruin that they had wrought on a plentiful hot supper.
Neither man mentioned the rocket or his fears. Pending developments, there was no profit in exciting Rose's anxieties: haste was the one prescription of that hour.
This they observed religiously: within the stipulated ten minutes they were waiting upon a float at the side of the town-wharf, while the promised rowboat of Mr. Breed leisurely drew in to meet them.
Having embarked, the burden of Alan's solicitude grew lighter with every dip and splash of blades that, wielded by a crew of villainous countenance, brought them nearer a handsome motor boat which Mr. Breed designated as his own. It was not until Alan looked up to find Mr. Breed covering him with a revolver that he had the least apprehension of any danger near at hand.
"I'll take that money-belt of yours, young feller," Mr. Breed announced. "And you be quick about it—not forgetting what's in your trousers pocket!"
In the passion of his indignation, Alan neglected to play the game by the rules. The indifference he displayed toward the weapon was positively unprofessional, for he struck it aside as though it were nothing more dangerous than a straw. And in the same flutter of an eyelash, he launched himself like a wildcat at the throat of Mr. Breed, who went suddenly over the stern, his firearm sinking to the bottom while he splashed and gurgled and blasphemed and saw his crew (who had been the first to suggest this affair while the two watched Alan through the window of the railway station) make sad business of an attempt to overpower Mr. Barcus.
The splash made by the first on entering the water, indeed, anticipated the second splash by less than a minute. And then Mr. Barcus was bending his back to the oars while Alan knelt in the stem and brandished a boat-hook, asserting his intention of braining the first who dared swim alongside.
"And just for this," he added before getting out of earshot, "I'm going to treat my party to a joy-ride in your pretty power-boat. You'll not get a cent; but if you send a man to Newport to-morrow he can have the boat back."
He made the peroration as Barcus brought them up under the quarter of the power-cruiser. Within two minutes the motor was spinning contentedly, the mooring had been slipped, the motor-boat was heading out into the sound. Rose, made comfortable on a transom of the tiny cabin, went almost instantly asleep, while Alan made all snug, and joined his friend by the wheel.
For the best part of an hour neither spoke. Alan drowsed, soothed by the slap of waves against the side and the dull sing-song of the engine. When he roused himself, for no particular reason, it was to regard with admiration the spectacle of Barcus, tirelessly vigilant and efficient, at the wheel.
"My friend," he observed, languidly, "as our acquaintance ripens I am more and more impressed with the belief that neither of us was born to die a natural death, whether abed or at the hands of those who dislike us; but rather to be hanged as common pirates."
"You have the courage of ignorance," Barcus replied coolly. "If you'll take the trouble to glance astern"
Alan sat up with a start to see behind them the milk-white sails of an able schooner.
Sheets all taut and every inch of canvas fat with a beam wind, she footed it merrily in their wake, a silver jet spouting from her cutwater.