Chapter XII Turning the Tables
Sam talked rapidly and with many gestures, the latter for the benefit of Reggy Williams in case Reggy might be looking up from the landing-place, where he was now making fast his boat.
“You went out rowing,” explained Sam hurriedly. “You rowed up close to my island.”
“By why did I go rowing? I’ve got to know that. I told Mr. Williams I was going up-stairs to take a nap.”
“Oh, you changed your mind about napping, or you went rowing in your sleep. Anything will do; what’s the difference about why you went? The point is, you went rowing. You’re old enough. While you were close to my island you were upset in a sudden squall.”
“There hasn’t been a breath of wind to-day!”
“Well, cut out the squall, then. You rocked the boat, or did something silly, and fell overboard. You screamed and I—”
“You’re deaf and dumb? How could you hear me scream?”
“That’s right. Cut out the scream. I saw you; that’ll do. I’m not supposed to be blind. I rushed down, got into my boat, went out and rescued you. Then I brought you to the island to recover. How’s that?”
Rosalind looked doubtful.
“He’ll be here in a minute,” warned Sam. “Either take that or invent a better one.”
“But it makes me sound so foolish—so helpless!” she protested. “And he knows I can swim.”
“Tell him you forgot how—your skirts tangled you up—anything!”
Rosalind nodded her head reluctantly.
“All—right.”
Reggy Williams was now hidden from view at a bend in the path, which he was already ascending. Rosalind gasped abruptly.
“My clothes!” she exclaimed. “I fell overboard and—and I’m not even wet!”
“Ouch!” cried the boatman. “I forgot. But wait!”
He dashed into the cabin, then reappeared carrying a large galvanized-iron pail. It seemed to be heavy.
A second later and the contents of it—cold, pure water from the great St. Lawrence—descended upon Rosalind like a cloud-burst.
“Now you’re O.K. for the part,” grinned the boatman as he tossed the pail aside.
“You—you—”
“S-sh! It’s a grand make-up. Had to be done, you know.”
Rosalind, a beautiful, dripping statue of white, shot him a glance of fury and hate. Her drenched costume clung clammily. Wet strands of hair plastered her cheeks, while her eyes blinked painfully from the effects of the deluge.
“Here he is,” whispered the boatman as Williams entered the scene. “Remember—I’m a dummy! Talk up now like a rescued lady.”
Reginald Williams, momentarily halted by the spectacle of a moist and miserable lady, sprang forward with an anxious cry.
“Rosalind!”
She waved him back and made a wild effort to smooth her hair.
“You’re hurt!” cried Reginald. “What’s happened?”
“I’m—I’m not hurt,” she answered. “Don’t be silly. I’m merely wet.”
“Wet! You’re saturated, child!”
“I’m not a child. Please don’t get hysterical, Reggy.”
“But how—why—”
“Naturally I’ve got to explain,” she sighed.
The boatman, standing behind Reginald, winked enthusiastically and waved his hand.
“You see, I didn’t take a nap,” said Rosalind. “I changed my mind about that. I went out for a row. Why didn’t I tell you? Why should I, Reggy?”
“But you nearly drowned yourself!” blurted Reginald in a dismayed tone.
“On the contrary I did nothing of the kind. This—this fellow here is the cause of everything.”
Reginald whirled swiftly upon the boatman, who stood open-mouthed, staring at Rosalind.
“What have you done?” roared Reginald, his great figure advancing threateningly.
With a swift look of pained surprise at the dripping one, Sam made a gesture of incomprehension and backed away a step.
“He is deaf and dumb, remember,” interposed Rosalind. “Don’t hurt him, Reggy. Of course he didn’t do it intentionally. But he is such a clumsy fool!”
The boatman’s mouth was still open. He seemed to be holding his breath.
“I don’t care if he is deaf and dumb,” declared Reginald savagely. “If he’s done anything to you, I’ll break his neck. Tell me, Rosalind—hurry!”
She smiled very faintly, and bestowed a sweeping and deliberate look of malice upon Sam. As Reginald removed his glance from the object of his threat the boatman shook a fist at Rosalind and went through a frantic pantomime. It had no effect upon her.
“Why, you see, Reggy, as I said before, I went rowing. After a while I came to this island. I was tired of rowing and I came ashore for a rest.”
Sam was glaring and shaking his head. He even pointed at the tree, then at the dog. Reginald, who caught the gesture, was puzzled.
“What’s the matter with him?” he demanded.
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” advised Rosalind. “He’s a little unbalanced, I think.”
“I’ll tie him up if you say.”
“No, indeed; he’s quite harmless.”
The boatman, making sure again that Reginald was not looking, shook his fist and pointed to the pail that had so recently played its part. Rosalind ignored the implied exposure.
“Where was I?” she mused. “Oh, yes; I came ashore. While I was sitting on the rocks, resting, I saw this man approaching in his launch. He had the engine stopped and was leaning over the side of the boat, which was drifting along slowly. He seemed to be engaged with something that was in the water. It—it was a fish-net, I think.”
“Against the law,” observed Reginald, nodding.
“Of course. And then, while I watched him he fell overboard.”
Sam, who had been listening with steadily widening eyes, broke into a furious pantomime. He shook his head violently and pointed at his clothing. Rosalind bit her lip and remembered. The boatman’s clothes were dry.
For an instant she paused, dismayed. The web of her fiction was becoming tangled. From sheer stubbornness, hardened with a desire for revenge, she had embarked upon a tale of her own. If there was lying to be done Rosalind was resolved to be the architect of her own falsehoods. She would not become a parrot for the lies of another.
Nor had she a mind to play the weak and conventional part of a maiden in distress, rescued by masculine courage and brawn. Even though wet and undignified she proposed to preserve some shred of superiority to the sex that scattered hearts at her feet.
“As I said,” she resumed suddenly with a swift flash of her eyes in the direction of Sam, “the creature fell overboard. He began floundering about in the water quite helplessly, and it was evident he could scarcely swim a stroke. I couldn’t see him drown, so I had to go to the rescue.”
“And you rowed out—”
“That was the trouble,” continued Rosalind. “My boat had drifted loose and had disappeared. So there was nothing else to do but swim—unless I wanted to see him drown.”
“Rosalind!”
Reginald’s eyes were blazing with admiration.
“Oh, it wasn’t much of a swim,” she said carelessly. “Not over a hundred yards, I should say.”
“But you risked your life, child!”
“Not at all. I can really swim, Reggy; you know that. Well, I got to him after a while, at any rate, and I found him in such a panic of fear that it was difficult to do anything for him.”
She paused long enough to allow her glance to wander again toward the boatman. His symptoms were those of hysteria.
“Finally I managed to get him by the collar from behind,” continued Rosalind calmly. “I had to choke him a little, I think. It wasn’t very easy to get him to the launch, which had begun to drift, but we made it after a while. Then—”
Another inspection of Sam seemed to afford her satisfaction, for she smiled.
“Then it was a question of getting him aboard. He was in a complete funk; did nothing but cling to the boat and roll his eyes. I had to climb in myself and then drag him after me. And then—think of it, Reggy—he began to weep. That great, grown man shed tears like a child!”
Reginald surveyed the great, grown man with pity and contempt.
“That’s all of it,” added Rosalind. “It was just a question of running the boat to the island.”
The suitor from the city gazed upon Rosalind Chalmers in adoration.
“You wonder!” he exclaimed.
She made a careless gesture and turned a pair of triumphant eyes in the direction of the boatman. He had ceased his pantomime and was regarding her with an expression even more rapt than that of Reginald.
“Wait till they hear of this at the Witherbees’!” exclaimed Reginald.
“They mustn’t!” she said hastily. “Not for anything!”
“But my dear girl, it’s so—”
“Remember Mr. Morton!”
Reginald frowned. The boatman’s manner became suddenly alert. The name of Morton had a galvanizing effect. Then he remembered his role and relapsed into vacant passivity.
“Hang Morton!” blurted Reginald. “If the man’s insane, as you say he is, I don’t see why he isn’t sent away. He’s got everybody walking around on tiptoe and whispering. They’ve got the habit so bad that they even do it to me.”
Sam’s brow was furrowed, and the look he devoted to Rosalind contained a perplexed inquiry. She did not meet his eyes for long.
“At any rate I don’t care to have you mention the matter,” she said firmly. “It’s nothing.”
“Well, I think when a girl does a fine, brave thing like that she’s entitled to all the credit for it,” Reginald grumbled. “And to think of it being wasted on that boob, too!”
Once more he inspected the boatman. Then, as he studied the loose-jointed figure, surprise came into Reginald’s eyes. He looked back to Rosalind.
“That’s funny.”
“What?”
“Why, his clothes are dry!”
The boatman was having a convulsion of some kind. His body twitched violently and bent almost double.
“Oh, yes,” said Rosalind. “You see, he was chattering so with cold or fright, probably both, that I told him he’d better put on some dry clothes. He had some in the cabin.”
Sam managed to straighten himself.
“You told him?” repeated Reginald wonderingly.
“Yes; he seems to have no initiative whatever.”
“You don’t mean to say he heard you?”
Again the boatman had a seizure.
“Of course not,” answered Rosalind easily. “I had to write it on a piece of paper.”
Sam turned abruptly and walked to the cabin. His shoulders were shaking.
“He isn’t over it yet,” commented Reginald.
“I don’t imagine he will be over it for a good while,” said Rosalind a little savagely. “I think you may take me home now, Reggy.”
The boatman stood in the doorway of his cabin, watching them descend the path. He was grinning broadly.
Rosalind felt that she had in some measure achieved revenge for the indignity of her bath. It was no more of a falsehood than the story Sam had attempted to put into her mouth; certainly it was better to be a heroine than a clinging creature.
And by all odds it was an improvement on the preposterous and humiliating truth!
She and Reginald heard a clatter of footsteps behind them as they stepped into the Witherbee launch and turned to see the boatman running down the path. He was making gestures that were clearly intended to delay their departure, so they waited.
As he reached the rock from which they embarked he dropped to his knees, stretched his arms wide and looked up at Rosalind with eyes that conveyed to her an expression of doglike devotion. If there was a hint of something else in them, it was not Sam’s fault. As an actor he was but an amateur.
Before the lady in the wet gown could divine his purpose he seized her hands in his own, bent his head over them and began kissing them. Rosalind uttered a cry of disgust. His beard tickled! Also she detested sentimentality.
“The poor fellow is trying to tell you how grateful he is,” said Reginald.
Rosalind struggled to release her hands, but the boatman clung to them.
“Reggy! Make him let go!” she called sharply.
Reginald laid a rough hand on the boatman’s shoulder and shook him. The man lifted his head and stared reproachfully. Then he dropped Rosalind’s hands and sighed deeply.
She found as she drew back with a little shudder of annoyance that in the palm of one hand there was a folded bit of paper. Instinctively, her fingers closed over it; there was no need of explaining more things to Reginald.
Not until some time later, when the launch was far on the way to Witherbee’s Island, did Rosalind find an opportunity to examine it. Then, her back turned to Reginald, she unfolded the crumpled sheet, and read:
“PAL ROSIE:
“You put one over on me that time—but just wait.”