Chapter XX “Good Work, Pal!”
“You see,” Sam went on, seemingly unaware of her consternation, “it’s foolish to take any more chances than are absolutely necessary. Now that we’ve got a fairly good stake, it would be silly to wait. We’ll run over to the American side somewhere, and once we get ashore there’s small chance of getting pinched.”
“Are you utterly mad?” asked Rosalind, abruptly finding her voice.
“Mad? I should say not, ma’am. Just cautious—that’s all. I’d be mad if I stayed.”
“But you are saying that I—”
“That you are going with me. Certainly. Why not?”
Rosalind was not frightened, yet something in his tone chilled her. She examined his face with searching eyes. He seemed to be quite composed; there was no trace of wildness in his eyes, no betrayal of mental agitation in his speech. Were it not for his astounding words, she would have considered him entirely normal. She decided to laugh, but the attempt was poor. His was infinitely more successful.
“It may be a little sudden, ma’am,” he admitted; “but it seems a case for quick action. I’m sorry we won’t even be able to stop at Witherbee’s for your trunks.”
She decided to try a reasonable tone.
“Think what you are saying,” she advised, controlling her voice. “It is quite impossible—this thing you propose. But, of course, you’re not serious.”
“Never more serious in my life.”
The look in his eyes gave her a twinge of alarm.
“But don’t you see—Sam—”
“That’s the first time you’ve called me by name,” he interrupted with a bow. “Thanks, partner.”
“But don’t you see there is no reason whatever for me to go.”
Rosalind was trying to talk to him as if he were a petulant child to be placated, or a lunatic to be argued with until help arrived.
“There’s every reason,” he answered. “Pals should stick together.”
“But you know—seriously—that I am not your—pal!”
The vulgar word passed her lips reluctantly.
“But you are, ma’am; the best I ever had. I guess I could name a dozen instances of it. Want me to go over them? First, there’s—”
“You need not. It’s too absurd. I shall go at once.”
“Not till I go,” he told her firmly. “As I was going to say when you interrupted me, ma’am, we’ll make a break for the American shore, and as soon as we can get a license and a justice of the peace or minister, why—”
“Stop!”
“We’ll get married.”
Rosalind turned pale. Truly she was dealing with a madman on this lonely little island!
“Married!”
“Why, certainly! What else? You don’t suppose I’m going to lose a pal like you?”
The boatman was so calm that his manner utterly disconcerted her. A rational exterior, she reflected, often cloaked the most dangerous forms of insanity.
“But I have no intention of marrying—anybody.”
“That’s been the trouble all along,” he assured her. “You’ve had so many offers that you don’t take them seriously any longer. But this is different. This isn’t an offer, ma’am; it’s just a plain announcement of what’s going to happen. We’re going to be married.”
She glanced swiftly through the trees in the direction of the river. There was not a boat within hailing distance.
“It’s this way,” he went on easily. “You’ve helped me out of a few tight places. I’ve helped you once, at least. We’re a great team, and there’s nothing like teamwork in our business. I don’t mind saying I’m strong for you. You have got good nerve; when you make up your mind to anything, you’re apt to get it.
“You and I can go a long way together. I’ll admit we may quarrel some, but that’ll be your fault. You’ve got a hair-trigger tongue, ma’am. But I won’t mind that; I’m getting used to it. The point is, when we get working together we’re able to deliver the goods.
“You wouldn’t expect me to lose a good pal, would you? Of course not. And I can’t see myself doing it, either. It’s true that the jig is up here. But it’s a wide, wide world, pal. Shall we be going?”
“Do you suppose for one instant,” said Rosalind, trying to hide the real terror in her voice, “that I am going to marry—you?”
“I’m sure of it,” he said confidently. “Why not, ma’am? We won’t starve—and I say that without the least idea of tapping your bank-roll. You can keep it soaked away, if you want to. I’ve got a nice little stake now.” He touched the pocket where Morton’s check reposed.
“That’ll last us a good while,” he continued, “and it’s a sure thing we’ll turn off some kind of a job before that’s gone. Why, just think! With my experience and your social drag—”
“Stop!”
There was absolute desperation in her voice.
“Not much time to lose,” he advised, glancing at a nickeled watch. “No telling but that Englishman’ll be stirring up some sort of trouble for us.”
Wrath triumphed at last despite Rosalind’s efforts to be self-contained.
“You common thief!” she cried, stamping her foot and glaring. “How dare you insult me so? You burglar! You blackmailer! You—”
“Spy and smuggler,” he supplied. “May as well get the whole list out of your system, ma’am. I don’t mind; I keep my temper better than you do.
“But don’t forget that I’m talking facts, while you’re just barking at the moon. I hate to disappoint you, in one way; but your scalping days are over, ma’am. You’ve had your last proposal. I don’t doubt you’ve turned down a lot of pretty good scouts, but you won’t turn down any more. That’s a cinch, as far as I can see now.
“You had your last proposal—unless there’s been one since—when the Englishman got so enthusiastic over you. I heard it, you know. You threw him rather hard. You did the same for Reggy, less than half an hour before. And I understand there’s been a long string of them. Well, you’re at the end of the string.”
He grinned complacently.
“You needn’t shout,” he added. “You’re not getting a chance to turn me down. This is no proposal, ma’am. This is what you might call an order, if I have to speak plain. It don’t require any answer. It’s not up to you to say yes or no; all you have to do is to come along like a good pal.”
Rosalind shrank backward a step. At last she was genuinely frightened, for Sam possessed all the calm of a terrible madness.
“What a fool I’d be to let you go!” he added reflectively. “And—not to flatter myself—what a fool you’d be to miss a chance like this! We’ve just got to know each other’s ways; we’re like wheels in the same clock. I need you; you need me.
“I’ll admit you don’t have to earn your living. But think of the fun you miss when you don’t! It gets mighty tiresome, standing on the outside and looking in. What you and I need, ma’am, is excitement—plenty of action—something to keep us on edge.
“You’re what I call an emergency pal. You don’t really begin to get good until you’re in a scrape. It takes trouble to start you going. But when you do get started—if you don’t mind my saying it, ma’am—you go to it like the cat to the canary.”
She scarcely heard his last words; her mind was intent on seeking some avenue of escape. Tentatively, she edged toward the path that led to the boat-landing. But the boatman understood and shook his head.
“When we go, we go together,” he assured her. “That dress you’re wearing looks all right. Whatever you need in the line of clothes we can get when we hit the mainland.
“As far as I’m concerned, all I have to do is to put on my hat. And that’s down in the boat, I think; if it isn’t, it doesn’t matter. We’ll start, I guess.”
He turned toward the path and beckoned.
“I refuse to stir a foot!” exclaimed Rosalind.
She compressed her lips.
“That means carrying you, then, ma’am.”
“You dare not touch me!”
“I hate to, but I’ll have to, if you’re not willing to walk.”
“I will not go! It’s—it’s insanity!”
The boatman shrugged and advanced toward her.
She retreated a pace.
“If you dare—”
“Will you walk, then?”
“I’ll find someway—”
“Once and for all, will you walk?”
She searched his eyes for some trace of insincerity or weakness, but found none. A shudder of fear shook her. Then she rallied herself angrily.
“I shall walk,” she said coldly.
He nodded contentedly and led the way toward the landing. Rosalind followed mechanically, but her brain was afire with activity. Beyond doubt, the boatman had become insane; if, indeed, he had not been so from the first.
But she realized that at times it was needful to humor an unbalanced mind. For the present, she would accompany him; but surely there would be an opportunity to escape. If she could obtain no aid from a passing boat, at least there would be ample help when they reached the mainland.
“We’ll take the old Fifty-Fifty,” he remarked as he loosed the painter. “It’s better than rowing. And if anything goes wrong, why, you’re here to fix it. By the way, what do you want me to call you, ma’am, Rosie?”
She glared at him.
“No? Rosalind, maybe? It’s a little long; but it’ll do, I suppose. It’s shorter than saying Miss Chalmers, anyhow. But it’s not as short as pal. I rather like that, myself. But you seem to be touchy about it.”
Rosalind stepped aboard the launch without answering.
She prayed that the engine might not start; but the prayer was unanswered, for it purred happily at the first turn of the fly-wheel. The launch backed out into the stream. An instant later it described a half-circle, then started eastward.
“We’ll hit the trail for Ogdensburg,” said the boatman. “Plenty of preachers there.”
“Are you aware of the fact,” remarked Rosalind, with a sudden smile of triumph, “that before you drag me to a preacher you must drag me to some town clerk or other person and obtain a license?”
To her annoyance, he appeared neither surprised nor dismayed.
“It’s just another step in the journey,” he said carelessly. “I’ll admit that this license game is sometimes a spoil-sport on romance. But you haven’t got me there. You’ll agree! You’ll step right up to the captain’s office and take your little oath without saying a word. A good pal never welches.”
“I shall most certainly turn you over to the police at the first opportunity.”
“No,” he said confidently, with a shake of his head; “you won’t do anything of the kind. Why, ma’am, you’re the pal who keeps me out of the hands of the police! You’re an expert at it. I’m proud of you.
“You see, if one of us got pinched, the other would have to go along, too; I’m strong for sticking together. You understand—for better or for worse, ma’am. I think that’s the way they say it.
“And if they should happen to pinch you, it would be real embarrassing, I expect. They’d start finding things out, maybe; all about lots of things that have happened to you and me. My, but that would be a piece for the papers! Head-lines and pictures and artists drawing little sketches of Rosalind, the ‘Regal Lady,’ sitting in a tree and burgling a house and bossing a gas-engine and—”
“Stop!”
“Oh, all right; I’ll stop! I expected you to get the idea. You’re not much of a hand for getting laughed at, I notice. And folks might laugh if they read the papers. You’ve got a kind of a long name for a big-type head-line, too; some printer-chap might chop it down to Rosie in order to make it fit.”
The boatman grinned and reached over to advance the spark.
Rosalind turned her back upon him—this One-Cylinder Sam who meant to marry her—and gazed despairingly across the water. By sheer perversity of fate, there was not a boat within half a mile. Ogdensburg meant a run of several hours, even at the best gait of the Fifty-Fifty. It might be dark when they arrived. She imagined the panic on Witherbee’s Island when nightfall came without her.
Sam lighted his pipe and sat hunched over the tiller, smoking thoughtfully. For a quarter of an hour he appeared to pay no attention to anything save the back of Rosalind’s head. Then something caused him to glance upward at the sky, then at the horizon that lay behind them. He wrinkled his forehead and put aside his pipe.
It was scarcely mid-afternoon, but daylight was failing rapidly. Rosalind herself, although wholly concerned with her absurd and perhaps dangerous plight, presently noticed the change in the sky. A swift survey of a great bank of black and lead-colored clouds ended with a glance at the boatman.
“Squall coming,” he admitted, with a nod.
She experienced a feeling of elation. A squall might mean anything but a license and a parson. It was a storm that saved Britain from the Armada.
Sam, however, made no alteration in his course. Frequently he glanced over his shoulder, but soon this maneuver became unnecessary, for the battle-front of the squall had advanced with such appalling rapidity that it now overhung them, like some monster destroyer of the air. As yet, however, there was no breath of wind.
“You’ll make an island?” Rosalind suggested.
“She’ll ride it out,” he said confidently. “I’ve been out in ’em before.”
Rosalind measured the low free-board of the launch with a doubtful eye. She was still triumphant in what she felt would abruptly shatter the mad plans of the boatman, yet she was sensibly uneasy at the fairly ferocious aspect of the storm.
“Better make a landing,” she warned.
“Afraid?”
She turned her back upon him.
Half a mile astern a long, white line extended itself across the river. Beyond it the boatman could not see, for all was murk and grayness and ominous opacity. Then the white line seemed to leap forward at a furious pace. The speed of the launch was as nothing to it.
Suddenly the steersman seemed to awake. He chewed his under lip anxiously as he watched the onrush of the line of foam.
“Worse than I thought,” he muttered. “I’m a fool.”
A quarter of a mile to his left lay an island, but he knew there was not a chance in a thousand of making the lee of it. Besides, to alter the course meant taking the squall abeam, with a swift ending of the voyage in mid-river.
“Come aft here!” he commanded.
Rosalind turned and studied the white line. It was not more than a hundred yards distant. Without a word she obeyed him.
He motioned her to a seat beside him, and as she sat down passed an arm around her shoulders.
“Sit tight, pal,” he said. “And if it gets too bad, there’s a life-preserver under your feet.”
The change is his tone impressed her for the moment far more than threatened perils. All the banter and sarcasm had vanished from his voice. He spoke gravely, almost grimly.
“I shall not need it,” she answered. “I swim.”
“We may be in a bad fix,” he said, his lips close to her ear. “If it was anybody but you I wouldn’t admit it. But you’re game. It’ll blow hard and get rough. I’m sorry—”
The remainder of the sentence she could not near, for the white line had overtaken them. The storm-front delivered a blow like a battering-ram, a blow in which wind, hail, sea, and a stifling smother of froth seemed welded into one sinister and mighty weapon. The launch staggered, then leaped forward.
Rosalind felt a cruel beating of ice-shrapnel upon her face, her arms, her thinly clad shoulders. In an effort to give her shelter the boatman drew her head down against his flannel shirt. One hand was needed for the tiller, for the clumsy power-boat was yawing and swaying, and at every lurch struggled, as if with deliberate purpose, to offer her beam to the storm.
He steered wholly by instinct. Every landmark and island had been blotted out as if swept from the surface of the river. Even the bow of the launch was no longer visible.
The boatman sat with his feet braced against a cleat, his body swaying with the roll of the seas. He squinted through half-closed eyes, but saw nothing save a fury of white water and driving hail. Indeed, river and air seemed to have merged into a whirling, stinging, vapory mass, in the grip of which the launch was flung onward, so that at times she seemed to fly, rather than float.
Rosalind was glad to hide her face, not because she feared to look upon the fury that encompassed them, but to shield it from the bitter volleying of the hail. It seemed not to descend from sky to earth, but to travel horizontally, with the velocity and flat trajectory of a rifle-bullet.
Flying water smote her when the wind sliced the crests from waves and flung them aboard across the stern of the wallowing launch. The boatman’s grip tightened. Even in the din and ferocity of the storm she found herself marveling at the power that lay in his slender but sinewy arm.
His lips were against her ear.
“All right?” he shouted. “Just nod; don’t try to talk!”
She nodded.
Another minute passed. There was no slackening in the onslaught. Once the tiller was almost wrenched from Sam’s hand by the impact of a sea that caught the launch a quartering blow. It was nearly disaster, but he managed to swing the stern to the wind again. Yet the blow had left its mark. There was water now above the flooring.
As it swirled about Rosalind’s feet she reached forward to where a tin bucket lay. The boatman drew her back.
“No use!” he roared. “You can’t bail!”
She accepted his decision without question, and again hid her face against his breast.
“Get the life-preserver!”
She heard the command but dimly, though it was shouted directly into her ear.
Rosalind shook her head. Of what use was a thing of cork and canvas out there in the white fury?
“Get it!”
Again she shook her head. It was not merely the uselessness of the thing that caused her stubborn refusal. It was the fact—and she was calmly conscious of it, too—that there was only one life-preserver in the boat.
Just why this influenced her was not clear in her mind, but she realized with faint surprise that it did. She even found herself pondering over it, telling herself that it was unethical to seize this lone chance that offered itself only to her. Yet she was doubtful, too, that ethics had anything to do with the matter.
The water in the cock-pit was deeper, and there was a growing sluggishness in the movements of the launch that she noted as quickly as the boatman himself.
“Rosalind!”
She lifted her head slightly.
“For Heaven’s sake, put it on!”
“No!” she cried almost fiercely.
She felt the grip of his arm tighten convulsively. Something that sounded like a sob came from his throat.
“It’s your one chance!” he shouted.
She shook her head.
Then for a brief instant some freak of the gale tore a great rent in the curtain of hail that shrouded them. The boatman’s straining eyes had a vision of black rocks fairly in the path of his storm-harried craft. The murk closed in again.
“We’re going ashore!” he roared.
Rosalind nodded.
“In half a minute—not more!”
Again she signed that she understood.
“Listen!” His lips were bellowing the words into her ear. “I’ll steer until we’re ready to hit. Then I’ll rush you forward and get you ashore somehow. Understand?”
She nodded.
“Be ready!”
Now he prayed for another glimpse of the goal that lay ahead, but it was denied him. He could only calculate its nearness; nay, could do little more than guess. Second by second they were closing upon it, yet he dared not release the tiller, for if the launch yawed before she struck she might never strike at all. Safety or disaster lay in the barrier toward which they were sweeping, he knew not which.
But his plans were swiftly made. The woman at his side would have the best chance he could give her.
He tried counting the seconds, but this was useless. If he could but see again for a single instant! It was death to start too soon; death to wait too long. And he could only guess at the moment!
The tension snapped. Why—how—he did not know; the hail still half blinded him. Yet he staggered to his feet, dragging her with him, and rushed forward, knee-deep in the water that filled the rapidly settling launch.
As he neared the bow a black wall sprang out of the gray mist. To Rosalind it seemed to rear itself to an impossible height. The launch lunged heavily toward it.
“Don’t cling to me!” he shouted.
At the same instant she was lifted in his arms. As the boatman stepped out upon the slippery, staggering deck the black wall hung over her.
Rosalind felt herself tossed into the air. For what seemed an interminable period she hung suspended in space. Then something rose to meet her feet with a jarring shock. She was standing on a ledge.
Below her, even above the roar of the wind, came the sound of a heavy, crashing blow. The launch had struck. She knew what that meant. The boatman had given her the one chance!
With a gasping sob she whirled about and stepped to the edge of the rock.
“Sam!”
The hail beat upon her cheeks, but she did not feel it as she stared downward at the frothing water. There was no sign of the launch.
“Sam!”
Her voice had risen to a shriek.
Something touched her foot—a hand!
She dropped to her knees and seized it in both hers. He was hanging in mid air, the river lashing hungrily at his feet as his body swayed in the gale.
Afterward he assured her it had been a matter of less than ten seconds. To Rosalind it seemed an eternity. Some of it she achieved herself, although she had no clear recollection as to how.
But he stood at last with the ledge under his feet.
And then, white-faced and laboring for breath, he grinned:
“Good work, pal!”