 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN OF THE HARBOR OF DOUBT. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. Trollers. Schofield stood as one stupefied, staring blankly at the fateful words. Murder in the first degree. Had it not been for his thorough knowledge of Nat Burns's character, he would have laughed at the absurdity of the thing and thrown the message over the side. But now he remained like one fast in the clutch of some horrible nightmare, unable to reason, unable to think coherently, unable to do anything but attempt to sound the depths of the hatred such as this. For heaven's sake, what is it, skipper? asked Ellenwood. Code passed the message to his mate without a word. His men might as well know the worst at once. Ellenwood read slowly. ROT! he snarled in his great rumbling voice. Murder! How does he get murder out of it? If I sank the old Mace Schofield for her insurance money, which is what everyone believes, then I deliberately caused the death of the men with me, didn't I? Pete, this is a pretty serious thing. I didn't care when they set the insurance company on me, but this is different. If it goes beyond this stage, I will carry the disgrace of jail and a trial all my life. That devil has nearly finished me. Code's voice broke, and the tears of helpless rage smarted in his eyes. Steady on now, counseled Pete, looking with pity at the young skipper he worshipped. He's done for you true this time, but the end of things is a tarnal long ways off yet, and don't you go losing your spunk? But what have I ever done to him that he should start this against me? cried Schofield. Pete could not answer. What do they do when a man is accused of murder? asked Code. Why, arrest him, I guess. Pete scratched his chin reminiscently. There was that bulwark case. He recounted it in detail. Yes, he went on. They can't do nothing until the man accused is arrested. After that he gets a preliminary hearing, and if things seem plain enough, then the grand jury indicts him. After that he's tried by a regular jury. So the first thing they've got to do is arrest you. Darn it, they shan't. I'll sail to Africa first," snarled Code, his eyes blazing. He strode up and down the deck. You say the word, Skipper, rumbled Pete loyally, and we crack on every stitch for the North Pole. Code smiled. Curse me if I don't like to see a man smile when he's in trouble, announced Pete, roundly. Skipper, you'll do. You're young, and these things come hard, but I calculate we'll drop all this talk about sailing away to foreign parts. Now, there's just two courses left for you to sail. Either we go on fishing and dodge the gunboat that brings the officer after you, or we go on fishing and let him get you when he comes. I'll stand by you, either way. You've got your mother to support, God bless her, and you've got a right to fill your hold with fish, so she can live when they're sold. That's one way of looking at it. The other's plain sailing. No, Pete, this is too serious. I guess the mother'll have to suffer this time, too. If they send a man after me, I'll be here, and I'll go back and take my medicine. I'll make you Skipper, and you can select your mate. You'll get a Skipper's share, and you can pay mother the regular amount for hiring the lass. She'll get Skipper's share if I have to lick every hand aboard, growled Ellenwood, and you can rest easy on that. That's fine, said Code gently. And I don't know what I'd do without you, Pete. You ain't supposed to do without me. What on thunder do you suppose I shipped with you for, if it wasn't to look after you, eh? The men had finished dressing down and were cleaning up the decks. Several of them, noticing that something momentous was being discussed, were edging nearer. Pete observed this. Skipper, he said, we've got four or five shots of trawl line to pick. Suppose you and I go out and do the job. Then we can talk in peace. Feel able? Never better in my life. Get my Dory over. That blue one? Never again. That's bad luck for you. Take mine. All right, anything you say. Several hands made the Dory ready. Into it they put three or four tubs or half casks, in which was coiled hundreds of fathoms of stout line furnished with a strong hook every two or three feet. Each hook was baited with a fat salt clam, for the early catch of squid had been exhausted by the Dory fishing. There was also a fresh tub of bait, boys, and a lantern. A youth aboard, clambered up to the cross-trees, gave them the direction of the trawl buoy light, and they started. It was a clear starlit night, with only a gentle sea running, and no wind to speak of. There was not a hint of fog. The charming lass lay now in the Atlantic, approximately along the forty-sixth parallel, near its intersection with the fifty-fifth of Meridian, or eighty to a hundred miles south-west of Cape Race, Newfoundland, and almost an equal distance southeast of the Mycolaen Island, France's sole remaining territorial possession in the New World. Code and Ellenwood easily found their trawl buoy by the glimmer of the light across the water. They immediately began to plant the trawl lines in the tubs aboard the Dory. The big buoy for the end of the line they first anchored to the bottom with Dory-roading. Then as Ellenwood rode slowly, Code paid the baited trawl line out of the tubs. As there are hooks every few feet, so are their big wooden buoys, so that the whole length of the line, sometimes twenty-five hundred feet, is floated near the surface. When the last had been paid out, a second anchor and a large buoy was fixed, and their trawl was set. Next they turned their attention to picking the trawl already in the water. As the line came over the starboard gunnel, Code picked the fish off the hooks, passing the hooks to Pete, who baited them and threw them over the port gunnel. Thus they would work their way along the whole of the line. Many of the hooks that came to Code's hands still had the bait with which they were set. "'Must be the bait,' he told Ellenwood. The fish won't touch it. This is no catch for five shots of trawl.' But Pete could not cast any light on the subject. It was certainly true that the catch from the trawl line was small enough to be remarkable, but the men were helpless to explain the reason. For two hours they worked along the great line. "'There's a bare chance that the message from the unknown schooner might be a fake, although I can't imagine why,' said Code, as they were returning. "'But if it is not, and the Canadian gunboat comes after me, they'll find me here willing to go back to St Andrew's and answer all charges.' "'No escape, and no dodging this time. And let me tell you something, Pete. If nothing comes out of this, except ugly rumor that I have to suffer for, I'm going to quit minding my own business, and I'll dig up something that'll drive Nat Burns out of Freekirk Head forever. Now man of his character and nature has certainly got something he doesn't want known, and I shall bring it to light and make it so public that he'll wish he had never heard the name Schofield. By heaven I've reached the end of my patience. If there was anything Pete Ellenwood loved, it was a fight, and at this declaration of war he roared encouragement. "'You'll do, Skipper, you'll do. Get after him. Climb his frame. Put him out of business. And let me help you. That's all I want. Everything in good time, Pete,' grinned Code. "'First we've got to find out how much of this is in the wind, and how much is not.' Arrived at the schooner they pitched their fish into the pen for the first watch to dress and rolled aft for the night. Wood took off his coat and drew forth the packet that Elsa had given him, looked at it for a moment, and threw it upon the table. "'Why in time did she send me that?' he asked himself, his voice very near discussed. "'It must have looked mighty strange to knell for me to be getting money from Elsa Malaby.' He stopped short in the midst of pulling off one boot. The idea had never struck him forcibly before. Now it seemed evident that Nelly's reserve might have been due to the letter. "'What a fool I was not to tell her about it,' he cried. With one boot off he reached across to the packet under the swinging lamp and drew the letter out of it and read, "'Dear partner, here is something that Captain Bijona will hand to you when he catches the last. There are supposed to be one hundred and fifty dollars in this packet. I never was much of a counter, as you know. Now, dear friend, this isn't all for you unless you need it. It is simply a small reserve fund for the men of the fleet if they should need anything, a new gaff, for instance, or a jib, or grub. It isn't much, but you never can tell when it might come in handy. It was your good scheme that sent the men off fishing, and you left the way open for me to do my little part here at the head. Now I want to do just this much more for the sailors of the fleet, and I am asking you to be my treasurer. When you hear of a needy case just give him what you think he needs and say it is a loan from me if he won't take a gift. If this is a trouble to you, I am sorry, but we are all working for the good name and the good times of Grand Mignon, and I hope you won't mind. Good fishing to the charming lass, highline and topping full. May you wet your salt early and come home again to those who are longing to see you. This is all done on the spur of the moment, so I have no time to ask your mother to enclose a line, but I know she sends her love. It has been a little hard for her here since you left, bless her heart, but she has been as brave as a soldier and helped me very much. We see a great deal of each other, and you can rest assured I shall look after her. Please, your old friend, Elsa! As Code read the last paragraph his eyes softened. It was white of Elsa to look after his mother, particularly now when there would be much for her to face regarding himself, and it was white of her to send the money for the sailors of the fleet. Even she did not know, as Code did, how nearly destitute some of the Dorymen were. He would be glad to do what little work there might be in dispersing the sum. Sorry, Nelly didn't seem interested when I began to talk about Elsa, he said to himself. I suppose I should have told her, anyway, so there wouldn't be any misunderstanding. Well, I'll do it next time. He turned the lamp low and rolled into his bunk. CHAPTER XVIII TREATURY Next morning at breakfast, about four o'clock, Code told his crew the situation. He knew his men thoroughly, and had been friends with most of them all his life. There's likely to be trouble, and I may be taken away, but if that happens Pete will tell you what to do. Don't sight swallow-tail until your salt is all wet. Bring home a topping load, and you'll share topping. Code did not go out that morning. Instead he tried to shake off his troubles long enough to study the fish, which was his job on the charming lass. While not a bijona tanner, Code bade fair to be his equal at bijona's age. He came of a father with an instinct for fish, and he had inherited that instinct fully. Under Jasper he had learned much, but it was another matter to have someone on hand to read the signs, rather than being cast upon his own resources. The fish, from the trawl line and Pete's reports of dory work, had been running rather big. This pleased him, but he knew it could not last, and he sat with his old chart spread out before him on the deck, a chart edged with his father's valuable penciled notes. Suddenly while in the almost subconscious state that he achieved when very fishy, the persistent voice of the cook broke through the wall of unconsciousness. "'Smoke on the port-quarter, Skipper! Smoke on the port-quarter, Skipper!' The phrase came with persistent repetition until Code was fully alive to its meaning, and glanced over his left shoulder. About the line of dark blue that was the ocean, and in the light blue that was the sky, was etched a tree-shaped brown smudge. Steamer smudges were not an unusual sight, for not fifty miles east was the northern track of the great ocean steamers, a track which they were gradually approaching as they made their births. But a steamer smudge over the port-quarter, with the lass's bow headed due north, was an entirely different thing. Code went below and brought up an ancient firearm. This he discharged while the cook ran a trawl-tub to the truck. It was the pre-arranged signal for Pete Ellenwood to come in. As Code waited he had no doubt that Smoke was from a revenue-cutter or cruiser from Halifax with his arrest warrant. There was a stiff westerly breeze, and Code, glancing up at the cloud formations, saw that there would be a beautiful racing half-gale on by noon. What a chance to run for it, he thought, but resolutely put the idea from his mind. Pete came in with a scowl on his face, cursing everything under the sun, and especially a fisherman's life. When told of the smoke smudge he evinced comparatively little interest. We'll find out what she is when she gets here. What I'd like to know is, what's the matter with our bait? Bait gone wrong again, asked Code anxiously, his brows knitting. That stuff on the trawl wasn't the only bad bait, then. No, everybody's complaining this morning. Not only can't catch fish, but you can't hardly string the stuff on the hooks. And that ain't all. It has a funny smell that I never found in any other clam-bait I ever used. Why, what's the matter with your hands, Pete? cried Code, pointing. Ellenwood had removed his nippers, and the skin of his fingers and palms was a queer white, and beginning to shred off as if immersed long in hot water. By the great sane, rumbled the mate, looking at his hands in consternation, Code made a trumpet of his hands. Here, crookie, roll up a tub of that bait, lively. I want to look at it, and fetch the hammer. A suspicion based upon a long forgotten fact had suddenly leaped into his mind. When the crook hoved the tub of bait on deck, Code knocked off the top boards with the hammer, and dipped up a handful of the clams. Instead of the firm, fat shellfish that should have been in the clean brine, he found them loose and rotten. This time he himself detected a faint acrid odor, quite different from the usual clean, salty smell. Again he dipped to make sure the whole tub was ruined. Then he looked at Ellenwood in despair. "'It's acid, Pete,' he said. "'My father told me about this sort of thing being done sometimes, in a close race among bankers for the last load of fish. If they're all like this, we're done for until we can get more.' Ellenwood looked at him in amazement, his jaw sagging. "'Well, who in thunder would do this?' Code laughed bitterly. "'There's only one man I can think of, and that is the fellow who got my motor-dory under false pretenses. You remember how he made the crook and the boy help him get it over the side? Well, her gasoline tank was full and her batteries new. She was ready to go two hundred miles on a minute's notice.' "'But why should he do that?' "'Oh, think, Pete, think! Don't you remember?' "'He's one of the men I went up to Castelia to get. The time that lawyer came to Freekirk Head. And he's the only man in the whole crew I don't know well. I see it all now. He sent me a note the night before, asking to ship on the last. And I went to get him before any of the other skippers got wind of it. You don't suppose he did this thing on his own account, do you?' "'Easy, skipper, easy. What's he got against you?' "'He's got nothing against me,' cried Code passionately. But he is working for the man who has. Do you think that stupid ox would have sensed enough to work a scheme like this?' "'Never. Nat Burns is behind this, and I'll bet my schooner on it.'" Schofield dumped the bait-tub over the deck and rolled it around, examining it. Suddenly he stopped and peered closely. "'Look here,' he cried, "'Here's proof!' With a splitting knife that he snatched out of a cleat he pried loose a tiny plug in one of the bottom boards that had been replaced so carefully that it almost defied detection. The whole thing is simple enough. He turned the tub upside down, cut out this plug, and inserted the acid. Then he refitted the plug and set it right side up again. It's as plain as the nose in your face.' "'By thunder, I believe you're right, skipper,' said Ellenwood solemnly. "'The dirty dog!' "'Cookie, run that tub up to the truck again. We'll have to call the men in on this.' "'Oh, he was foxy, that one,' said Code bitterly. Going out in the fog that way so all hands would think he was lost. I never remembered until this minute that the motor-dory could be run. I guess she went all right, and that scoundrel is ashore by this time. Had a bad name in Castalia, didn't he? "'Oh, a little more or less that I heard of, but what's that in a fisherman? When the men come in, have them go through all the bait.' Pete fired the old rifle, and the crew at work began to pull in through the choppy sea. "'Hello!' cried the mate, looking behind him. "'There's something going to be doing here in a minute. It's the cutter from Halifax, all right.' Code, his former danger forgotten for the time, glanced up. This smudge of smoke had quickly resolved itself into a stubby gray steam-vessel, with a few bright brass guns forward and a black cloud belching from her funnel. She was still some five miles away, but apparently coming at top speed. Three miles before her, with all sail set, including Stasel and Balloon Job, raced a fishing-scooner. There was a fresh ten-knot wind blowing a little south of west, a wind that favored the schooner, and she was putting her best foot forward, taking the green water over her bowels in a smother of foam. "'Heavens! Look at her go!' The exclamation was one of pure delight in the speed. "'Maybe she's an American that's been caught inside the three-mile limit, and is pulling away from the gun-boat,' remarked Pete. That she was pulling away there was little doubt. In the fifteen minutes that elapsed after her discovery, she had widened the gap between herself and her pursuer. She was now within a mile of the lass. Why doesn't she shoot?' As Code spoke, a puff of white smoke thrust out from the blunt boughs of the cutter, and the ball ricocheted from wavetop to wavetop to fall half a mile astern of the schooner. "'Out of range now, and if the wind holds, she'll be out of sight by nightfall,' said Pete, who was moved to great excitement and enthusiasm by the contest. Wonder who she is!' He plunged down to the companion-way to the cabin, and emerged a moment later with Code's powerful glasses. But Code did not need any glasses to tell him who she was. His eye had picked out her points before this, and the only thing that interested him was the fact that her wireless was down. It was the mysterious schooner. He had never seen her equal for traveling, and he knew that she must be making a good fourteen knots, for the cutter was capable of twelve. She had reached her closest point of contact with Code's vessel, and had begun to bear away when Pete leveled his glasses. It was on Schofield's tongue to reveal the identity of the pursued when Ellenwood yelled, "'Good heavens! Skipper! She has Charmin Lass printed in new gold letters under her counter!' "'What?' "'As I live, Code, Charmin Lass, as plain as day. What's happening here today? What is this?' Code snatched the glasses from Pete's hand and then leveled them, trembling at the flying schooner. Our time the foam and whirl of her wake obscured matters, but all at once, as she plunged down into a great hollow between waves, her stern came clear and pointed to heaven. There in bright letters that glinted in the sun and were easily visible at a much greater distance was printed the name, Charmin Lass, of Freekirk Head. "'No wonder she's going!' yelled Pete, almost beside himself with excitement. "'No wonder she's going! But let her go! More power to her! Yeah!' Code stood with the glasses to his eyes and watched the mysterious schooner and the pursuing vessel disappear. CHAPTER XIX Ellenwood takes a hand. There were two things for Code to do. One was to sail north into Placentia Bay, Newfoundland, set sands, and catch the herring that were then schooling. The other was to run sixty miles or so north-east to St. Pierre Michelin and by bait. Under ordinary circumstances he would not have hesitated. It would have been Placentia Bay without question. But his situation was now decidedly out of the ordinary. He was in a hurry to fill his hold with cod before the other men out of Freekirk Head, first for the larger prices he would get, and secondly because he yearned to come to grapples with nat burns. Too sane for herring would lose him upward of a week. To buy it would take less than three days, including the round trip to St. Pierre. But the money? Wood knew that in the French island herring seldom went below three dollars a barrel, and that the smallest amount he ought to buy would be twenty-five barrels. Later on, if the fishing was good, he might send out a party to set the sands, but not now. He must buy. But the money? Then he thought of the packet of money Elsa Malaby had sent him. The cash was meant for any sailor who came to need it, and the men with him were willing to fight to the last ditch and to take their lot ungrumblingly as fishermen early learned to do. If he starved, they starved. So he decided he would not hesitate to use Elsa's money when a dozen men and their families were dependent upon him and the success of the crews. Thus the matter was settled and the order roared down the decks. Said every stitch for St. Pierre, we're going to bathe up there, lively now! St. Pierre-Mickelon is one of the quaintest towns in all of picturesque French Canada. It is on the island of the same name, there are three Mickelon Island, which is in itself a bold chunk of granite sticking up out of the ocean at a distance of some ten miles southwest of May Point, Newfoundland. Rough and craggy, with few trees, sparse vegetation, and a very thin coating of soil, there is no agriculture. And the whole glory of the island is centered in the roaring city on its southeast side. It is a strange city, lost in the midst of busy up-to-date Canada, with French roofs, narrow tilting streets, and ever the smell of fish. There is a good harbor, and there are wharfs where black-faced men with blue stockings, caps, and gold earrings chatter the patois and smoke their pipes. In the busy time of year there are ten thousand men in the town, and it is a scene of constant revelry and wildness. The charming lass touched the port at the height of its season, early September, and because of the shallowness of the harbor close in, anchored in the bay amid a crowd of old, high-poop schooners, filled with noisy, happy Frenchmen. There were other nationalities, too, in the cosmopolitan bay, Americans setting a new spar, or Nova Scotians, in on a good time. The charming lass cast her anchor shortly before six o'clock, having made the run in five-and-a-half hours with a good breeze behind. Code and Ellenwood immediately went over the side in the brown dory of the mate, and pulled for the custom-house wharf. The rest of the crew were forbidden off the decks, except to sleep under them, for it was intended, as soon as the bait was lighter to board to make sail to the banks again. The bait industry in St. Pierre is one more or less open to examination. It is the delight of certain French dealers to go inside the English three-mile limit, load their vessels with barrels of herring, and return to St. Pierre. Here they sell them at magnificent profit to Frenchmen, Englishmen, and Americans. And as the British coat of arms is not stamped on herring at birth, no one can prove that they were not legally procured. But let a Canadian revenue-cutter catch a Frenchman, or American either, for that matter, dipping herring in any out-of-the-way inlet, and the owner not only pays a heavy fine, but he often loses his schooner, and his men go to jail for trying to hoist sail and escape at the last minute. Code had not reached shore before he had been accosted by fully half a dozen of these bait pirates. But he passed them, and tying his dory at the wharf went up on the street to a legitimate firm. Immediately the business was finished. Code and Pete Ellenwood started back to the wharf. The main street was ablaze with lights. Cafes, saloons, music halls, catch-penny places. In fact, every device known to separate sailors from their wages was in operation. The sidewalks were crowded with men jabbering madly in their different dialects of their home provinces, for many come here from France yearly. There lot these frog-eaters, said Pete, going into the street so as to avoid a thick, pushing crowd. Yes, they would come to a knifing over a count of fish, and yet give their schooners to a friend in trouble. Too bad they ain't better fishermen. Yeah, ain't it? Among Canadians and Americans the Frenchmen are held in contempt on account of their hooks, which are of soft metal and can be re-bent and used again. The fish often get away with them, however, and these hidden hooks slit many a finger in dressing down. The two comrades loitered along, watching the changing crowds, gay with their colored caps and scarfs. Some men were already in liquor, and all seemed to be headed in that general direction. Suddenly as Code was about to urge Pete along, he gave an exclamation and stopped short. What's the matter, Skipper? I wonder where he is now? Code's eyes were searching the crowd. I saw him right over there. He pointed to a certain spot. Who? What? Are you crazy, Code? Erie Duncan, the traitor that ruined our bait. I'd have sworn I saw him. It came all of a sudden and went away again. But I guess it couldn't have been anything but a close resemblance. He laughed nervously. Gave me the creeps for a minute, though. Lord! shivered Pete, who had all the superstitions of the sea at his fingers' ends. Maybe he's chasing us around for wrongly accusing him. They do that sometimes, you know. He's probably dead, and that's his spirit haunting us. Oh, rot, Pete, growled Code in his most forcible manner. Come along now, or you'll be sidling into one of these doors, and the last won't get out of port for a week. My soul and body! Look at that Frenchie! Biggest I ever saw, Code! They had returned to the sidewalk, and Pete forgot that he himself rose fully as high above the crowds as this stranger. In fact, nearly every one turned to take a look at the huge islander who, in reality, stood six feet four barefoot. They were pushing down street against the tide and making rather heavy going of it. Code maneuvered so as to pass well to Leeward of the big man who he could see plainly was just tipsy. But somehow the eyes of the two giants met, and the Frenchmen seemed to crush his way through the crowd in Ellenwood's direction. Come on, Pete! Get out of here before there's any trouble, commanded Code. He knew the mate's weakness for fighting. The big Frenchmen, who wore tremendous earrings, a bright scarlet cap with a blue tuft and a gay sash, lurched through the crowd and against Pete Ellenwood with a malice only too plain. But his effort was attended with failure. Not only did Pete stand like a rock, but he thrust the other violently back with his shoulder so that he recoiled upon those behind him, earning their loud-voiced curses. Mille tonnerres, bellowed the Frenchmen. You insult me, cochon canadien, Canadian pig. The half of sidewalk is mine, eh? You push me off, eh? You fight, eh? Heard urged Ellenwood along and interceded personally, knowing that the big man would not touch him. But the Frenchmen would not be appeased. He was just drunk enough to become obsessed with the ugly idea that Pete had laid a trap to insult him, and, regardless of Code, kept after the mate. By this time, of course, a huge crowd had gathered and was following Pete's retreat, yelling to both men to fight it out. Many of the mob knew a few English words, and their taunts reached Ellenwood's ears. He and Code had not entreated a block before the mate suddenly swung around on his tormentors. I won't stand for that, Code! Did you hear what that big devil called me? He demanded. What do you care what he called you? Get along to the ship! What chance have we got with these men? Code grabbed Pete's arm and kept him moving away. Beneath his hand he could feel the muscles as hard as iron. But every foot the Canadians retreated brought the big Frenchmen nearer, bawling with triumph. At an opportune moment, so close was the press, he slipped his foot between Ellenwood's legs and gave him a push. Pete stumbled, almost fell, and recovered himself, raging. Get back, you! He bawled, sending half a dozen men spinning with sweeps of his great arms. I'll fight this Frenchy! Just let me at him! Code saw the rage in Pete's eyes and recognized that he could do nothing more to avert the trouble. His part would have to be confined to seeing that his man got a fair deal. He and Pete were unarmed, except for their huge clasp knives, much better kept out of sight under the circumstances. The crowd fell back, and the two giants stripped off their coats and shirts. The Frenchmen danced up and down, beating his great fists together in a fine frenzy, but Pete, half-crouched, stepped forward on his toes, his hands hanging loose and ready at his sides. Allez, donc! It was the starting word, and Jean leaped in. Pete met him with a crashing right to the ribs and dodged out of reach of the clutching hands that reached for his throat. They circled around a moment, and again the Frenchmen came, this time in one great leap. On the instant Ellen would jump in to meet him. There was a swift flying of arms, a pounding of the great fists, and Pete suddenly shot back from the millet and landed on his back in the dirt. One of the Frenchmen's great swings had landed. But he was up in an instant and went after his opponent again. Jean saw now that he had another man to deal with. Unlike a Frenchman, an anglissaxon cannot fight without sufficient provocation. Now all the battle was aroused in Ellenwood, for aside from the shame of his downfall the crowd was yelling at the top of its voice. Now began to run away, circling round and round the ring of spectators, Pete after him. Suddenly he made a stand, but the mate was ready for him. Dodging the straight left, Pete hurled himself forward and seized the burly Frenchman in his arms. Then with a tug and a wrench, as though he were uprooting a tree, he lifted his opponent and crashed him down to the earth. Jean, stunned and with a broken arm, sought to get up. He gained his feet and, game to the last, staggered toward Ellenwood. Pete started to run in again, but someone on the edge of the crowd thrust a foot out and the big islander stumbled. He saw the man who interfered and his blood boiling leaped for him. At the same instant there came a cry of, Police! Police! But Code did not hesitate. He plunged into the crowd after his man and in an instant found himself surrounded and fighting the whole mob. For a moment it lasted. There was a rain of heavy blows that blinded him and then something that was hard and dull struck him on the head. Everything began to whirl and he found he could not lift his arms. Dimly he heard a voice near him shout, This way! In English and felt himself gathered up by men and born swiftly away. Then consciousness left him. CHAPTER XX Among the home-folks. The village of Freekirk Head was a changed place. No longer of early mornings did the resounding pop-pop of motor-dories ring back from the rocks and headland as the trawlers and hand-liners put to sea. No longer did the groups of weary fishermen gather on the store-steps for an evening pipe and chat or the young bloods chuck horseshoes at the foot of the Chapel Hill. It was a village of women. True Squire Hardy, being too old to fish, had remained at home and Bill Bouton, who was completing details for the immediate and profitable sale of the season's catch, was behind the counter of his general store. He dealt out supplies to the women and children and wrote down against their father's shares the amount of credit extended. But others, day after day, found nothing set against them, and this was due to the promise of help that Elsa Malaby kept. It's useless to charge supplies to those who have nothing now with the idea of getting it back from their fishing-profits, she said. What they earn will just about pay for it, and then there they are back where they started, with nothing. Better let me pay for everything until the men get back. Then they will have something definite ahead to go on. No one but Adelbert Bish, the rector, Bill Bouton and Elsa Malaby herself knew exactly how much she paid out weekly toward the maintenance of the village, but all knew it to be an enormous sum, as reckoned on the island, and daily the worship of hard luck Jim's widow grew, until she occupied a place in Freekirk had parallel to a patron saint of the Middle Ages. But Elsa Malaby was intensely human, and no one knew it better than herself. As one late afternoon she sat at her mahogany table, looking absently over the stubs in her check-book. She saw that she had dispersed a great deal of money, more perhaps than she would have under any other circumstances. But she frankly acknowledged that she did not mind that, if only she achieved the end toward which she was working. For Elsa, more than any one en grand mignonne, was a person of ways and means. She was one of those women who seemed to find nothing in self-communion. Hers was a nature destined for light and gaiety and happiness. To sit in a splendid palace and mope over what had happened was among the last things she cared to contemplate. Being of the pure grand mignonne stock, she looked no farther for a husband than among the men of Freekirk Head, good, honest, able men, all of them. And her eye fell with favour upon Captain Code Schofield of the schooner Charming Lass, old school fellow, playmate, and lifelong friend. The money she had mailed to him had only been an excuse to write a letter. The favors to Moscow Field were, in great part, to help further her plan. The whole business of helping support Freekirk Head was a flash of dramatic display, calculated to bring her ineradically before Code's eyes. And everyone else's. As she sat near the window and saw the sunset glow die over the mountain ridge, she asked herself what she had achieved. Apparently very little. She felt the futility of human endeavour and desire. To her knowledge Code was in love with nobody, although rumour had for years linked his name with Nellie Tanner's. That was exploded now, for Nellie was engaged to Nat Burns. Why did he not respond? Slowly her smile returned. He would respond when he had heard certain other things. Then he would forget anyone else but her, if there was anyone else. Her heart leaped at the thought. As it became dark she rang the bell. "'Light the candles in the drawing-room,' she said to the servant who entered. "'You remember that Mrs. Tanner is coming for dinner?' "'Yes, madam.' "'Very well, that is all,' the servant withdrew. There was nothing unusual in the fact of Mrs. Tanner coming for dinner in the evening to the big house. Elsa simply could not eat all her meals alone and her old friends at the village were constantly receiving invitations. Mrs. Tanner arrived at half-past six. It was her first visit since the departure of the fleet several weeks before, and there was plenty to talk about. But Ma Tanner wisely reserved her conversation until after the meal, for the vitals of Malaby House were famous the whole length of the New Brunswick Coast. Afterward, when they had retired to Elsa's pink and gray boudoir, the eternal envy of grand mignon womanhood, the talk flowed freely. "'It's this way, Elsa,' declared Ma, confidentially. "'I think Nelly is pretty well took care of. Now, young Nat Burns, as you know, is pretty well off, as the saiyan goes on the island. He really wouldn't have to fish if he didn't want to. His father didn't neglect him when his time come.' Ma Tanner did not see the change in Elsa's expression. The pupils of her magnificent black eyes expanded, and the delicate brows drew together over the bridge of her nose. The close mouth, with its ugly set, would not have been recognized by any but lifelong friends. "'And Nat's about good as any boy,' went on Ma. "'Boys is terrible hard to fetch up, so they don't disgrace you, and send you to the grave with gray head, bowed in, sorda,' as the poet says. "'Nat ain't bad. He speaks sharp to his mother once in a while, but, la, what boy don't? I think he'll treat Nelly right, and be a good man to her.' "'Ma,' said Elsa, and her voice was quiet and intense, as though she were keeping herself well in hand. "'That's what everyone thinks about Nat Burns.' "'Well,' asked the older woman, slightly resentful, "'don't you think so?' "'What I think has nothing whatever to do with the question. But what I know might have. I don't want Nelly's life ruined, that's all.' "'Look here, Elsa, what are you driving at?' Ma Turner was becoming wrought up. She knew there must be something behind these hints, or Elsa would never venture on such thin ice with her. "'Yee, beant by any means jealous and Nelly, be ye?' she asked, peering through her spectacles. "'Heavens know,' cried Elsa, so convincingly that Mrs. Tanner was satisfied once and for all. "'Well, what's all the fuss then? Any girl would ruin her life that threw herself away on Nat Burns. She's got a fine, solid, gold case. But his works are very poor indeed, Ma Turner. "'Don't go talk and educate it, or I can't follow you. Do you mean he's all show and nothing in his mind or heart of Christian goodness?' "'Yes, I mean that, and I mean more besides. He doesn't stop by being merely not good. He is actively and busily downright bad.' "'There's several kinds of bad, Elsa Malaby.' "'Well, I mean the kind that makes a girl break her engagement and keep it broken, and that drives a man out of a decent village. There was a long and pregnant pause while Ma Turner got everything straight in her mind. "'You don't mean that he is,' she inquired, her little mouth, a thin, hard line. "'Yes, I do, exactly that. I knew the case myself in this very village before Jim died. There are some men who instinctively take the correct course in a matter of that kind, others who don't care two pins as long as they get out of it with the whole skin. Nat Burns was that kind. "'Then you mean he ought already to be married?' "'Yes, or in jail.' "'Why isn't he?' It was entirely up to the girl, and she refused to act. "'God, my poor Nelly!' The servant knocked, and upon receiving permission to enter, handed Elsa a telegram, evidently just delivered from the village telegraph office. Unconsciously the girl reached into a glass-covered bookcase and drew forth a paper volume. Then she tore open the message and commenced to read it with the aid of the book. Mrs. Tanner did not notice her. She sat staring into the future with a leaden heart. Such a thing as Elsa hinted at was unheard of in Freekirk Head, and she was overwhelmed. Suddenly she asked, "'Why do you hate Nat Burns so? You couldn't have told me that if you hadn't hated him!' Elsa looked up from her book impatiently, quite oblivious to the wounds she had caused. "'Because I was very fond of that girl,' she said, and went back to the translation of the message. Suddenly she sprang to her feet with a little cry of dismay and rang the bell. "'A net!' she cried. "'A net!' the maid rushed in, frightened from the adjoining room. "'Tell Charles I am going to St. John's to-morrow, and to have the carriage at the door at half-past six. Pack my steamer-trunk immediately. Cray, guns! Why isn't there a night-boat?' The maid flew out of the room, and Elsa, still doubtful, retranslated the message. Mrs. Tanner, taken aback by these sudden activities, rose hurriedly to go. This sudden flurry was inexplicable to her. Since the departure of the fleet, Elsa had not as much as hinted leaving Freekirk head. Now, in a moment, she was beside herself to go. "'I hope it isn't bad news, Elsa,' she faltered. "'Well, it is, Ma. It is. But only in a business way. A little trip will straighten it up, I think.' And she was courteous but indefatigable in hastening the departure of her guest. CHAPTER XXI When Code Schofield came to himself, his first sensation was one of oppression, such as as felt after sleeping in an unventilated room. It seemed difficult for him to breathe, but his body was quite free and uninjured, as he found by moving himself carefully in all directions before he even opened his eyes. Presently the air became familiar. It was a perfect mixture of flavors, oil-skins, stale tobacco smoke, brine, burned grease, tar, and, as a background, fish. His ears almost immediately detected water noises running close by, and he could feel the pull of stout oak timber that formed the inner wall of where he lay. "'Folks all of a fishing schooner,' he announced, and then opened his eyes to prove that he was correct. He looked out into a three-cornered room occupied by a three-cornered table, and that ran as far back as the four-mest. Above, fastened to a huge square beam, hung a chain-lamp so swivelled that it kept itself level, however much the schooner kicked and wriggled. On the table, swinging his legs, sat a large, unpleasant-looking man. "'Well, how are you?' asked this latter, seeing his charge had recovered consciousness. Never having seen the man before, Code did not consider it necessary to answer. So he wriggled to find out if any bones were broken, and, in the end, discovered a tender knob on the right side of his head. He soon recalled the visit to St. Pierre, the purchase of the bait, Pete Ellenwood's fight, the general mix-up, and the blow on the head that had finished him. He sat up suddenly. "'Look here! What ship is this?' he demanded. "'You'll find out soon enough when you go on deck. Hungry? I got orders to feed you. "'You bet I'm hungry. Didn't have any dinner last night in St. Pierre.' "'Two nights ago!' said the other, beginning to fry salt-port. "'Nigh, thirty-six hours you've laid here like a log!' Code doubted it, but did not argue. He was trying to puzzle out the situation. If this was a fishing schooner, the man ought to be over the side fishing, and she would be at anchor. Instead, feeling the long, steady heel to Leeward, and half recovered to Windward, he knew she was flying on a course. Breakfast swallowed. He made his way on deck. As he came up the companion-way, a man stood leaning against the rail. With a feeling of violent revulsion, Code recognized Nat Burns. A glance at a nearby dory showed the lettering Netty B, and Schofield at once recognized his position. He was Nat Burns' prisoner. "'Morning!' said Burns, curtly. "'Thought you were going to sleep for ever. Just a hang in a fence, putting anyone to sleep that long,' retorted Code cheerfully. "'Luck was with you, and I woke up. You're hardly in a position to joke about hanging your fences,' remarked Nat venomously. "'Why not?' Code had gone a sickly pallard that looked hideous through his tan. "'Because you're going home to St. Andrews to be tried for one!' Code glanced over his left shoulder. The sun was there. The schooner was headed almost directly southwest. Nat had spoken the truth. They were headed homeward. "'Where's your warrant?' Code could feel his teeth getting on edge with rage, as he talked to this captor who bore himself with such insolence. "'Don't need a warrant for murder cases, and I'm a constable at Freekirk Head, so everything is being done according to law. The gunboat didn't find you, so I thought, as long as you were right to hand, I'd bring you along.' "'Then you knew I was in St. Pierre?' "'Yes, saw you come in. If it hadn't been so dark, you'd have recognized the netty not far away.' Code, remembering the time of night they arrived, knew this to be impossible, for it is dark at six in September. He had barely been able to make out the lines of the nearest schooners. A man was standing like a statue at the wheel, and as he put the vessel over on the port-tack, his face came brightly into the sun. It was Arie Duncan. Wood had not been wrong, then, in thinking that he had seen the man's face in St. Pierre. "'Fine, traitor, you've got there at the wheel,' said Scofield. "'He'll do you brown some day.' "'I don't think so. Just because he did you doesn't prove anything. He was in my employ all the time, and getting real money for his work.' "'So it was all a plot, huh?' said Code, dejectedly. "'I give you credit, Burns, for more brains than I ever supposed you had. What's become of Pete Ellynwood in the last?' "'Pete is back on the schooner, and she's gone out to fish. You needn't worry about them. At the proper time they'll be told you're safe and unhurt.' Wood said nothing for a while. With hands rammed into his pocket he stood watching the white and blue sea whirl by. In those few minutes he touched the last depth of failure and despair. For a brief space he was minded to leap overboard. He shivered as one with an ague, and shook off the deadly influence of the idea. "'Had he no more grit?' he asked himself. "'Had he come this far, only to be beaten? Was this insolent young Pop and Jay to win at last?' "'No!' then he listened, for Nat was speaking. "'If you give your word of honour not to try and escape, you can have the run of the decks and to go anywhere you like on the schooner. If not you will be locked up and go home a prisoner.' It was the last straw, the final piece of humiliation. Code stiffened as a soldier might to rebuke. A deadly dull anger surged within him and took possession of his whole being. Such an anger as can only come to one who, amiable and upright by nature, is driven to inevitable revolt. "'Look here, Burns,' he said, his voice low but intense with the emotion that mastered him. "'I'll give no word of honour regarding anything. Between you and me there is a lot to be settled. You have almost ruined me, and by heaven before I get through with you you'll ruin it. I shall make every attempt to escape from this schooner, and if I do escape, look out. If I do not escape, and you press these charges against me, I'll hunt you down for the rest of my life, or if I go to prison I will have others do it for me. Now you know what to expect, and you also know that when I say a thing I mean it. Now do what you like with me.' Burns looked at Schofield's tense white face. His eyes encountered those flaming blue ones, and dropped sullenly. Whether it was the tremendous force of the threat, or whether it was a guilty conscience working, no one but himself knew. But his face grew gradually as pallid as that of his captive. Suddenly he turned away. "'Boys!' he called to the crew, who were working near. "'Put Schofield in the old storeroom. And one of you watch it all the time. He says he will escape if he can, so I hold you responsible.' Code followed the men to a little shanty, seemingly erected against the Foremist. It was of stout heavy boards about long enough to allow a cot being set up in it. It had formerly been used for storing provisions, and had never been taken down. When the padlock snapped behind him, Code took in his surroundings. There were two windows in the little cubby, one looking forward, and the other to starboard. Neither was large enough to provide a means of escape, he judged. At the foot of the cot was a plain wooden armchair. Both pieces of furniture being screwed to the floor. For exercise there was a strip of bare deck planking, about six feet long beside the bed, where he might pace back and forth. Both the cot and the chair appeared to be new. "'Had the room already for me?' said Code to himself. The one remaining piece of furniture was a queer kind of bookshelf nailed against the wall. It was fully five feet long and protruded a foot out above his bed. In its thirty-odd pigeonholes was jammed a collection of stuff that was evidently the accumulation of years. There were scores of cheap paper-bound novels concerning either high society or great detectives, old tobacco boxes, broken pipes, string, wrapping paper, and all the what-not of a general depository. With hours on his hands and nothing whatever to occupy him, Code began to sort over the lurid literature with a view to his entertainment. He hauled a great dusty bundle out of one pigeonhole and found among the novels some dusty exercise books. He inspected them curiously. On the stiff board cover of one was scrawled, "'Log Schooner, M. C. Burns. M. C. Burns, Master.'" The novels were forgotten with the appearance of this old relic. The M. C. Burns was the original Burns schooner when Nat's father was still in the fish business at Freekirk Head. It was the direct predecessor of the Netty B., which was entirely Nat's. On the death of the elder Burns, when the M. A. Scofield went down, the M. C. Burns had been sold to realize immediate cash, and here was her log. Code looked over pages that were redolent of the events in his boyhood, for Michael was a ready writer and made notes regularly even when the M. C. was not on a voyage. He had spent an hour in this way when he came to this entry on one of the very last pages. June 30th. This day clear with strong east-southeast wind. This day Nat, in the M. C. Burns, raced Code Scofield in the M. C. Scofield from Quattie Head to Moorings in Freekirk Head harbour. My boy had the worst of it all the way. I never saw such luck as that young Scofield devil has. He won by half an hour. Poor Nat is heartbroken and swore something awful. He says he'll win next time, or know why. Just like old man Burns, thought Code, pity's and spoils his rascal of a son, but the boy loved him. Code had not thought of that race in years. How well he remembered it now. There had been money up on both sides, and the rules were that no one and either schooner should be over twenty except the skippers. What satisfaction it had been to give Nat a good trimming in the fifty year old May. He could still feel an echo of the old proud thrill. He turned back to the log. July 1st. Cloudy this day, hot, light southwest breeze. Nat tells me another race will be sailed in just a week. Swear's he will win it. Our boy, what with losing yesterday and Carolyn Fuller's leaving the head to work in Lubeck, he is hardly himself. I'm afraid the old MC won't show much speed till she is thoroughly overhauled. Note, Steamer May Scofield's policy runs out July 20th. See about this, sure. There was very little pertaining to the next race. Until the entry for June 6th, two days before the event, then he read, Nat is quite happy. Says he can't lose day after tomorrow. I told him he must have fitted the MC with wings, but he only grinned. Take the Steamer to St. John tomorrow to look after policies, including May Scofield's. She's so old her rates will have to go up. Won't be back till day after the race, but Nat says he'll telegraph me. Wonder what business that boy's got up his sleeve that makes him so sure he will win. Oh, he's a clever one, that boy. Here the chronicle ended. Little did Michael Burns know he would never write in it again. He went to St. John's, as he had said, and completed his business in time to return home the day of the race instead of the day after. The second race was never sailed, for Codee Scofield received a telegram from St. John's, offering him a big price for a quick lighterage trip to Grand Mignon, St. John being accidentally out of Schooners and the trip urgent. Although loath to lose the race by default, the money offered was too good to pass by, and Codee had made the trip and loaded up by nightfall. It was then that he had met Michael Burns, and Burns had expressed his desire to go home in the May so as to watch her actions in the moderate sea and gale. Neither he nor the May ever saw dry land again. Only Codee of the whole ship's company struggled ashore on the wolves, bruised and half-dead from exposure. The end of the old log before him was full of poignant tragedy to Codee, the tragedy of his own life, for it was the unwritten pages from then on that should have told the story of a fiendishly planned revenge upon him, who was totally innocent of any wrongdoing. The easy, weak indulgence of the father had grown a crop of vicious and cruel deeds in the sun. CHAPTER 22 A Recovered Treasure For five days Codee yawned or rust through the greater part of Nat's stock of lurid literature. It was the one thing that kept him from falling into the black pit of brooding. Sometimes he felt as though he must go insane if he allowed himself to think. He had not the courage to tear inside the veil of dull pain that covered his heart and look at the bleeding reality. He was afraid of his own emotions. It was impossible for him to go lower in the scale of physical events. Nat was about to triumph, and Codee himself was forced to admit that the triumph was mostly due to Nat's own wits. First he had stolen Nelly Tanner. Codee had thought a lot about that ring missing from Nelly's hand. Then he had attached the charming lass in the endeavour to take away from him the very means of his livelihood. Then something had happened. Scofield did not know what it was, but something evidently very serious. For the next thing he knew, Nat had crushed his pride and manhood under a brutal and technical charge of murder. But this was not all. His victim escaping him with the schooner and the means of livelihood, Burns had employed a traitor in the crew to poison the bait and force him to come ashore to replenish his tubs. Once ashore the shanghying was not difficult. Codee had no doubt whatever that the whole plan, commencing with the disappearance of the man in the motor-dory, and ending with his abduction from St. Pierre, was part and parcel of the same scheme. In this, his crowning achievement of skill and cunning, Burns had showed himself an admirable plotter, playing upon human nature as he did to affect his ends. For it was nothing but a realisation of Peter Ellenwood's weakness in the matter of his size and fighting ability that resulted in his, Codee's, easy capture. Scofield had no shadow of a doubt but that the big Frenchman had been hired to play his part, and that in the howling throng that surrounded the fighters the crew of the Netty B were waiting to seize the first opportunity to make the duel a millet and affect their design and the confusion. Their opportunity came when the Frenchman tried to trip Pete Ellenwood after Big Jean had fallen and Codee rushed into the fray with the ferocity of a wildcat. One raised the yell, police! He was surrounded by his enemies, someone wrapped him over the head with a blackjack, and the job was done. It was clever business, and despite the helplessness of his position, Codee could not but admire the brilliance of such a scheming brain, while at the same time deploring that it was not employed in some legitimate and profitable cause. Now he was in the enemy's hands, and St. Andrews was less than a dozen hours away, St. Andrews, with its jail, its grand jury, and its pen. Life aboard the Netty B had been a dead monotony. On the foremost above Codee's prison hung the bell that rang the watches so that the passage of every half-hour was dinged into his ears. Every times a day he was given food, and twice a day he was allowed to pace up and down the deck, a man holding tightly to each arm. The weather had been propitious, with the moderate sea and a good quartering wind. The Netty had footed it properly, and Codee's experienced eye had, on one occasion, seen her log her twelve knots in an hour. The fact had raised his estimation of her fifty percent. It must not be supposed that, as Codee sat in his hard wooden chair, he forgot the diary that he had read the first afternoon of his incarceration. Often he thought of it, and often he drew it out from its place and reread those last entries. Swares he will win second race. Says he can't lose day after tomorrow. I wonder what the boy has got up his sleeve that makes him so sure he will win. At first Codee merely ascribed these recorded sayings of net burns to youthful disappointment and a sportsman-like determination to do better next time. But not for long. He remembered as though it had been yesterday the look with which Nat had favoured him when he finally came ashore beaten and the sullen resentment with which he greeted any remarks concerning the race. There was no sportsman-like determination about him. Codee quickly changed his point of view. How could Nat be so sure he was going to win? The thing was ridiculous on the face of it. The fifty-year-old May had limped in half an hour ahead of the thirty-year-old MC Burns after a race of fifteen miles. How then could Nat swear with any degree of certainty that he would win the second time? It was well known that the MC Burns was especially good in heavy weather, but how could Nat ordain that there would be just the wind and sea he wanted? The thing was absurd on the face of it, and besides silly braggadocio, if not actually malicious, and even if it were malicious, Codee thanked heaven that the race had not been sailed and that he had been spared the exhibition of Nat's malice. He had escaped that much, anyway. However, from motives of general caution, Codee decided to take the book with him. Nat had evidently forgotten it, and he felt sure he would get off the ship with it in his possession. Now, as he drew near to St. Andrew's, he put it for the last time inside the lining of his coat and fastened that lining together with pins, of which he always carried a stock under his coat lapel. As Scofield had not forgotten the old log of the MC Burns, neither had he forgotten the threat he made to Nat that he would try his best to escape and would defy his authority at every turn. He had tried to fulfill his promise to the letter. Twice he had removed one of the windows before the alert guard detected him, and once he had nearly succeeded in cutting his way through the two-inch planking of his ceiling before the chips and sawdust were discovered, and he was deprived of his clasp knife. Every hour of every day his mind had been constantly on this business of escape. Even during the reading to which he fled to protect his reason, it was the motive of every chapter, and he would drop off in the middle of a page into a reverie and grow inwardly excited over some wild plan that mapped itself out completely in his feverish brain. Now as they approached St. Andrew's his determination was as strong as ever, but his resources were exhausted. Double-guarded and without weapons he found himself helpless. The fevered excitement of the past four days had subsided into a dull apathy of hurt in which his brain was as delicate and alert as the mainspring of a watch. He was resigned to the worst if it came, but was ready, like a panther in a tree, to spring at the slightest false move of his enemies. Now for the last time he went over his little eight-by-ten prison. He examined the chair as though it were some instrument of the inquisition. He pulled the bed to pieces and handled every inch of the frame. He emptied every compartment of the queer hanging cabinet that had been stuffed with books and miscellanies. He examined every article in the room. He had done this a dozen times before, but some instinct drove him to repeat the process. There was always hope of the undiscovered, and besides he needed the physical action and the close application of his mind. So mechanically and doggedly he went over every inch of his little prison. But in vain. The roof and walls were of heavy planking and were old. They were full of nicks as well as wood-knots, and the appearance of some of the former gave code an idea. He went carefully over the boards, sticking his thumbnail into them and lifting or pressing down as the shape of the nick warranted, for they resembled very much the depressions cut in sliding covers on starch-boxes whereby such covers can be pushed in their grooves. At any other time he would have considered this the occupation of a madman, but now it kept him occupied and held forth the faint gleam of hope by which he now lived. Suddenly something happened. He was lying across his immovable cot, fingering the boards low down in the right rear corner when he felt something give beneath his thumb. A flash of hope almost stifled him, and he lay quiet for a moment to regain command of himself. Then he put his thumb again in the niche and lifted up. With all his strength he lifted, and, all at once, a panel rushed up and stuck, revealing a little box, perhaps a foot square, that had been built back from the rear wall of the old storeroom. That was all, except for the fact that something was in the box, a package done up in paper. For a while he did not investigate the package, but devoted his attention to sounding the rest of the nearby planks with the hope that they might give into a larger opening and furnish a means of egress. For half an hour he worked and then gave up. He had covered every inch of wall and every niche, and this was all. At last he turned to the contents of the box that he had uncovered. Removing the package he slid the cover down over the opening for fear that his guard, looking in a window, might become aware of what he had discovered. Then, sitting on the bed, he unwrapped the package. It was a beautiful, clear mirror bound with silver nickel and fitted with screw attachments as though it were intended to be fastened to something. At first this unusual discovery meant nothing whatever to him. Then as he turned the object listlessly in his hands, his eyes fell upon three engraved letters, C-A-S, and a date, 1908. Then he remembered. When he was twenty years old, his father had taught him the science of navigation, so that if anything happened code might sail the old Mayscow field. Because of the fact that a position at sea was found by observing the heavenly bodies, code had become interested in astronomy, and had learned to chart them on a sky map of his own. The object in his hand was an artificial horizon, a mirror attached to the sextant, which could be fixed at the exact angle of the horizon should the real horizon be obscured. This valuable instrument his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday because the old man had been vastly pleased with his interest in a science of which he himself knew little or nothing. Code remembered that for a year or two he had pursued this hobby of his with deep interest and considerable success, and that his great object in life had been to some day have a small telescope of his own by which to learn more of the secrets of the heavens. But after his father died he had been forced to take up the active support of the family and had let this passion die. But how did it happen that the mirror was here? He recalled that the rest of his paraphernalia had gone to the bottom with the Mayscow field. It was true that he had not overhauled his equipment for some time and that it had been a drawer in the May's cabin, but that drawer had not been opened. He pursued the train of thought no farther. His brain was tired and his head ached with the strain of the last five days. His last hope of escape had only resulted in his finding a forgotten mirror and his despair shut out any other consideration. He had not even the fire to resent the fact that it was in Burns's possession and concealed. It was his, he knew, and without further thought of it he thrust it into his pocket just as he heard the men outside his little prison talking together excitedly. "'By George, she looks like a gunboat,' said one. I wonder what she wants. Yes, there's her colors. She can see the sun shining on her brass guns forward. There, she's signalling. I wonder what she wants.' Code walked idly to his windows and peered out, but could not see the vessel that the men were talking about. "'She wants us to heave, too, boys,' sang out naft suddenly. "'Stand by to bring her up into the wind. Hard down with your wheel, John.' As the schooner's head veered, Code cut a glimpse of a schooner-rigged vessel half a mile away with uniformed men on her decks and two gleaming brass cannon forward. Then she passed out of vision. "'She's sending a cutter aboard,' said one man. End of Chapter 22, recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 23 of the Harbour of Doubt. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. The Harbour of Doubt by Frank Williams. Chapter 23. Surprises. Fifteen minutes later a small boat, rowed smartly by six sailors in white canvas, came alongside the midship's ladder of the netty bee. At a word from the officer the six oars rose as one vertically into the air, and the bowman staved off the cutter so that she'd brought up without a scratch. A young man in dark blue sprang out of the stern sheets upon the deck. "'Netty bee of Freekirk Head?' he asked. "'Captain Burns commanding?' "'Yes,' said Nat, stepping forward. "'I am Captain Burns. What do you want?' "'I come from the gunboat albatross,' said the officer, and represent Captain Forrecker. "'You have on board, have you not, a man named Code Scofield, also of Freekirk Head, under arrest for the murder of a man or men on the occasion of the sinking of his schooner?' Nat scowled. "'Yes,' he said. I arrested him myself in St. Pierre, Michelin. I am a constable in Freekirk Head.' "'Just as we understood,' remarked the officer blandly, "'Captain Forrecker desires me to thank you for your prompt and efficient work in this matter, though I can tell you on the side, Captain Burns, that the old man is rather put out that he didn't get the fellow himself. We chased up and down the banks, looking for him, but we never got within sight of as much as his main truck sticking over the horizon. And the petrol—that's our steamer, you know—well, sir, maybe he didn't make a fool of her. Payson, on the petrol, is the ugliest man in the service, and when this fellow Scofield led him a chase of a hundred and fifty miles, and then got away among the islands of Placentia Bay, they say Payson nearly had apoplexy. So you're getting him ought to be quite a feather in your cap. I consider that I did my duty. But would you mind telling me what you have signalled me for?' Burns resented the gossip of this young whipper snapper of the service who seemed, despite his frankness, to have something of a patronizing air. "'Certainly. Captain Forrecker desires me to tell you that he wished the prisoner transferred to the albatross. We know that you are not provided with an absolutely secure place to keep the prisoner, and as we are on our way to St. Andrew's on another matter, the skipper thinks he might just as well take the fellow in and hand him over to the authorities.' "'Well, I don't agree with your skipper,' snapped Burns. "'I got Scofield, and I'm going to deliver him. Be safe enough, don't you worry. When you go back you can tell Captain Forrecker that Scofield is in perfectly good hands.' The pleasant amiable manner of the subaltern underwent a quick change. He at once became the stern, business-like representative of the government. "'I am sorry, Captain Burns, but I shall deliver no such message, and when I go back I shall have the criminal with me. These are my orders, and I intend to carry them out.' He turned to the six sailors sitting quietly in the boat, their oars still in the air. "'Unship oars,' he commanded. The sweeps fell away, three on each side. "'Squad, on deck!' The men scrambled up the short ladder and lined up in two rows of three. At his belt each man carried a revolver and cutluses swung at their sides. "'Now,' requested the officer, amiably, "'will you please lead me to the prisoner?' Nats' face darkened into a scowl of black rage, and he cursed under his breath. It was just his luck, he told himself, that when he was about to triumph some of these government loafers should come along and take the credit out of his hands. For a moment he thought of resistance. All his crew were on deck, drawn by curiosity. But he saw they were vastly impressed by the discipline of the visitors and by their decidedly warlike appearance. If he resisted there would be blood spilt, and he did not like the thought of that. He finally admitted to himself that the young officer was only carrying out orders and orders that were absolutely just. "'Well, come along,' he snarled ungraciously and started forward. The officer spoke a word of command, and the squad marched after him as he, in turn, followed Nats. Of all this code had been ignorant, for the conversation had taken place too far aft for him to hear. His first warning was when the sailors marched past the window, and Nats reluctantly opened the door of the old storeroom. "'Officers are here to get you, Scofield,' said the skipper of the netty bee. "'Come out!' Wonderingly, code stepped into the sunlight and open air, and saw the officer with his escort. With the resignation that he had summoned during his five days of imprisonment, he accepted his fate. "'I am ready,' he said. "'Let's go, as soon as possible.' "'Captain Scofield,' said the subaltern, "'you are to be transferred, and I trust you will deem it advisable to go peaceably.' Catching sight of the six armed sailors, code could not help grinning. "'There's no question about it,' he said. "'I will.' "'Form Corden,' ordered the officer, and the sailors surrounded him, two before, two beside, and two behind. In this order they marched to the cutter. Code was told to get in first and take a seat looking aft. He did so, and the officer dropped into the stern-sheets, so as to face his prisoner. The sailors took their position, shipped their oars smartly, and the cutter was soon under way to the gunboat. Arrived at the accommodation ladder and on deck, code found a vessel with white decks, glistening brasswork, and discipline that shamed naval authority. The subaltern, saluting, reported to the deck officer that his mission had been completed, and the ladder, after questioning code, ordered that he be taken to confinement quarters. These quarters, unlike the pen on the netty B, were below the deck, but were lighted by a porthole. The room was larger, had a comfortable bunk, a small table loaded with magazines, a chair, and a sanitary porcelain wash stand. The luxury of the appointments was a revelation. There was no question of his escaping from this room, he very soon discovered. The door was of heavy oak and locked on the outside. The walls were of solid, smooth timber, and the porthole was too small to admit the possibility of his escaping through it. The roof was formed of the deck planks. He had hardly examined his surroundings when he heard a voice and sharp command on deck, and the running of feet, creaking of blocks, and straining of sheets as sail was got on the vessel. His room presently took an acute angle to starboard, and he realized that, with the fair gale on the quarter, they must be crowding her with canvas. He could tell by the look of the water, as it flew past his port, that the remainder of the trip to St. Andrews would not take long. He knew the course there from his present position must be North, a little West, across the Bay of Fundy. The netty bee, when compelled to surrender her prisoner, had rounded Nova Scotia and was on the home stretch toward Quattie Roads. She was, in fact, less than thirty miles away from Grand Mignon Island, and code had thought with a great and bitter homesickness of the joy just a sight of her would be. He longed for the white swallow-tailed lighthouse with its tin swallow above, for the tumbled green-clothed granite of the harbour approaches, for the black, sharp-toothed reefs that showed on the half-water near the can-boy, and for the procession of stately headlands to North and South, fading from sight in a mantle of purple and gray. But most of all, for the crescent of Stony Beach, the nestle of white cottages along the King's Road, and the green background of the mountain beyond, with Malaby House in the very heart of it. This had been his train of thought when Burns had opened the door to deliver him up to the gun-boat, and now it returned to him as the staunch vessel under him winged her way across the blue afternoon sea. He wondered if the albatross would pass close enough inshore for him to get a glimpse of Mignon's tall and forbidding fog-wreathed headlands. Just a moment of this familiar sight would be bomb to his bruised spirit. He felt that he could gather strength from the sight of home. He had been among aliens so long. But no nearer than just a glimpse. He made a firm resolution never to push the prow of the lass into Flag Cove until he stood clear of the charges against him. He admitted that it might take years, but his resolution was none the less strong. His place of confinement was on the starboard side of the albatross, and he was gratified, after a few minutes, to see the sun pouring through his porthole. Despair had left him now, and he was quietly cheerful. With something akin to pleasure that the struggle was over and that events were out of his hands for the time being, he settled down in his chair and picked up a magazine. He had hardly opened it when a thought occurred to him. If the chorus was north, a little west, how did it happen that the sun streamed into his room, which was on the east side of the ship on that course? He sprang to the port and looked out. The sun smote him full in the face. He strained his eyes against the horizon that was unusually clear for this foggy sea, and would have sworn that along its edge was a dark line of land. The conclusion was inevitable. The albatross was flying directly south, as fast as her whole spread of canvas could take her. Schofield could not explain this phenomenon to himself, nor did he try. The orders that a man of war sailed under were none of his affair, and if the captain chose to institute a hunt for the North Pole before delivering a prisoner in port, naturally he had a perfect right to do so. It was possible, Code told himself, that another miserable wretch was to be picked up before they were both landed together. Whatever course Captain Foraker intended to lay in the future, his present one was taking him as far as possible away from Grand Mignot, St. Andrews, and St. John's. And for this meager comfort Code Schofield was thankful. The sun remained above the horizon until six o'clock, and then suddenly plumped into the sea. The early September darkness rushed down, and as it did so, a big tungsten light in the ceiling of Code's room sprang into a brilliant glow, the iron cover to the porthole being shut at the same instant. A few moments later the door of his cell was unceremoniously opened, and a man entered, bearing an armful of fresh clothing. Captain Schofield, he said, with the deference of a servant. The captain wishes your presence at dinner. The ship's barber will be here presently. Etiquette provides that you wear these clothes. I will fix them and lay them out for you. If you care for a bath, sir, I will draw it. Say, look here, exclaimed our hero, with a sudden and unexpected touch of asperity. If you're trying to kid me, old side-whiskers, you're due for the licking of your life. He got deliberately upon his feet and removed the fishing-coat which he had worn uninterruptedly since the night at St. Pierre. I thought I'd read about you in that magazine or something, and had fallen asleep. But here you are, still in the room. I'm going to see whether you're alive or not. No one can mention a bath to me with impunity. He made a sudden grab for the servant, who stood with mouth open, uncertain as to whether or not he was dealing with a lunatic. Before he could move, code's hard, strong hands closed upon his arms in a grip that brought a bellow of pain. In deadly fear of his life he babbled protests, apologies, and pleadings in an incoherent medley that would have satisfied the most tough and sceptic. Code released him, laughing. Well, I guess you're real all right, he said. Now, if you're an earnest about all this, draw that bath quick. Then I'll believe you. Half an hour later, code bathed, shaved, and feeling like a different man was luxuriating in fresh linen and a comfortable suit. Look here, Martin, he said to the valet. Of course I know that this is no more the gunboat albatross than I am. The Canadian government isn't in the habit of treating prisoners in exactly this manner. What boat is this? Martin coughed a little before answering. In all his experience he had never before been asked to dress the skipper of a fishing vessel. I was told to say, sir, in case you asked, that you were aboard the mystery schooner, sir. What? The mystery schooner that led the steamer that chase? Yes, sir. Well, by the great trawlhawk. And I didn't know it. No, sir. Remember we came up behind the netty bee, and when you were transferred you were made to sit facing away from this ship so you would not recognize her. Then all the guns were fakes, and the whole business of a man of war as well, cried code, astonished, almost out of his wits by this latest development in his fortunes. Yes, sir. The appearances were false, but as for the steamships, sir, this vessel could not do what she does were it not for the strict training aboard her, sir. I'll wager our lads can outmaneuver and out sail any schooner of her tonnage on the seas, blastermen included. The navy is easy compared to our discipline, but what holds the men to it if it's so hard? Double wages and loyalty to the captain. Captain Foreaker? Yes, sir. There, sir, that tie is beautiful. Now the waistcoat and coat. If you will permit me, sir, you look, as I might say, handsome, begging your pardon. Code flushed and looked into the glass that hung against the wall of his cabin. He barely recognized the clean-shaven, clear-eyed, broad-shouldered youth he saw there as the rough, salty skipper of the schooner charming lass. He wondered with a chuckle what Pete Ellenwood would say if he could see him. And now, sir, if you're ready, just come with me, sir. Dinner is at seven, and it is now a quarter to the hour. Stunned by the wonders already experienced, and vaguely hoping that the dream would last forever, Code followed the bewiskered valet down a narrow passage carpeted with a stuff so thick that it permitted no sound. Martin passed several doors, the passage was lighted by small electrics, and finally paused before one on the right-hand side. After he knocked, and apparently receiving an answer, peered into the room for a moment. Withdrawing his head, he swung the door open and turned to Schofield. "'Go right in, sir,' he said, and Code, eager for new wonders, stepped past him. The room was a small sitting-room, lighted softly by inverted bowl-shaped globes of glass, so colored as to bring out the full value of the pink velours and satin brocades with which the room was hung and the furniture covered. For a moment he stared without seeing anything, and then a slight rustling in a far corner diverted his attention. He looked sharply and saw a woman rise from a lounge and come toward him with outstretched hands. She was Elsa Malaby. End of Chapter 23. Recording by Roger Maline