Front matter (continued 2)

The two men hove up the anchor while the Seabird tore along ten knots with nothing save her mast to pull with the wind. Macreary swung her first this way and then that, blindly, stupidly, and unreasoning, but with rising hopes as the wind beat down the sea into an almost level plain of water white as milk. He held her north by west, making as much westing as he could, blindly hoping to make enough inside the reef to clear the end of the bank and gain the shelter beyond. All was blackness ahead and there was no way of telling when he reached the dry bank; no way of telling when he should round her to and drop both anchors with every fathom bent on to hold them, but he kept on.

"Hide not thy light under a bushel," came the words of the tall preacher! They seemed to flit before his half-blinded vision. He who must make a living at something would do it at what he thought he could do best. He must surely know more about those waters than the Conchs who lived to the southward, for he had fished upon them for two years. His ideas about piloting were vague and absurd, but he did not know it. It seemed to him that all he must do was to show the way the best he could, and it was not in keeping with the teachings to hold back. It would be more immodest to feign ignorance of the banks than to admit a knowledge of them. He had known people who were so backward that they always waited to be sought out by others and pressed to do things, which by all nature they should have offered to do at once. To him these people were truly immodest and their very quietness seemed to savour of a tremendous egotism. They seemed so satisfied and complacent in their knowledge, so superior that unless they were flattered by being sought out and offered a handsome reward, they would rather carry their wisdom to the grave than offer it. It was "hiding a light under a bushel," in the sense the tall man of the Sanctified Band of pilgrims taught it.

The wind drove the little vessel wildly before it. The sea began to make astern, and as he turned his face to look backward a spurt of spray and foam half-choked him. The roar of the gale grew louder. The captain's voice came brokenly to him through the gloom, and he saw him standing close to the companion hatch gazing ahead and holding on with both hands, his face thrust forward and his sou'wester pushed back as though to aid him to see some mark to steer by to safety.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes flew by. If they missed the shelter of the reef and the deep water behind it, they would certainly pile up on the shoals beyond, where the sea would fall with tremendous violence in less than an hour. Already the lift astern was growing quicker and the white plain of water was rolling up into a dangerous sea. He swung the little vessel hard to port, thinking to find better water, and as he did so she took the ground heavily, throwing her captain with force against the coamings.

"Keep her off—breakers—windward," came the cry as from a great distance.

He rolled the wheel up mechanically and she was tearing away again into the darkness, going clear as though she had touched soft mud instead of hard coral rock.

A burst of wind tore over them with a droning roar. The little vessel lay down to the pressure. Then gathering herself upon a sea she rushed ahead.

The blackness grew thicker. Macreary could hardly see the loom of the mast forward. Then a flickering flare of lightning lit the storm and right ahead showed a strip of dry yellow sand. It was a mile off yet, but they were going fast. Macreary hove the wheel to port and kept it there until the little ship buried her starboard deck-strake in the foam.

"Will—make—" came the voice of the captain.

Macreary did not know whether she would or not, but he would try to, and setting his teeth hard he gave up all thought of answer. The minutes flew by. He knew they were going fast. They would go a mile in five minutes even with the lessened headway of the reaching vessel. How could he guess the time in that awful turmoil of roaring wind and sea? He waited and waited. She must be nearly there. The strain was getting awful. Would he go past? He must be up with the point now—but no, he would hold her a minute longer. It must be made or lost in one throw of that wheel, and to lose it meant death to all hands. The blackness ahead was solid. No eye could penetrate it ten feet. Oh, for another flash of lightning!

"Will she—" came the voice of the captain, questioning, querulous, borne back the few intervening feet through the flying atmosphere. He did not know and it angered him to have such a question asked.

How could he tell?

He was panting with exertion and smothered with drift and spray. Suddenly he hove the wheel to starboard. The little vessel leaped forward, straightened out before the gale, then rounded with her head to the eastward. It was done anyhow. If they were clear, all right. If they had missed, they would strike within five minutes.

"Get—anchors—all cable," came the voice of the captain.

Macreary could see nothing forward, but he knew the men were doing what they could to obey. Minutes passed, the vessel rose and fell, but she had not struck yet. He held the wheel, and closed his eyes. The sea seemed smoother. Ahead it was evidently smoother still. The great lift of the outside sea was growing less and less. Five minutes more and the Seabird was in another foam-covered plain of water which had no rolling sea.

"Go," came a cry. It was echoed by a faint shriek somewhere. A shaking of the vessel followed as the chain ran out. Suddenly she brought up and swung right into the eye of the storm, the rush of wind striking Macreary in the face and forcing his sou'wester back upon his head. There was a quick but light rise and fall as the Seabird headed the sea, and Macreary lashed the wheel fast in the beckets.

A form brushed against him and the captain yelled in his face: "She's holdin'—both anchors with forty fathoms—can't get loose unless it blows the water off the earth," and then he pushed the hatch-slide and went below.

In a few minutes all hands were in the little cabin and a light was struck. It showed four men with streaming oilskins and soaking faces, whose expressions still bore marks of extreme anxiety. Three of them looked at each other and then cast glances at Macreary.

"That was a pretty good job, pilot," said Captain James. "We had a close call there once—suppose you got mixed with the steering gear, hey?"

Macreary said nothing. He was like a man who had suddenly awakened from a horrible nightmare.

"Well, you won't lose nothin' by this trip," went on the captain; "them fellows will be blown off fifty miles before morning—and there ain't a soul aboard the bark—she's ourn, and that's a fact."

V

At the End of the Reef

The light-keeper at Fowey Rocks had been given a new assistant, and the new man was Bahama Bill, the giant wrecker and mate of a sponging sloop. He was a negro Conch, so-called on account of the diet upon which many of the native Bankers were supposed to live, the Conch proving an easy and nourishing meal for the lazy and incompetent reefer. But the name soon applied to all alike, and the Conch, instead of becoming a word of opprobrium, stood for all men who made the Reef or Great Bahama Bank their home.

William Haskins, otherwise known as Bahama Bill, was a Fortune Islander, and his acceptance of the keeper's position was but temporary, taking the place of the assistant who was absent on his quarterly leave. The head keeper, an old man, seldom left the light.

It was summer-time and the air was warm with the tropical heat of the coast. The distance from the land kept the lighthouse cooler than ordinary, but the hot Stream flowing past at a temperature of eighty-three degrees gave no cooling effect. The days of the assistant's absence dragged slowly along, the old keeper tending the light with his usual care. Then came a season of frightful humidity and glaring sunshine, lasting many days, the mercury standing always at ninety-five or more.

Bahama Bill spent the warm weather loafing about the town of Miami, and as he was in no hurry to go back to the light, he took pains to spend what money he possessed in whatever finery he thought befitted his magnificent personal appearance best. Standing several inches over six feet and being enormously solid and broad in proportion, he was an object of admiration to the many black men who loafed along the Florida shore. With the Seminoles he had nothing whatever to do, for these Indians showed their distaste for negroes so plainly that it was with difficulty trouble was avoided whenever the men of the Glades came to town to trade their deerskins for ammunition. Bahama Bill stuck to his class until it was past the time for him to return to the light, and then started off, rigged out clean and shipshape in a small boat.

The old keeper of the Fowey Rocks lighthouse came out upon the gallery to take the morning air. The sun was shining and the warm wind from the Gulf Stream blew lazily through the doorway into the lantern-room. The blue sea sparkled in the sunshine, and the long, easy roll of the swell told of calm weather offshore. It was a perfect day, a day of peace and quiet, upon the end of the great Florida Reef, which stretched away for miles to the southward. Eastward nothing rose above the blue rim which compassed all. To the northward the low line of hummocks showed where Virginia Key and Key Biscayne rose above the water some ten miles distant. To the westward the little lump of Soldier Key showed where there might be a solitary human within a dozen miles. And all about the blue sea sparkled in the bright light, taking on the varicoloured hues found above the coral banks. Near the lighthouse, in three feet of water, the coral showed distinctly even from the height of the tower. Old man Enau gazed down at it, watching the bright green tinge melt to deeper colour until, in three fathoms, the pure limpid blue of the great stream flowed past uncoloured and undefiled. Fish were swimming around the iron piles of the lighthouse; great big bonito, sinuous barracuda, and now and then a shark would drift up to the iron pillars and bask a moment in the shade of the tall structure which rose above the coral bank to the height of a hundred feet and more, standing like a huge long-legged spider upon its iron feet in the shallow water.

The quiet of the morning was oppressive to the keeper. Not a sound rose from the reef save the low roll of the sea as it broke upon the edge of the bank, not the cry of a single sea-bird to break the great stillness and beautiful quiet of the day. The old man had been in the light for three years. To him the world was that eternal sea bounded by the blue rim and spotted in one or two places by the distant Keys. Whatever he had seen of human life he left behind him when he took the position as keeper. He had tried to forget. And now, as the years passed, his memories were fading. The human struggle was over. The thought of what he had seen and done was dimmed in the glare of the tropic sunshine, and the shadow of his past had faded to nothing.

He had a fine old face. Rugged and burned from the weather on the reef, his features still bore traces of culture. His nose was straight and small, and his eyes were bright and blue, the deep blue of the surrounding sea, which had kept him apart from his fellow men so long.

He leaned out over the rail and looked down. The heat and stillness oppressed him, and as he gazed below at the white and green formations he seemed to see again the inside of a court-room. The quiet and heat were there, and the stillness was strained and intense, as he waited for the word which meant his ruin. The faces of the jury who were trying a murder case were before him, the man on the right looking hard at him, and the foreman bowing his head gravely in that moment of utter silence before he spoke the words which meant his end. It had been a peculiar case, a case of great brutality and cruelty, apparently, from the evidence produced. He, the master of a large square-rigged ship, had been accused of a horrible crime, and the evidence of two witnesses was there to prove it. He remembered the man whose evidence was the strongest against him, a sailor whom he had befriended, and he could see the look of pious resignation upon the fellow's face. He also remembered the furtive gleam that came now and again from the corner of his eye as he sat near the witness-box and waited his turn to tell of the horror.

Why was it? Was it the heat that brought back those scenes which were fading, or was it the ominous silence of the torrid sunshine upon the reef? The lines in the face of the old man grew rigid and drawn, and he gazed stolidly into the blue water until the coral banks took on new shapes. He saw a ship's deck with the long plank strakes stretching hundreds of feet fore and aft; the low white deck-house, with the galley smoke-pipe stretching across it and the boats upon the strong-backs or booms atop of it; the solid coamings of the hatchways, with the battened hatches as strong as the sides of the vessel itself; the high topgallant-rail which shut off the view to windward, and the rows of belaying-pins stuck beneath with the neatly coiled braces upon them; the high head of the topgallant-forecastle and the long jibboom pointing out over the sea; and, above all, the long, tapering spars lifting upward into the blue above, with the white canvas bellying in the breath of the trade-wind. It was all plain before him again. Then it changed—the pampero off the River Plate, the great hurricane sea which swept the ship and smashed her up, leaving her a wreck, leaking and settling, six hundred miles from shore. The fracas was there before him—the men struggling, trying to save her, until, tired out with exertion and suffering, the man with the furtive eyes had refused to do duty and managed to get the rest to back him.

Then the days following, full of desperate endeavour: the fellow who refused duty shirking and endangering the lives of all; the measures he took, hanging the man by the hands and flogging him until he fell in a faint; how he staggered to his feet and looked at the master—one long look full of a purpose implacable, unrelenting, and then the quiet manner he had when he obeyed. He had picked the fellow up starving upon the streets, an outcast from some country and of a social sphere above his own, taking him aboard his ship and providing food and clothing with a fair wage—and this had been the outcome.

They had left her in the one remaining boat two days after, crowding the craft almost to the gunwales; but the sea was now smooth and the wind gone, leaving a quiet strangely like that of the beautiful day about him. The row westward over that oily, heaving ocean, day after day, day after day!

One by one they had dropped off, overboard, to float astern, and all the time the rip, rip, rip of a triangular fin above a great shadow below the surface.

He had done what he could, taking no more of the meagre food than the rest. Then the last days—four of them left, the men who witnessed against him and another, a stout fellow who had kept up better than the rest. How he had discovered that the fellow had stolen the scant store of food steadily and divided it with the man he had flogged. How, when they had taken all, they had set upon him, and he had killed the stout thief and wounded the other. There was nothing left to eat,—absolutely nothing for five days,—and they had—ugh!—it was too horrible; and upon the seventh day they had been picked up with the evidences of the horror too plain for their rescuers to make a mistake in the matter, even without the two men, who openly accused him of the whole wrong—accused him of not only killing his men, but—ugh!

The trial had lasted a week and the evidence was most horrible. The jury had convicted him upon that of the fellow who sat there with a pious look and furtive glance; the other fellow had merely corroborated his story, and, as it was two against him, his own tale was not believed. He had received a life sentence for the crime, for he had admitted killing the stout man who had stolen the last of the food. He explained that it was his duty as captain to protect his life from their combined assault. The jury had not believed him, for the man who was against him was ready to show the falsity of his tale; he had been sentenced for life. He had served seven years and had escaped by cutting the bars of his cell and gaining a vessel which was wrecked on the coast of Africa letting him get ashore unmolested. After drifting about for a time he had come back to America and taken the position as keeper in the tower, where his past was not open to inspection, for no one knew him or whence he came.

The sunshine was as quiet as before, but the blue Gulf Stream showed a darkening far away on the horizon, where a breeze ruffled the surface. He turned and gazed over the sea toward Florida, and a tiny black speck showed upon the waters of the reef. It looked like a small boat coming out through the Hawk's Channel, and he looked at it steadily for a long time, trying to see if it might be Haskins, the assistant keeper, returning.

The sunshine was very hot on this side of the tower, and it dazzled him for a little while as he gazed over the sparkling sea. The speck drew nearer, and he saw that it was a boat. It came very slowly, sailing with the light air, the bit of white canvas looking no larger than a handkerchief in the distance. Soon the figure of a man could be seen lying easily in the stern-sheets of the craft, and the old keeper saw that the man's legs were bare and brown. Then the tiny shallop took more definite form and showed to be a canoe, its occupant an Indian from the Everglades, coming out to fish upon the reef.

Indians seldom came so far away from land, and as the craft drew nearer and nearer Enau watched it carefully. The Seminoles were friendly. They were an unconquered tribe of Indians who had managed to evade all efforts made by the United States to subdue them. They had retired into the fastnesses of the great swamps, where no white soldier could pursue with any hope to capture, and after years of peace had come to the coast again with the understanding that they should not be molested. The old man had heard of them from Haskins, the assistant, and he had once or twice seen canoes skirting the edge of the great bay in the distance, but he had never seen an Indian close enough to recognize him. The canoe had now come within half a mile of the tower, and was still heading straight for it.

The breeze died away again and the sun shone straight down with an intense heat. The tower cast no shadow either to east or west, and the ship's clock in the kitchen struck off eight bells. Enau mopped his streaming forehead and was about to turn into the galley to get a drink of water. The heat made him reel with dizziness, but the man in the boat made a movement, and he held his gaze fixed upon him. The canoe was coming close to the tower, and it was evident that the Indian would land there if the keeper allowed him. There was no way of getting up to the light except by way of the long iron ladder which reached from the gallery to the sea, a hundred feet below. It was an easy path to dispute with any number of men, especially as they must come through the heavy trap-door in the gallery at the top. There was no way of getting up over the outside, unless one could climb the long, smooth iron rods for a great distance and then reach out under the sill to get a hand-grip upon the edge of the floor and swing out over the gulf below. It would be a mere finger-grip at most, and a tap upon the bare knuckles would send the fellow to his death below. A good sailor might climb the smooth iron rods with great difficulty, but no one could climb up a hundred feet and swing out on that finger-tip hold with the hope of climbing to the rail above. The trap-door worked with a five-hundred pound weight, and if any one tried to come up the thin iron ladder the keeper could simply lower the door and the stout three-inch planks would drop easily into place at will. Enau studied it all out while he gazed below, and it amused him to think what a surprised Indian it would be when he climbed up there to find the door drop fast in his face. No; the keeper was as much his own master in regard to human visitors as though he were a resident of some other planet. A thousand men could not approach him if he did not wish it. He could be all alone for an indefinite time, for he had provisions for half a year and water enough for a lifetime.

While he gazed at the approaching boat the man in her looked up. It was but a glance, a mere look at the head upon the rail above. Enau gasped. That one glance upward was enough for him. The fellow was not an Indian, after all. The sun-tanned face, burned to a dark mahogany colour, belonged to one he had not forgotten. That glance, furtive, half-shrinking, animal-like, without the movement of a single feature, belonged to—yes, there was no mistake. It was Robledo, the sailor who had witnessed against him, the survivor of the horror, the man who had compassed his ruin.

Enau drew his breath quickly and stood up straight. The place seemed to swing about in the sunshine, the tower to rock like a ship in a seaway. Then he peered over again just as the craft came alongside one of the iron pillars. He did not show his face,—just his eyes,—for fear the fellow might recognize him and not come up the ladder. He would have the trap-door ready for him, for it would never do to let that human devil know he was upon the light. Yes; perhaps he would let him come up, inside the gallery, but never go back. The sea would tell no tales. There would be no marks of a struggle, no evidence of a fight—a quick crack upon the head, and over the side, down a hundred feet to the waters of the reef, where the sharks lay waiting. That would be all. He could do it easily. But, then, the fellow might be missed, after all. Some one might know he had gone out to the light, and then there would be the investigation. That was what he did not want. There must be no inquiries, no questions asked him about his past. He was an old man now, and the memory of his terrible wrongs was fading. Let them die out. He would let the enemy go as he came. The fellow could not know he was in the tower, and there was no possibility of his recognizing him, as he had not shown his whole face over the rail. Even if he had, the hair and the beard of three years' growth would hide anything of Captain William Jacobs that still existed in him. No; he would let no one come up that ladder. He would live the rest of his life in peace and quiet. He loved the bright sunshine and the beautiful sea, and he could be satisfied where he was. His wife and daughter he had long given up. They had bade him farewell at the end of that trial, holding away from him, yet with tears streaming down their faces in the agony and horror of it all. He must be alone. There must be no one to tell him about them.

He looked down again, and saw the man below drawing on his trousers preparatory to climbing the ladder. Enau could see into the bottom of the boat beneath, and he noticed a harpoon used for spearing crawfish. Would the fellow take it with him? If so, it would be well not to let him come too near, for it could be thrown and might be dangerous. The man gave no hail, but turned his smooth-shaved face upward and began to mount the ladder, Enau went to the trap-door and loosed the weight softly. It creaked upon its hinges and settled slowly down until only a crack remained. Here he stopped it, with the bolts in readiness to shoot if necessary. He would watch the fellow and see if he showed signs of recognition. Ten years was a long time; the end of the Florida Reef was many thousand miles from where he had last seen him.

The man climbed slowly up the iron ladder, stopping now and then to look seaward. The current had swept his canoe to the northward of the lighthouse, where it trailed at the end of a long line. There was now nothing under him but the blue water. When he reached the first platform he climbed on to it and rested. It was very hot, and the climb made his mahogany-coloured face darker than before. His hair was freshly parted, and looked as though it had been oiled or moistened. His coat he had left in his boat below, and his shirt was open at the neck, showing the strong, corded muscles of his throat and chest. His hands were brown and powerful, and the keeper noticed how his fingers closed with a light but certain grip upon the irons of the ladder.

In a moment he came on again, and when within a few feet of the door he looked upward and hailed. At that instant the old man closed the door and shot the bolts. He was now cut off as completely as though he had gone to the moon. The heat and excitement made his head whirl. He staggered away from the closed door and went back to the gallery. The sunshine danced upon the sea and all was quiet. Then he peered over the rail. A string of muttered curses floated up to him and a drunken voice called him many foul names, but he only smiled and stood gazing out to sea. He could not see the man below now, for the fellow was too high up under the platform, and he made his way to the kitchen and from there higher up into the lantern, where the man's voice could not be heard distinctly.

Hours passed, and the sunshine began to slant sharply. The tower cast a long shadow to the eastward, but the canoe was still swinging to her painter, and the voice of the fellow below was still heard calling forth curses upon him. The keeper was evidently not recognized, for he heard the name "Enau" repeated over and over again, and this was his name as light-keeper—Robert Enau, head keeper of the Fowey Rocks lighthouse. If the fellow had recognized him he would have called him Jacobs, and then he would have tried to kill him. It grew dark, but he forgot to light his lantern, his whole mind taken with the one thought of how to get rid of his visitor. If the lantern was not lighted, the fellow might think that there was no one in the tower, after all, and would go away. The idea flashed through his brain for an instant, and then he centred his thoughts again on the fellow below and forgot the darkness and quiet of the tropic night. Suddenly he thought of the fellow's boat. If he could endanger it, the man might leave. He seized a heavy piece of iron and dropped it at the dark shadow floating at the end of the line. A dull crash told of the accuracy of his aim. Then the shadow faded out, and he knew the boat had sunk. There was no sound from the man upon the ladder below. Evidently he had gone down to the first landing and gone to sleep or was waiting, not knowing the damage done his craft. He could now neither go away nor come up, and the idea worried the keeper greatly. He was very dizzy with the heat and excitement, and his thoughts went again and again over the scenes of that last voyage and the trial following. In the gray of the early morning he was still sitting in the lantern, gazing out to sea, waiting for the sun to rise and show him his enemy below. The day dawned beautiful and clear, and the quiet heat continued. In a little while a noise upon the ladder attracted the old man's attention. He listened. What was the fellow saying?

"For God's sake let me up!"

Not he. No! Had the fellow shown him any mercy when he was at the end of his liberty? Why should he show him any now? All he wanted was for him to go away and let him be. He did not want to see the man. Go away!

The pitiless sunshine streamed through the iron piling and upon the man. His boat was gone. It had sunk during the night from the weight Enau had thrown into it, and the current had torn it loose. There was no way for the man to get off the light without swimming. He must stay or die. He might cling for a long time to the iron ladder and rest upon the landing, but he could not swim ten miles in that current with sharks abounding.

The day passed slowly, and the man upon the ladder raved and swore, begged and cajoled, but Enau was silent and implacable. He went back into the lantern, taking some bread with him. He was not hungry, but the heat made his head swim, and he must eat something. The day drew to a close and silence reigned below. The man had given up talking. Enau lay prone upon his stomach and peeped over the edge of the platform. He could see the man crouching upon the landing, lashed fast, to keep from falling, by a line made of his clothes. Darkness came and the heat abated a little, but no wind ruffled the surface of the Gulf Stream.

With a heavy bar in his hand the keeper sat and waited for any signs of fingers showing upon the edge of the platform. He would not let the fellow up—no, not for anything. If he died there, it was not his fault. He did not want him to come out to the light. He would not have him know that he, Captain Jacobs, was keeper.

The lantern remained unlighted. Now Enau was afraid to leave the platform an instant, for fear the fellow, desperate from his position, would climb over and kill him. He sat there during the hours of darkness and waited.

About three in the morning Enau saw two eyes staring at him. They were far away in the Hawk's Channel, but as the moments flew by they drew nearer. Soon a great shadow loomed up through the night, coming straight for the lighthouse. Then there was a sudden crash close aboard, the rattle and banging of ship's gear, followed by hoarse cries and curses. Enau went inside to the trap-door in the gallery, and sat there watching the bolts until daylight.

In the early morning there was a great noise below. Men shouted and called him by name, but he refused to answer. He peered over the edge of the platform and he no sooner had done so than a perfect storm of voices greeted him. Two ship's boats were tied to the piling of the tower, and many men were crowding up the ladder. More were upon the deck of the vessel, which had rammed her nose high and dry upon the reef close to the light. They were coming to take possession of the tower by force, and he saw that he must now be interviewed, perhaps taken away bodily, for the fellow on the ladder had joined the rest, and they were calling to him to open that door.

The day passed without a disturbance. The men of the four-masted schooner upon the reef spent their time rigging gear to heave the vessel off, and the man had joined them. At dark Enau, seeing that no one was upon the ironwork, lighted the lantern and then came back to his post at the trap-door, holding his club in readiness to prevent any trespassing. He sat there hour after hour, but there was no sign of an attack from below.

About midnight there was a slight noise upon the platform of the gallery near the rail. The old man noticed it, but waited. Then some one rapped sharply upon the door at his feet, and he stood ready for the attack. Then all was quiet as before.

The heat was intense inside the gallery, and Enau mopped his forehead again and again. The whole lighthouse seemed to stagger, and the room went round and round. He was dizzy and failed to see the fingers which grasped the edge of the outside platform, or the form that swung out over the gulf below. A man drew himself up until his head was level with the floor. Then he put one foot up on the landing. He could not get back. It was a sheer hundred feet and over to the sea below, and the water was only three or four feet deep over the coral. He must gain the platform or go down to his death. Gradually he drew his weight upon the landing, clutching the rail with powerful fingers. Then he quickly stood upright and sprang over. He was in the light.

Enau saw him instantly and sprang at him. It was the same hated face, the furtive eyes he had reason to hate with all his soul. They clinched, and then began a struggle for life. And while they struggled the old man's mind could no longer hold his pent-up despair. He called out upon the scoundrel who had ruined him:

"You villain! you have pursued me for revenge—I'll give you all you want," he cried. "I know you; don't think I'll let you go." And, snarling like a wild beast, he strove with enormous power to crush the other against the rail, and so over into the sea. But the younger man was powerful. His strong fingers clutched at the old keeper's throat and closed upon it.

"I know you—I know you—I know your look—you pious-faced scoundrel!" gasped the old man. Then they fought on in silence. Suddenly those below heard a heavy fall. There was a moment's pause.

The room seemed to reel about the old keeper. He struggled wildly in that frightful grip. His breath came in bits of gasps and finally stopped under the awful pressure of those fingers. The scenes of his earlier life flitted through his mind. He saw the life-boat again riding the oily sea in the South Atlantic; the starving men, their strained faces pinched and lined, their eager eyes staring about the eternal horizon for a sight of a sail; the last few days and the last survivors, the man with that look he would never forget—stars shot through his brain and fire flared before his vision. Then came blackness—a blank.

Those below, hearing the sounds of struggle dying away, called loudly to be let in. The man released his hold of the keeper's throat and shot back the bolts in the trap-door, letting a crowd of seamen come streaming into the light.

"Get some water, quick!" called Haskins, standing back and panting after the struggle. He was nearly exhausted, but still kept his gaze fixed upon the fallen old man.

"It's a touch of the sun," said the captain of the wrecked vessel, bending over the old keeper. "We must get him cooled off and ice to his head. Quick, John! jump aboard and tell the doctor to get a lump of ice and bring it here—git!"

"It's pretty bad; I've shuah been hanging on to the irons for two days, and you lose your ship, on account of a poor devil giving way under that sun; but it can't be helped. No, suh, it can't be helped," said Bahama Bill.

"If you hadn't shaved, fixed up and changed yourself so, and had come back in your own boat, he might have recognized you in time," said the captain; "but of course you didn't know."

"I think I done all I could sah," said Bill, thinking of his climb over that outer rail.

"Yes, yes; I don't mean to find fault," said the captain; "but I lose my ship by it."

VI

The Sanctified Man

When Mr. Leonard Holbrook bought the fine yawl Dartmoor, he did so with the clear understanding that his wife would accompany him on a voyage through the inland waters of the eastern coast of the States to Florida. The vessel was something over sixty feet on the water-line and fitted up with as much magnificence as a small craft of that size could well be. She had many trophies in solid silver, won in many hard-fought races, which adorned her cabin, and when Mrs. Holbrook beheld her interior she capitulated.

Mrs. Holbrook belonged to what was termed an "exclusive set." She went to church more than once a week, and the pastor of the million-dollar edifice in New York had much to thank her for.

"A poor person might be pious, but—ugh," he explained with a shrug to the sexton one evening, and he made it his duty to keep alive the fires of reverence which had been installed at an early age within Mrs. Holbrook's gentle breast.

It was with many misgivings that she finally became willing to trust herself upon the Dartmoor, for although she had faith in abundance, it was of the usual feminine variety which is best nurtured under pleasantly artificial conditions. The dangers of the sea, however, were shown to be very small indeed upon a fine craft, especially within the confines of the sounds, and she had sailed as far down the coast as Beaufort. Here it was decided to remain for a few days and enjoy the rural life of the tar-heel, and while Holbrook fished and hunted every minute of the too short days, Mrs. Holbrook passed the time aboard in pious and profound repose. It was delightful to be able to read the texts under the bright blue sky while sitting alone upon the quarter-deck without being interrupted by talk of guns and fishing lines. Then the small but cleanly kirk upon the shell-road could be visited daily, and the good old man who attended to the religious affairs of the fishing village was more than willing to be honoured by so distinguished a visitor. Yachts were like manna, only they did not drop from the sky, but were not the less appreciated for that fact.

The fourth morning the Dartmoor broke out her blue pennant on the starboard spreader, showing that Holbrook had gone away for a day's sport. John Bunyan came down to the dock and stepped aboard. Jubiter John he was called among the pilots of the Core Bank, for he had lived at the inlet just above the beginning of the Florida Reef. He sidled aft and met the quartermaster, who stopped him, but as he was known as a good pilot and had brought the vessel in behind the "bulkhead" safely, he was allowed certain privileges. The master came forth to meet him.

"Mornin', Cap'n," said John, slouching up and pulling forth a rank mullet roe from his pocket and nibbling the end.

The master acknowledged the salutation with a grunt.

"Youse don't take no passengers on a yacht, hey?" he ventured.

"No," said the skipper, decisively, with the vision of the possible passenger before him.

"Youse ain't allowed to, hey?"

"Exactly," said the Captain.

"It's too bad!" exclaimed John.

"Yes, it is," answered the Captain, heartily, his face expressing nothing of the sorrow he might have felt at the limitations of his license.

There was a moment's silence during which the Captain looked aft at the reclining form of Mrs. Holbrook. She sat reading in the shade of the after awning with a rug over her feet to keep off the chill of the autumn air.

"Did youse ever hear of the sanctified people?" asked Jubiter John, presently.

The Captain had not.

"Well, they live down near the Jubiter Inlet where I used to run. There's one o' the fellers ashore here now an' he wants to go back home. It would be a mighty big accommodation if youse could take him with youse—don't youse think it could be done, hey? He'd pay a little."

"How much?" asked the Captain, slightly interested.

"Well, I can't say in money, but then his services air wuth somethin'. He's an all round able man, an' he'll say the prayers fer yer."

"I see," said the Captain, with a grunt.

"There's nothin' doin'?"

"Nix," said the Captain, shortly.

"Well, naow, that's too bad. But think it over, Cap'n, think it over."

The skipper edged to the rail and sniffed suspiciously.

"If it's just the same to you, Jubiter, I'll thank ye to get to lor'ard with that mullet roe. Whew!" said the Captain.

Jubiter John looked pained. He put the rest of the fish roe into his pocket and turned to go. At that instant the Captain started and looked up the dock. A huge figure of a man hove in sight and came slowly down the shell fill towards the yawl.

The figure was dressed in black cloth of clerical cut, the broad shoulders squared across and the hands folded behind. The stranger's head was not visible owing to the fact that he bowed it over until nothing but the top of a shiny tall hat showed in front of him, and he looked almost like a huge turtle with his head drawn inside the shell. The black tails of his coat flapped about his legs in the sea breeze as he strode slowly down to where the Dartmoor lay.

Mrs. Holbrook noticed the man about the time the Captain started up the gangplank to intercept him coming aboard. Visitors were not always welcome to the skipper of the yacht, and it was his duty to see what they wanted. The Captain had hardly started well up the narrow way, when the stranger, who had reached the inshore end of it and was about to proceed down its length, suddenly raised his head. The motion was not unlike that of a turtle poking forth his nose, for it increased the man's stature a full foot, and he stopped, looking at the Captain out of eyes that seemed to hold both a challenge and a half-hidden fear. His shaved chin had a stubble of black hair, but it failed to cover the great square jaw except in spots. A line of white teeth showed between the partly opened lips, and the Captain hesitated to take in the man's appearance more fully before ordering him off the boat. The vessel gave a tug at her moorings and the gangplank took a sudden slue to one side. The next instant the Captain gave a spring for the string piece of the wharf. He missed it by a fraction of an inch and fell heavily against the timber and overboard, landing in the water with a rousing splash.

The accident caused a cry of alarm from Mrs. Holbrook which brought from the depths of the cabin her son Richard. He came bounding up the companionway as rapidly as a boy of twelve could. Jubiter John stood spellbound, looking over the side while the boy, the cook and a sailor rushed to the rail to lend a hand and get the skipper back aboard.

The tall stranger, however, had anticipated their arrival by a few seconds and, jumping on deck, leaned over the side and reached a long thin arm down to the Captain, who came spluttering to the surface. He seized the collar of the coat as it came clear of the water and without apparent effort raised the Captain to the deck. The motion was one of such ease, the Captain being a short, heavy fellow, that a close observer would have marvelled at the man's strength, but in the excitement little notice was taken of it. The stranger had saved the Captain from the sea, and Mrs. Holbrook, who had now advanced to the rail, thanked him warmly for his services.

The look of challenge died away from the man's eyes and one of fear came in place. He shuffled uneasily under the woman's gaze, but finally controlled himself. Then without a word he lifted his face heavenward and clasped his hands before him.

"The ways o' Providence air unbeknownst," said he, slowly, closing his upturned eyes and standing like some huge statue carved in wood. His voice was so soft and gentle that it brought a smile to the face of the boy who stared at him insolently. But the rest were impressed by the man's manner and stood silently watching him until he brought his head back to its normal position with a jerk. Then the Captain muttered something about inquisitive strangers and went below to change, for the air was cool.

"I am sure I should like to repay you for your bravery, Mr.—Mr.——" began Mrs. Holbrook, "but I hardly know how to thank you, sir."

"Mr. Jones is his name, ma'am," said Jubiter John, "an' youse kin repay him at once."

Mr. Jones looked somewhat abashed at this, and the stranger's look of defiance came into his eyes again.

"He's the sanctified man I ware tellin' the Cap'n of jest before he fell overboard," went on Jubiter, "an' all he wants is a passage down the coast a ways. The settlement is down near where I used to run."

"Ah, a clergyman,—a country clergyman, I see," said Mrs. Holbrook.

"I reckon that's about it," said Jubiter John.

"Mr. Jones," said Mrs. Holbrook, "I should be very glad, indeed, to aid you down the coast. You know the yacht is small and you might have to sleep in the Captain's stateroom. If you would not object to that arrangement, you are more than welcome to the voyage."

"Ah, madam," said the tall man, solemnly, in a small voice hardly above a whisper, "I should be glad to have the opportunities you speak of, and if the bed be rough an' hard an' the grub poor, I know it will be the hand o' Providence what makes it so, an' I kin stand it. The ways o' Providence air unbeknownst."

"Very well, then, we leave to-morrow morning at daylight. My husband will be back before sundown and you may come aboard to-night," said Mrs. Holbrook. "Won't you come aft? I am sure the walk must have tired you. It is a long way to the village."

The tall Mr. Jones glanced at Jubiter John and then followed the lady to the quarter-deck, where he folded up like a huge jack-knife in a deck chair, to listen to the somewhat vague but religious conversation of his new patron. He sat there for a full hour, seldom even answering questions which were put to him and not offering a single sentence of his own volition. When he arose to go, he looked askance at Mrs. Holbrook, then he raised his face heavenward and said, solemnly: "The ways o' Providence air unbeknownst."

He turned in a moment and went rapidly to the rail near the dock, leaving Mrs. Holbrook staring at him.

"Ain't he a long one, say," said young Richard, "an' them legs—Gee whizz!"

But at that instant the tall man sprang to the wharf and hurried off, hearing nothing, and Richard received a severe rebuke.

"My dear," said Mrs. Holbrook to her husband that evening, "I have taken the liberty of inviting a country clergyman to accompany us down the coast. He will be here this evening and I hope you will be civil to him."

"Huh," said Mr. Holbrook, and went on deck to smoke his cigar.

"Is he really comin' to go with us?" asked Richard.

"Yes, my dear, of course he is," answered his mother.

"But ain't he long, say?" and he bounded up the companionway to join his father.

Before eight bells that evening the tall Mr. Jones made his appearance and introduced himself to the Captain. As the latter had been instructed to entertain the new arrival to the extent of giving up his room, he received the tall man with scant ceremony.

"What's the matter wid payin' yer passage on a steamboat?" growled the mariner, as he jerked his belongings out of the berth.

"My friend," observed the sanctified man, "it is not my wish to cause trouble, an' I can't help it. If your bed be hard I make no complaint; I'll try to sleep on it. If my grub is no good, I'll try to forget it. The way o' Providence air unbeknownst."

The short, stout skipper stood looking at him a moment, but the sanctified man beamed down upon him until he turned with an exclamation of a somewhat unconventional sort and left the room. Then the tall man closed the door.

In the early morning the Dartmoor was cast loose from the dock and her mainsail hoisted. Jubiter John stood near the wheel and piloted her safely over the bar and out into the green waters of the Atlantic. Then he left her and took to his dory to row back.

The air was crisp with the tingle of a nor'wester and the sun rose with a ruddy glow. The sea was smooth under the land, but the little lumpy clouds which were running away from the northward, told of wind behind. Before the sun was well above the horizon, Mr. Jones appeared on deck. He was dressed in his black trousers with suspenders tied about his waist in place of a belt. His once white shirt was open at the neck displaying a deep and brawny chest. Two long white feet poked themselves from beneath his trouser legs in most unpoetical fashion, but showed he was ready for the washing down of the vessel's decks. He tailed on to the gaff-topsail halliards and sweated up that piece of canvas until the block nearly parted from the masthead with the strain. Even the Captain, who had spent the night sleeping upon the galley floor, felt that he had, indeed, an able seaman in the sanctified man who hurled buckets of water along the snow-white planks or hustled the squeegee along the deck until the wood and seams fairly oozed water like a sponge. The three foremast hands hurried along in his wake.

The Dartmoor was fast making an offing. With all sail she was running before the breeze which now began to get a heart in it, and the long heave of the heavy sea coming around Cape Lookout told of something behind it. There was a live kick and quick run to this swell that made the skipper look anxiously to his lighter canvas, but it was his object to get as far down the beach as possible while the wind lasted. A few miserable hours of heavy weather and all might be well, but thrashing down a nor'wester would cost him his job if he judged Mrs. Holbrook correctly.

The motion brought young Richard on deck, where he stood looking at the tall man in amazement.

"I thought you was a minister, say?" he ventured, as the sanctified man came near with the squeegee, "an' ministers don't work."

"Well, some kinds do, sonny. I ain't just what you might call a priest."

"Naw, you look like you might be some good," said the boy. "But ain't you a long one, say? When you get through I'll come forward and talk to you. Ma won't care; she says she hates to have to sit around an' try to talk to people she don't know nothin' about."

"Did she say that?"

"Sure, she don't know nothin' about you."

The look of fear came into the tall man's eyes and he squeegeed the deck vigorously. Then he went slowly forward and put the tool away.

One of the sailors struck off six bells and the cook announced that breakfast was ready for the Captain and the guest. As the saloon was for the owner and his party, the meal was served in the galley, the Captain and sanctified man sitting at the small table used to manipulate the several ingredients which went to make a yacht's meal.

"Do you think we'll have good weather, Captain?" asked the tall man, starting in at a plate of prepared oats.

"Naw," snapped the skipper, who still held vision of his night's rest upon the galley floor.

"D'ye mind me sayin' a thank ye fer the vittles, hey?"

"Do yer prayin' to yerself," snapped the Captain.

The long man raised his eyes and muttered something in his soft voice.

"No matter if the vittles is bad—an' poor, I'm thankful. The ways o' Providence air unbeknownst," he said as he finished.

"What's the matter with the whack?" snarled the Captain. "Ain't it good enough fer yer? I'll lay it's a sight better'n you been used to gettin', an' that's a fact."

"I didn't say it wasn't good," said the tall man, hastily, in a gentle tone. "I only said I was thankful even if it wasn't any good."

"Huh," snarled the Captain, "tryin' to sneak out of it, hey?"

"A sanctified man never fights," said the big fellow in a small voice, "for if he did I would break you up in little pieces."

"Well, a sailor fights an' don't you fergit it," snarled the Captain. "You want to try the breakin' game a bit aboard here, you long-legged sky-pilot. What the thunder d'ye call a sanctified man anyways, hey?"

"Don't ye know?" asked the tall man, mildly, his eyes taking again that peculiar look of fear they often held.

"Naw," answered the skipper.

"Well, he's one what's been tried. A man that's been off the path an' come back again. He's taken the oath to do no more harm—nothin' but good. He's sanctified."

"No more harm! What harm hev ye done, hey?" asked the Captain, sharply.

"Well, I served my time out—all but three years," said the tall man, fearfully.

"What?" gasped the skipper.

"I served my time out, nearly out. It was only fifteen years I got. I'm all right and have papers to prove it. One of the men they thought I killed got well again. The money was divided among my pals. I didn't get a cent of it; no, not a cent. But the past is past. Let it die!"

"An' you calls yourself a sanctified man, you bloomin' convict, hey? Steward, set these things somewhere else. I may not be particular as to friends aboard ship, but I draw the line at eatin' with jailbirds."

"I never was in jail—only for a month. It was the penitentiary," corrected the tall man, his small voice almost dying away. There was something very sad in his tone; something so touching that even the steward hesitated at obeying the skipper's orders.

"An' to think," said the Captain, "that Jubiter John should play it so badly on us."

He ate his meal in silence on the other side of the little room, while the vessel plunged and ran down the slopes of following seas, creaking and straining so that he soon left for the deck.

The sanctified man sat eating slowly, in spite of the motion and cries from above, as the men shortened sail to ease the racing craft in the sea. He was lost in thought. The memories of his sufferings were upon him, and as the sad years rolled back, he seemed to stand again upon a ship's deck giving orders to a crew who obeyed as only deep-water men know how. His had been a long, hard road, indeed. The surly Captain was forgotten and his insults were as though they had never been uttered.

While he sat there eating slowly and thinking over the past, he became aware that the door leading to the main saloon was open. Through it he caught a glimpse of shining silver as the Dartmoor rolled heavily to starboard, letting in a flood of sunlight through her side ports. A huge urn or cup weighing many pounds, and of solid silver, was firmly planted upon a shelf near the end of the saloon. Upon it was an engraving of a yacht under full sail with the legend "Dartmoor" with "1898" beneath. Evidently the trophy of that season and probably the greatest she had ever won. It was a superb piece of ware, and the man looked at it for a long time, while his face gradually took on a hard expression and the strange look of defiance and challenge came again into his eyes. He had suffered much, but there was something within him that was stirred by the glint of that silver. Twelve long years among a certain class of men had implanted new weaknesses and developed those he had already possessed. He was forgetting himself under the flashing of that reflected sunlight.

Suddenly he was aware of a small hand stealing within his own and he turned with a cry of alarm. A look of despair came across his face and his wide jaws set firm.

"I didn't mean to scare you," said Richard, glancing backward at the steward who was busy with the morning meal. "You don't look like you scare easily. I heard what old square-head said to you. Don't you mind him. He'll eat with you—an' afterwards you can tell me what you done."

"Good God," murmured the man, and seized the boy in his arms.

"Don't hug me; I ain't no girl" cried Richard, and the tall man sat him on his knee and smilingly patted his head.

"I reckon we'll go on deck," said the sanctified man, in a few minutes. "They'll want some help reefin' the mainsail—pretty big sea to run her under all lower canvas." And he took the lad's hand and went forward through the forecastle to the scuttle and so on up to the sunlight above.

The morning was now well advanced. Eight bells struck off, and the head of Mr. Holbrook appeared emerging from the cabin companionway. The sea was sparkling in the sunshine and the quick combers running before the freshening breeze were covering the surface with patches of white. The topsail had been taken in and all hands were lowering down the mainsail to close reef it.

The sanctified man tailed on to the main sheet and soon had the boom nearly amidships. Then the sail was lowered slowly, the men handing in the canvas to ease it on the lazyjacks and toppinglift while the Dartmoor ran along under jigger and jib before a sea that was rapidly shifting to the eastward. Mr. Holbrook came on deck and watched his flying fabric, taking a hand and passing reef-points under the jackstay along the boom, which were all carefully pulled out again and passed under the foot-roping of the mainsail by the careful skipper.

Mrs. Holbrook decided that as the motion was very great she would remain where it affected her the least. It would be time enough to go on deck after dinner, when the beauties of an afternoon at sea might be appreciated.

Mr. Holbrook soon went below to breakfast and took his son with him. When they appeared again the mainsail was set close-reefed, and the jigger rolled up, letting the yawl run easily with more head-sail. She now rose on the following seas like a swan, and as she would reach the crest she would rush wildly along the slanting side, her nose pointing downward and the full weight of the gale in her canvas, until the sea would run from under her, letting her sink slowly into the trough where her canvas would flap in the almost calm spot between the seas. It was a little thick to the westward, but although the land could not now be seen there was a good stretch of water plainly visible.

The sanctified man stood near the wheel, looking occasionally into the binnacle where the compass card swung a good three points each side of the lubber's mark, as the vessel broached or paid off in the sea.

"D'ye ever adjust that compass?" he asked, mildly, of Mr. Holbrook.

"Ever what?" asked the owner, contemptuously.

"Do you ever see that the card swings true?" asked the sanctified man.

Mr. Holbrook looked at the tall man with undisguised pity. What should a clerical man know about navigation, he thought. The poor country clergyman was evidently a bit ignorant concerning compasses, although every schoolboy knew that the magnet swung north and south. He attempted to explain the matter in a wearied tone, but when he had finished the tall man only smiled and his expressive eyes showed traces of amusement. He said nothing. Finally he ventured:

"If I were you, I would let her head a little more to the eastward."

Mr. Holbrook walked away giving a little grunt of disgust as though he had been holding intercourse with a lunatic. As he never spoke to his Captain except to tell him where he wanted to go, he had a rather lonely time on deck and took to playing with his son by sitting at one end of the cabin-house and throwing a line to him at the other and then pulling upon it.

The sea became rougher during the day, but in spite of it, dinner was served in the saloon. Mrs. Holbrook appeared at last and bravely tried to play the part of hostess to her guest. Holbrook had always shown an aversion to piously inclined people, and a clergyman's presence gave him extreme annoyance, as it prevented his picturesque flow of words. As adjectives were a weakness of his, the conversation would have lapsed into monosyllables, had not Mrs. Holbrook determined to do her duty.

"I suppose," said that lady, "you have many sailor men in your congregation, Mr. Jones."

The tall man looked at her sharply. He thought of his "congregation" and wondered. Did the lady know what he was? He had not meant to deceive any one. Jubiter John had simply asked for a passage for a sanctified man and had not thought it necessary to go into the man's history. His eyes held the strange look of alarm they had when he first came aboard, and he answered in his thin voice.

"Yes, ma'am, there's plenty of sailors get in, though they are no worse'n landsmen. It don't make much difference what callin' a man takes, there's bad ones in all."

Mrs. Holbrook glanced at her husband, who smiled his approval.

"Do you know Mr. Brown, the pastor in Beaufort?" asked the lady.

"He must be a very excellent man—I never heard of him," said her husband, with a touch of irony.

"I asked Mr. Jones," said Mrs. Holbrook, sweetly.

"No, ma'am, I never did," said the tall man, shooting his head upward and looking at his host. "He never did time."

"Never what?" asked the lady.

A sharp kick upon the shin bone from young Richard caused the sanctified man to raise a full foot higher in his seat.

"What's the matter?" he asked quickly.

"Aw, tumble," said the irreverent Richard.

Mrs. Holbrook looked at her son sharply.

"What did you do? Do you want to be sent from the table?" she said.

The young man dropped his gaze into his plate and looked abashed. His father smiled. The meal proceeded in silence until they had finished, when Mr. Holbrook led the way on deck with a handful of cigars.

"That wasn't a bad one on the country parson," ventured the yachtsman. "You fellows so seldom joke, a man never knows just when you will break out. Ha, ha, ha—'never did time'—Well, that wasn't half bad." And he quite warmed to the tall man as he offered him a perfecto.

"But you see——"

"Yes, I see well enough. I don't blame you for kicking about such men. Now you can tail on to a sheet or pass a reef point like a man. Will you have a good nip of grog before Mrs. Holbrook comes on deck?"

The sanctified man thought he would. They repaired to the forehatch, where the steward passed up the spirits unseen.

The warmth of the liquor put new life in the tall man's great frame. He had eaten very little for days and the effects of good food and strong drink were very strengthening. The look of challenge took the place of alarm in his large expressive eyes and his great square jaw seemed to set firmer. Half of his cigar disappeared between his teeth, which closed upon it with the set of a vise.

They went aft again in time to meet Mrs. Holbrook coming on deck assisted by the Captain, who placed rugs for her in a steamer chair in the cockpit. It was getting thicker and the wind was now well to the eastward of north, but there was no harbour nearer than Cape Fear, and the Captain had many reasons for not wishing to stop there. He would run along close to the land and after passing would be in Long Bay, where he would have a fair wind to Charleston, one hundred and fifty miles ahead, making a run of more than two hundred miles from Beaufort. This would get the yacht well down the coast to where they might expect good weather.

"I think," said the tall Mr. Jones, during a break in the conversation, "I would head the vessel offshore a couple of points. You know the Frying Pan runs well off here. It will be breaking in three fathoms with this breeze. The ways o' Providence air un——

"Never mind about Providence, Mr. Jones," said Holbrook, with a wave of his hand. "The Captain will look out for the yacht. You needn't be scared. Tell us about the sailors you get in your flock. How you learned all about boats from them."

Mr. Jones drew himself up a good foot. His head went up in the air and the look of defiance came into his eyes.

"The only fellows that got sent up with me were Jack Elwell and Bill Haskins," said he.

"How do you mean sent up with you?" asked Mrs. Holbrook.

"Well, they were caught straight enough," said the tall man, sadly.

"You mean they had to be caught and sent to you for spiritual teaching?" asked Mrs. Holbrook with a smile.

"Well, er—not exactly," said the tall man, in a voice which died away to a whisper.

"Ha, ha, ha, a good one on you, Mr. Jones," said Holbrook.

"Well, you see," went on the tall man, slowly, "you don't seem to understand just what I am." He looked at the Captain, who stood near at the wheel, but whose face was like a mahogany mask.

"Why, you are a clergyman, are you not?" asked Mrs. Holbrook.

"A convict," said Mr. Jones, slowly. "I am Stormalong Journegan, sailor, navigator, and was sent up for fifteen years. Bahama Bill an' me got out."

There was a long silence. Holbrook rose and went to the farther side of the yacht. Mrs. Holbrook sat a few moments and looked out to sea. Then she motioned to the steward, who was at the companionway, to take her wraps below, and she disappeared down the steps without a word.

Holbrook saw something forward and made his way toward the bow followed by his son, who turned to look back at the tall man.

"Serves her bloomin' well right fer turnin' me out," growled the Captain into the ear of the helmsman. "Next time she'll be a bit more careful about takin' passengers."

Mr. Jones, or Journegan, sat looking out over the sea. The veil of mist that hung over the land held many images for him. He saw how it was aboard. His year of reformation had taught him many things, and the lesson he was learning was not entirely new. He gazed sadly at Holbrook. He had felt drawn toward the man, but after all, in spite of his assumed contempt for holy men, he was more of a hypocrite than the veriest village parson he had ever met.

He arose slowly, unkinking his long frame like the opening of a jack-knife. Then he tossed his cigar over the side and went to his room. He was an outcast aboard that yacht and he knew it. The privacy of his room was much better than the inhospitality of the deck.

All the long afternoon he sat there thinking. He was not a strong man save for his great muscular frame. He had fallen before and he was now trying to do what he could to atone for it. The thought of the silver in the after-cabin came to him and his vacillating spirit could not quite get the glistening vision out of his brain, for after all, these people were his enemies. They could never be anything else as long as human vanity and conceit endured. Even the miserable little prig of an owner who ridiculed clergymen need not be spared. It might do his small soul good to have to part with some of his treasures. He pondered, while the light failed and the look of challenge came into his eyes. He had a powerful frame and had nothing to fear. And all the time the Dartmoor ran to leeward with the lift of the northeast sea behind her.

It was just before eight bells, when a man who had gone forward on lookout hailed the Captain.

"Something white dead ahead, sir," he cried.

The sanctified man heard and thought of the untrue compass. The next instant there was a dull reverberating snore alongside as a giant breaker burst into a white smother and rolled away in the darkness. It was breaking in three fathoms, and the yacht was racing to her end.

There was a rush of feet on deck. Wild cries came from aft, where the Captain had rolled the wheel hard down and was struggling with the sailor to get the jigger on her and force her offshore. She had not touched yet, but as the yawl came to in the gale, she brought up broadside in a sea that burst upon her with the weight of an avalanche, heaving her on her lee beam and washing everything off her, fore and aft. The water poured down the companionway and flooded the cabin.

The sanctified man reached the deck by dint of a fierce struggle up through the forward companion. The men who were below followed as best they could; swashing, floundering through the flood and loosened fittings, and they managed to get aft in time to get a line to the sailor who had been at the wheel and who was now close alongside. The Captain was gone.

All the time the Dartmoor was drifting to leeward and into the breakers. She had swung off again under the pressure of her jib, and just as the tall man seized the jigger halliards to get the after sail upon her, she struck on the Frying Pan Shoals. The next sea rolled over her and was the beginning of the end.

Mr. Holbrook had been below all this time, and he now appeared at the companion with his wife and boy. The sea that fell over the wrecked craft nearly drowned them and washed Richard back into the cabin. Mr. Jones roared out for the men to get the only small boat left alongside, and his voice rose to a deep sonorous yell. He led the way himself to the falls, where the small boat trailed to leeward, the davits having been torn out bodily with the weight of the breaking seas. The hauling part was still on deck and he handed in the line quickly, the three sailors and steward taking heart at his example and helping all they could. Mrs. Holbrook was placed in the small boat and her husband waited not for an invitation to follow, but floundered in after her. The three sailors sprang aboard. At that instant a giant sea rose to windward. It showed for a second in the ghastly phosphorescent glare of the surrounding foam. Then it thundered over the doomed yacht.

When the sanctified man came up from the blackness below, he was just aware of the vessel's outline some fifty feet away to windward, and he struck out strongly for her. In a few minutes he was alongside. A great sea broke over her again, but he held well under the rise of her bow and managed to cling to the trailing débris. Then he climbed on deck. There was nothing living left there. He looked for the boat, but it had disappeared. Then he was suddenly aware of a bright light and as he looked he remembered the Bald Head tower which marks the dreaded shoals of Cape Fear.

He knew he was a mile or more from the beach and all the way was the rolling surf. It was a desperate swim at any time, but in a northeast gale, with the sea rolling high, it was useless to think of anything human attempting it without artificial aid. He clung to the stump of the mainmast and tried to live through the torrents that swept over him by getting directly in its lee. This was the only way he could stay even a few moments aboard the vessel. She was lifting still with each succeeding sea and driving higher and higher upon the bank, but she had not broken up badly yet. Yachts like the Dartmoor could stand a tremendous pounding before going to pieces, but he knew that nothing could stand the smashing long. Before daylight there would be not a stick to show that a fine ship had gone ashore in the night.

The cabin scuttle was open and he wondered if the cabin was full of water yet. The silver was still there and belonged to the man who could save it. There was a chance for him and he was already looking about in the blackness for a proper spar or piece of wood to float him for the struggle in. It might be just as well to try to take in a little extra weight along with him, for he would not start until he could get his float.

In a smooth between two seas he made a dash for the companion, springing along the coamings of the skylight to get a footing, for the deck was at a high angle. He reached it and clung under its lee for shelter. Then he peered down into the darkness below. The cabin was not quite full of water and he climbed down, feeling for the magnificent cup he had seen there the day before. His hand touched it, although he was now almost shoulder deep in the water. A mattress floated against him and he seized it. The cork within would float him and his prize. He tried to find something else that would float, but just then a torrent of sea water rushed below and he saw that if he would get away at all he must soon start. He lugged his prize to the steps and started to drag it clear. He reached down in the water to get a better grip of it and his great fingers closed upon a human hand. Then he made out the form of the boy with his head still above water, clinging to the topmost step of the ladder. He peered into the child's face and saw the frightened eyes open and look at him. Then he stopped and stood motionless upon the ladder.

In all his work he had only been a few minutes, but those few minutes had been minutes of his old life, the life of a sailor. The late past had been forgotten and he was now a shipwrecked mariner, getting ashore as best he could, saving what he might from a wreck. But the touch of the boy's hand brought him back again to the realization of his condition. The hand of an enemy's son, but the hand of one who had treated him kindly. The mattress would not hold all three. It would be between the boy and the cup. He swore savagely at the piece of silver, held it for an instant, then started to hurl it from him. In the precious seconds he was making a desperate fight. He gripped it again with both hands and held it before him. A sea roared over the wreck and half smothered him, pouring down the open companion.

He dropped the heavy cup, seized the half-fainting Richard and quickly passed a lashing about him. Then he seized the cork mattress and boy and plunged to leeward.

In the dim gray of the early morning, the keeper of the Bald Head Lighthouse saw the tall form of a man staggering up the beach carrying something in his arms. He ran down the steps of the tower and met the tall stranger and relieved him of his burden of a still living but half-drowned boy.

"His mother and father are crazy with grief," said the keeper. "The woman is crying all the time that it was the will o' God, because she had a convict aboard her yacht. If you are the Captain, you had better bring the lad to her yourself. I reckon she'll be careful what kind o' passengers she takes aboard again, and take your word for things aboard her boats."

"Does she think it was because a convict was aboard, the vessel went ashore?" asked the tall man, drawing his half-naked figure up to its full height.

"Sure, she says the Captain didn't want him. A mighty fine religious woman she is, too," said the keeper.

"I reckon I won't bother her just now," said the tall man, in a voice hardly above a whisper. "You take the little fellow to her—I'll go and get some clothes on."

The light-keeper strode away with the boy in his arms. The tall man stood still for several minutes, looking after him. When the keeper reached the dwelling he turned and saw the tall man still standing there in his soaking trousers, his giant torso looking like the statue of a sea-god. "The ways o' Providence air mighty strange," muttered the sanctified man, slowly to himself——"But somehow I feel that I won."

VII

When the Light Failed at Carysfort

The United States Lighthouse Establishment organized by Thornton Jenkins, Rear-Admiral, United States Navy, had built many important lighthouses upon the coast of the States. The appropriations admitted the lighting of the dangerous coral banks of the Florida Reef, which rose from the blue Gulf Stream many miles offshore and stretched away from Cape Florida to Tortugas.

From Fowey Rocks to Sand Key the high, long-legged towers, built of iron piling driven into the rock and braced with rods, rose above the shoal water, and at night their huge lenses flashed forth a warning gleam for twenty miles or more over the sea.

Carysfort was the second from the beginning the reef: a tall iron structure, the lantern or lens mounted atop of a wooden house built upon the platform at the end of the piling.

Inside of the house were the two bedrooms of the keepers, the oil-room, storerooms, and kitchen. Large tanks of iron held hundreds of gallons of water caught from the roof.

Outside the structure the platform extended six feet clear all around, making a comfortable porch or piazza, with a high rail which hung out over the sea at a height of about a hundred feet.

A long iron ladder extended from a trap-door in the flooring to the sea below, stopping at a landing about half-way, where the keepers had a small woodpile, a flower-bed, and a few things which would stand exposure to the weather. At the sides of the platform above were davits, on which the two whale-boats hung.

Altogether, the little house and platform offered some inducements to men who were not particular about being alone for a long time.

It was many miles to the nearest land, clear out of sight from even the top of the tower; and to those who lived there it was like being at sea upon a small vessel which neither pitched nor rolled in a seaway, nor yet changed position in any manner. It was almost like living in mid-air.

It was a healthy life for the keepers. No germs of any known disease ever reached the distant lighthouse, and no sickness had ever occurred there.

On shore, it was a well-established axiom that among the offshore keepers none died—and few retired.

Every few months each could get a leave of absence on full pay and spend the time in any manner he pleased. The supply-ship stopped off the reef twice each year, and the lighthouse tender traversed the district as high as Cape Canaveral if anything was wanted.

So at least three or four times a year the keepers would hold communication with the outside world and converse with their fellow men.

The ships passing up the Hawk's Channel from Key West went within a few miles of the reef, and steamers going north outside sometimes stood in close enough to be recognized: but the Carysfort and Alligator Reefs were good places to keep away from, and no vessels except the spongers remained long in sight.

The spongers consisted of small sloops and schooners, which hailed from Key West whose owners were the wreckers of the reef, and who spent the best part of the good weather in summer hunting the growths upon the coral which brought such good prices in the Northern drug-stores.

Few wreckers are piously inclined, some less so than others, but the outlying light was safe from thieves, for by hauling up the iron ladder the keepers were shut off completely from the world below. No one could, or would, climb those polished iron columns painted a dull red and as slippery as glass, unless something valuable was to be had at the top. So the keepers often left the trap-door open or unbolted, knowing their security.

Black Flanagan was the head keeper, a six-foot giant from Wisconsin, who had found his way to Florida while evading a Michigan sheriff. The work and confinement upon the light were not as irksome to him as might be expected.

His assistant was a preacher, a broken-down Methodist minister without a flock, whose religious tendencies were of an order which brooked solitude.

He had the reputation of being the most blasphemous man upon the Florida Reef, and his short sojourns ashore were marked by every excess capable of being committed by a human being within the law.

They called him "the howler," for, when he was drunk—which he invariably was an hour after he came ashore—he would stop at the village street corners and bellow for converts.

Any one within a mile would know what was taking place, and many would stop to listen. Failure to get responses brought forth such a torrent of profanity that he would have to be locked up until sober—when he would repeat the effort until his leave was over.

Then, solemnly and with ponderous dignity, he would take himself back to his home in the air over the blue Gulf Stream, and no one would see him again for several months. Black Flanagan would greet him with a grunt, and the two would take up the even life of lighting the lantern and putting it out.

Men were not struggling for their positions, and they took some comfort from the fact. They would probably live so for a long time, drawing good pay, with nothing whatever to do except clean and light the lamp.

It was a hot and sultry morning in August, and the keepers were hanging lazily over the rail of the platform, when they saw the wrecking-sloop Sea-Horse coming slowly up the Hawk's Channel.

Her main-boom was well off to port, and she was fanning along before a very light air from the southeast, going not more than two knots an hour.

Upon her deck lay the crew of half-naked Conchs, while at her wheel the giant form of "Bahama Bill," the mate, stood leaning against the shaft, smoking a short pipe.

The fact that the black man now and then looked astern at a thin trail of smoke caused Black Flanagan to notice him.

"There goes the Sea-Horse," said he to his assistant; and they both came to the side of the platform nearest the passing vessel.

"Never seen thet big feller show so much consarn about what was astern o' him, hey?" said the preacher. "Looks like they were from the east'ard." And he nodded significantly.

The sloop drew nearer, and the thin line of smoke rose blacker a dozen miles astern. Then there seemed to be signs of life aboard. Two men sprang up and began to drop large kegs overboard, making a great splashing. They kept this up for some minutes, and the keepers went inside the light for the telescope.

Astern of the sloop they made out small, black objects, which floated at intervals upon the swell, and were just discernible through the powerful glass.

For half an hour the men aboard the wrecking-vessel worked heaving cargo overboard, and, as they went along, the long line of tiny specks marked their wake.

"Corks," said Flanagan; "I thought so."

"They better hurry up," said the preacher; "the cutter's rising fast." As he spoke, he looked toward the steamer, which was now coming along in plain view, her hull rising slowly above the horizon, and her funnel pouring out a black cloud, which hung over the sea.

"They'll get caught fair enough. Half an hour, an' the officers'll be aboard."

"Well, they won't find anything. They'll never see them corks—she's already heading out to get them clear of the wake. When they catch her, she'll be an innocent sponger—an' we'll——"

They looked at each other and smiled.

An hour later the Sea-Horse and revenue-cutter were upon the northern horizon heading into Biscayne, and the keepers were lowering their boats.

It is an unwritten law of the reef that a man may steal as much as he can from the United States, but he must not touch property belonging to an individual. A smuggler is not by any means a common thief.

Flanagan's ideas were different. He held that it was well to steal whenever the opportunity offered without danger of getting caught; and upon this principle he had little difficulty in converting his pious assistant, whose thirst had not been slaked for three full months.

Together they loaded three of the kegs into the boats by simply pulling up the fishing-lines whose ends were floated by beer-bottle corks.

The lines anchoring the kegs were lying upon the bottom in six fathoms of water, out of sight, and the small cotton cords were amply strong enough to raise them. Once getting a grip of the anchoring-lines, they had no difficulty in hauling the liquor aboard their whale-boats.

The temptation to sample the goods was so strong that they desisted after the third keg, and made straight away for the lighthouse to enjoy the plunder. They could come back again and get the rest at their leisure, for the corks would be in plain view during the calm weather.

What transpired at the lighthouse during the next three days is somewhat hazy. No light appeared at night, and the Key West steamer almost ran ashore on her trip south. She reported the light out, and the tender was despatched to see what had happened.

The day was clear and bright, and the keepers were on the lookout, seeing the steamer when fully fifteen miles away. Their liquor was promptly put out of sight, and everything made snug to receive the inspector.

While there were evidences of drink in the faces of the men, they showed a properly kept light, and swore solemnly that they had not left the tower, and that the light had not failed at all.

They mildly suggested that the captain of the Key steamer may have been in a highly reprehensible condition to have accused two perfectly sober and diligent light-keepers of neglect of duty.

The pious one broke forth in prayer and exhortation for the delivery of deluded pilots from the wiles of the devil, and soon the inspector was glad to go aboard his vessel to return to Key West.

The Sea-Horse, having been searched at Miami and found to be clear of contraband, was allowed to go her way. She stood out to sea, and headed down the Hawk's Channel just as the keepers lit the lantern for the evening watch. Black Flanagan was just sober enough to do this, and then turn in to continue his debauch with a pannikin of rum at his bed.

The Sea-Horse anchored near the light and waited for daylight to pick up the floats.

In the gray of early morning the black mate turned out the crew, leaving the captain below, and, taking the small boat, put off.

It was calm, and the corks were plainly visible. They were promptly hauled aboard, and the sunken kegs stowed until the end of the line was reached.

Here the mate found three floats missing, and, being in a suspicious frame of mind, he looked toward the light, which was still burning, although the rays of the rising sun were colouring the eastern horizon a rosy hue.

"They've got 'em, all right," said he. "If we're quick enough, we might catch 'em—give way hard."

The small boat with three men was headed for the tower; and the Sea-Horse, with her captain now thoroughly awake, lay by for developments.

The big mate lost no time gaining the tower. It was broad day now, and Flanagan had just staggered up the steps into the lantern when the small boat arrived alongside the piles below.

In his befuddled state Flanagan saw nothing, until, after putting the light out, he came stumbling back again. He arrived in the lower room just in time to see the black head and shoulders of the mate emerging upward through the trap-door in the floor.

The mate was not in a good humour; moreover, he had turned out early without eating his breakfast, and his great black head and giant arms seemed supernatural in both vindictiveness and size.

Flanagan thought he had taken too much, and that the horrors were upon him at last. With a yell, he launched himself upon the seaman, taking him at a disadvantage, and endeavoured to smash him back into the void below.

But the mate was strong. He had come to the light expecting trouble. With a mighty effort he forced the keeper upward, and, amid a fierce snarling and threshing about, he soon engaged in a desperate struggle.

The "howler," hearing the uproar, sprang to the rescue, and joined in the fray just as the sailors, following their trusty mate, climbed through the door. In less than five minutes the keepers were lashed fast, and were being lowered down through the door into the waiting boat below.

What remained of their spoil was also found and lowered after them; and in the bright light of the tropic sunrise the Sea-Horse put to sea, leaving the great tower of the Carysfort light to the westward.

For nearly a week no light was shown from the tower. Strangely enough, no one reported the light out.

The sixth day a sponger, sailing past at dark, noticed the absence of light, and went to the tower to see what was wrong.

He found it deserted, and, being a very poor man, he made his boat fast to the piles and took possession, enjoying the fare and taking care of the lantern in proper style for several days.

All might have gone well with him for several months, but for the fact that the supply-steamer was due, and arrived before he thought it time to make a getaway.

Finding the keepers missing, and no account made for them by the inhabitant, the officers promptly accused him of murdering them, and forthwith took him aboard the vessel to be carried ashore and tried. He was promptly convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to imprisonment for life.

Meanwhile, the Sea-Horse, having made the Bahamas, put the thieving keepers ashore to shift for themselves. After vainly trying to get passage back to their home, they finally managed to get a small boat and put to sea, to make the two hundred miles or more to the lighthouse.