Chapter XVII · THE DAILY PAPERS.

Just what prompted me to be at such pains to conceal the news item, I am at a loss to say. Perhaps it was some premonition. At all events, I argued that it would be better to think over the thing a bit before I did anything. Of course, the circumstance might amount to absolutely nothing.

I took good pains, however, not to let any of my indecision or abstraction show, and our delightful little tête-à-tête picnic ended as light-heartedly and happily as it had begun. And just about sundown it was a very tired little girl, indeed, that insisted upon doing her share of paddling in the bow of the canoe.

Reaching the schooner’s deck, I was astonished to see what order had already begun to show among the former tangle of wreckage. All standing and running rigging had been carefully overhauled, coiled, and tagged. The decks were pretty clear, and what clutter there was was well-ordered.

Stroth met us jovially at the ladder. “Well, girlie, a good day?”

“Oh, fine, daddy, and——” here she stifled a healthy bit of a yawn. “Oh, I’m so sleepy!”

“Nothing like the open, eh, Grey?” said he genially.

“Nothing,” I echoed, then added: “Nothing for sleep like it, unless it’s tiresome company.”

It was cheap, and I regretted it, even before I caught her look; but, come to think of it, the look compensated.

“Then off to bed with you, honey!” cried her father.

“Bed? Now? Why, we haven’t even had supper.”

“Well, I think it would be better, don’t you? I’ll send in Saki to you with your meal, and you can tumble right in. You must remember, dear, we’ve been through some happenings since——”

She broke into the argument with a happy laugh. Then she kissed him, gave me a nod, and left us.

I watched her from sight, then turned to Stroth’s chuckle, as he queried:

“A pretty good showing for one day, isn’t it?” He indicated the decks with a sweep of his right hand. Over his left shoulder was slung a camera.

“I never would have believed it possible in the time,” I replied, in genuine admiration. Then I nodded forward to where Stevens was superintending the construction of the scissorlike arrangement of spars with which he purposed to restep the sticks. “A mighty good man that, Mr. Stroth,” I added.

“I’m beginning to think so,” was the serious reply.

“It won’t be as long a job as you first thought, will it?” I inquired.

“Not by a jugful! Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if we could shake this mooring by day after to-morrow! Yes, Stevens is a gem!”

At this point the little captain himself strode back and joined us, just as I was remarking:

“The hobby again, Mr. Stroth,” with a nod toward the camera.

“Why, yes, indeed,” he replied. “I thought it would be pretty good to have a half dozen or so snaps at the old Ruby Light in the hospital. I’m going to get some more to-morrow, just as the work’s beginning. We’ll develop them together, if you like.”

“Nothing I’d like better!” I replied.

At the time I simply couldn’t make head or tail to the look of displeasure, coupled to what was almost fear, that Captain Stevens shot at me. But he didn’t offer a word in explanation as we filed on down the steps to supper.

Oddly enough, it was not until the following night that I gave second thought to that account I had read of our accident in the paper the coast guard had dropped.

I don’t believe I should have reverted to it seriously, even then, if something of a kindred nature hadn’t happened.

Stroth, as he had promised, had spent the day, joyous as a boy, at his picture taking; but along about four o’clock he had filled his entire reel. And it was just at this time that Stevens was about to dispatch a couple of the crew in the dory launch.

It seems there was a broken turnbuckle or two to be replaced, and there was no risk in thus sending the fellows ashore to a chandler’s; particularly as they would return after dusk.

Stroth heard the order, and added one of his own.

“And, lads,” he called to them, above the engine’s first sharp barkings, “you might bring me all you can get of to-day’s papers.”

The cheery “Aye, aye, sir!” spoke well for their affection for their chief.

Immediately thereafter Stroth left us for the cabin. At his disappearance, Stevens turned to me.

“Then you aren’t going with him?” he asked sharply.

“With him—where?”

“To the dark room.”

“Why, no—if that’s where he’s bound—I guess not. I suppose he forgot the invitation.”

“Maybe so,” said Stevens meaningly, though I invited no confidences.

That night there were again but three of us at the supper table; but this time it was Stroth that was the absentee.

Stevens seemed particularly preoccupied, and left the conversation to Stella and me; but we managed not to miss his share overmuch. I leave the reason to the acute to fathom.

Supper cleared, the girl and I tackled cribbage. Incidentally, she played an abominable game, though I wouldn’t admit it.

Stevens busied himself at a small wall desk, doing some sort of drawing—probably a sketch of the way he would effect to-morrow’s task in refitting.

It was a quiet night, and the moon rose late.

Perhaps the game had run an hour when we heard the pop-pop of the returning dory launch; then came the slight thump as she brought up to the port ladder.

Stevens left the cabin to meet the fellows; returning almost immediately, and carrying a couple of packages, probably the turnbuckles, and a stack of newspapers which he flopped down on the center table.

Then came the slam of a door behind me as I sat with my back to the owner’s stateroom.

Even before I turned I could feel the change in him; and one look riveted the impression. I had begun to know that look.

But it was some time before he said a word. I could see that he was laboring to conceal some sort of excitement—for the girl’s sake, it flashed on me.

We kept on with our game, and, with a grunt, Stroth caught up one of the newspapers from the pile. The sheet shook under his hand as he turned page after page.

It looked to me as if he were almost certain to find some item. It’s hard to make my point clear, but I don’t mean that he was simply looking for an article, a particular page. His search through those crackling sheets partook more the nature of prophecy, as though some force other than plain reason prompted him.

Then suddenly the crackling stopped; his brow knotted, his hands no longer shook. For perhaps two minutes he stood thus.

Finally he put down the paper, and I could see that he was getting some grip on himself; and it was a good grip, for his voice had almost the real ring as he spoke to the girl.

“Turning-in time again, honey!” he said.

“Why, you’re a regular old ogre at sending me off to bed, dad!” And I saw that she suspected no change in him as she obediently finished the hand, bade me good night, and went to her stateroom.

It was as though he had nerved himself to the limit, and could hold it only till he heard the click of her door latch.

“Grey!” It was little more than a whisper, but I jumped to it as to a bellow.

“Yes?” said I.

“Go to your room, and don’t leave it until to-morrow morning at nine!”

I went.

TO BE CONTINUED.

MORAL SUASION.

Old Gentleman—“Do you mean to say that your teachers never thrash you?”

Little Boy—“Never. We have moral suasion at our school.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, we get kep’ in and stood up in corners and locked out and locked in and made to write one word a thousand times, and scowled at and jawed at and that’s all.”

PATIENT WAITERS.

The Greenlanders’ mode of life has accustomed them to take things as they come. If they find no game, they know how to go hungry, and in their relations with each other and with Europeans they manifest the same astounding patience.

I would see them in the morning standing by the hour in the passage of the colonial manager’s house, or waiting in the snow outside his door, to speak to him or his assistant, who happened to be otherwise engaged.

They had probably some little business to transact with those officials before starting for their homes, often many miles from the colony, and it might be of the greatest importance to them to get away as soon as possible. If the weather happened to look threatening, every minute would be more than precious; but there they would stand waiting, as immovable as ever, and to all appearance as indifferent.

If I asked them if they were going to start, they only answered: “I don’t know. Perhaps, if the weather don’t get worse,” or something to that effect; but I never once heard the smallest murmur of impatience.

The following occurrence, for which my informant vouches, illustrates this side of their character:

An inspector at Godthaab sent a boat’s crew into the Ameralik Fiord to mow grass for his goats. They remained a long time away, and no one could understand what had become of them. At last they returned, and when the inspector asked why they had been so long, they answered that when they got to the place the grass was too short, so they had to settle down and wait till it grew.