foot from the tide.”

Jimmy said nothing, but seizing the dory savagely, he threw her over the
rail and jumped into her with a coil of rope. Moran followed and lowered
a bight of the rope while Jimmy rowed. Some minutes passed, but they
felt nothing, and Bethune watched them from the sloop with an intent
face. It looked as if the wreck had broken up and disappeared. Then as
the dory turned, taking a different track, the rope tightened and Moran
looked up.

“Got her now! She’s moved, and there may not be much of her holding
together.”

Jimmy stopped rowing, and there was silence for a moment or two. It
would take time to unpack and fit the diving pumps, and sunset was near,
but neither of them felt equal to bearing the strain of suspense until
daybreak.

“It may blow in the morning,” Jimmy said.

“That’s so,” agreed Moran, pulling off his pilot coat. “I’m going down.”

There was a raw wind, the tide ran strong, and the water was chilled by
the Polar ice; but Moran hurriedly stripped off his damp clothes and
stood a moment, a finely poised figure that gleamed sharply white
against gray rocks and slaty water. Then he plunged, and the others
waited, watching the ripple of the tide when the sea closed over him.
Some moments passed before his head broke the surface farther off than
they expected. Jimmy pulled toward him, and after a scramble, which
nearly upset the craft, he got on board and struggled into his clothes.
Then he spoke.

“She’s there, but so far as I can see, she’s canted well over with her
bilge deep in the sand.”

Jimmy and Bethune were filled with keen relief. They might have
increased trouble in reaching the strong-room, but it was something to
know that the wreck had not gone to pieces in their absence.

Jimmy picked up the end of the rope and tied on a buoy. Then he pulled
back to the sloop, where Bethune cooked a somewhat extravagant supper.

CHAPTER XVII—THE STRONG-ROOM

When Jimmy went on deck the next morning, fog hung heavily about the
land and the slate-green sea ran with a sluggish heave out of belts of
vapor. The air felt unusually sharp and the furled mainsail glistened
with rime. This was disturbing, because they must finish their work, or
abandon it, before winter set in; but Jimmy reflected that it was some
weeks too soon for a severe cold snap. While he watched the smoke from
the stove funnel rise straight up in a faint blue line, he heard a
splash of oars and Bethune appeared in the dory.

“I took the water breaker off before you were up,” he said as he came
alongside. “There was ice on the pool. It struck me as a warning that we
had better lose no time.”

“That’s obvious,” returned Jimmy. “Hand me up the breaker. We’ll get the
pumps rigged first thing.”

Breakfast was hurried. The weather was favorable for work, and they
could not expect it to continue so. In an hour the sloop had been warped
close to the wreck and Jimmy put on the diving dress. He was surprised
to feel the half-instinctive repugnance from going down which he thought
he had got rid of; but this could not be allowed to influence him, and
he resolutely descended the ladder. In a few minutes he reached the
wreck, and found one bilge deeply embedded; but the opposite side was
lifted up, and a broad strip of planking had been torn away. Jimmy could
see some distance into the interior, and his lamp showed that the stream
had washed out part of the sand which had barred their way to the
bulkhead cutting off the strong-room. This had been strained by the
working of the wreck, and it seemed possible to wrench the beams loose.

He attacked the nearest with his shovel, using force when he found a
purchase, but the timber proved to be firmly mortised in. He lost count
of time as he struggled to prize it out, and did not stop until he grew
distressed from the pressure. His heart was beating hard and his breath
difficult to get, but the beam still defied him. Making his way out of
the hold, he stumbled forward toward the ladder; and when his comrades
removed his helmet on board the sloop, he sat still for a few moments to
recover. It was inexpressibly refreshing to breathe the keen, natural
air. At last he explained what he had found below, and added:

“My suggestion is that we bore out an opening for the saw; then we could
cut the stanchion through and prize the cross-timbers off.”

“The trouble is that we haven’t a big auger,” Bethune objected. “You
often run up against a difficulty of the kind when you’re using tools:
the thing you want the most is the one you haven’t got.”

“Mortise-chisel might do,” said Moran. “How thick’s the timber?”

“Three or four inches. By its toughness I imagine it’s oak or
hackmatack.”

“Then, there’s a big job ahead,” grumbled Bethune; “and my experience is
that as soon as you drive a chisel into old work you come upon a spike.
Unfortunately, we haven’t a grindstone.”

“Quit your pessimism and find the chisel!” snapped Moran. “I’m going
down.”

They watched the bubbles that marked his progress rise to the surface in
a wavy line and then stop and break in a fixed patch. Rather sooner than
they expected the bubbles moved back; and Moran looked crestfallen when
they took off his diving dress.

“Did you cut out much stuff?” Bethune asked.

“No,” said Moran, holding up the chisel; “this is what I did. Came
across a blamed big spike at the second cut.”

Bethune giggled. Even Jimmy grinned. There was a deep notch in the edge
of the tool.

“Your philosophy isn’t much good,” Moran said grumpily. “It helps you to
prophesy troubles, but not to avoid them. We’ll have to spend some time
in rubbing that nick out.”

“I’ll try the engineer’s cold-chisel,” Bethune replied. “With good luck,
I might cut the spike.”

He took the tool and an ordinary carpenter’s chisel down with him; and
the edge of the chisel was broken when he returned.

“I’ve cut the spike, and dug out about an inch of the wood,” he
reported. “Why are you frowning, Jimmy?”

“It looks as if we may spend a week over that timber. These confounded
preliminaries sicken me!”

“They’re common.” Bethune launched off into his philosophy. “If you
undertake anything that’s not quite usual, half your labor consists in
clearing the ground; when you get at the job itself, it often doesn’t
amount to much.”

“Chuck it!” Moran interrupted. “Jimmy, it’s your turn.”

Jimmy stayed below as long as he could stand it, hacking savagely with
broken chisels at the hard wood, and scraping out the fragments with
bruised fingers; then he came up and Moran took his place. It was trying
work, and grew no easier when, by persistent effort, they made an
opening for the saw. The tool had to be driven horizontally at an
awkward height from the sand, and the position tired their wrists and
arms. Still, the weather was propitious, which was seldom the case, and
they toiled on, until exhaustion stopped them when it was getting dark.
Then Moran sent Bethune ashore to look for stones with a cutting grit,
and they sat in the cabin patiently rubbing down the nicked tools, while
the deck above them grew white with frost.

It cost them two days to break the beam, and on the evening they
succeeded there was a sharp drop in the temperature.

Jimmy was cooking supper when Moran called him up on deck and pointed
seaward.

“See that?” he said. “Seems to me we’ve got notice to quit.”

Searching the western horizon, where the sea cut in an indigo streak
against a dull red glow, Jimmy made out a faintly glimmering patch of
white. Taking up the glasses, he saw that it was low and ragged, and
fringed on its windward edge by leaping surf. This showed it was of some
depth in the water, and he recognized it as a floe of thick northern
ice.

“Yes,” he answered gravely; “we’ll have to hurry now.”

They spent the next week attacking the bulkhead. Jimmy thought it would
have resisted them only that it had obviously been built in haste and
here and there the strengthening irons had wrenched away through the
working of the hull. They lost no time, but the work was heavy, and
tried them hard.

It was late in the afternoon, and blowing fresh enough to make diving
risky, when Jimmy prepared to go down for what he hoped would be the
last attempt; but stopping a few moments he looked anxiously about. Gray
fog streamed up from seaward in ragged wisps, and the long swell had
broken into short, white-topped combers, over which the sloop plunged
with spray-swept bows, straining hard at her cables as the flood tide
ran past.

“We might hold on for another hour,” Bethune said hopefully; but
breaking off he pointed out to sea. “That settles it,” he added. “If
it’s any way possible, we must cut the bulkhead to-night.”

A tall, glimmering shape crept out of the fog about a mile away. It was
irregular in outline, and looked like a detached crag, except that it
shone with a strange ghostly brightness against the leaden haze. It came
on, sliding smoothly forward with the tide, another mass which was
smaller and lower rocking in its wake; and then a third crept into sight
behind. The men gazed at them with anxious faces; then Jimmy held out
his hand for the helmet.

“They’ll ground before they reach us, but the sooner I get to work the
better,” he said.

A bent iron plate hung from a tottering beam when he crawled up to the
after end of the hold, and he savagely tried to wrench it out with a
bar. The effort taxed his strength, but when he felt that he could keep
it up no longer the timber yielded, and he fell forward into the gap. It
cost him some trouble to recover his balance, and while he crouched on
hands and knees, the disturbed water pulsed heavily into the dark hole.
Lifting his lamp, he saw that the floor was deep in sand; and out of the
sand two wooden boxes projected. He found that he could not drag them
clear, and it seemed impossible to remove them without some tackle, but
in groping about he came upon a bag. It was made of common canvas, and
had been heavily sealed, though part of the wax had broken away, but on
lifting it Jimmy found the material strong enough to hold its contents.

He sat still for a moment or two, his heart beating with exultant
excitement. The sand was much deeper at the other side of the small,
slanted room. He could not tell what lay beneath it; but he could see
two boxes, and he held a heavy bag. Gold was worth about twenty dollars
an ounce, and value to a large amount would go into a small compass. It
looked as if wealth were within his grasp.

The effects of the continued pressure made themselves felt, and Jimmy
hastily picked his way out of the hold. He had some trouble in getting
up the ladder, which swung to and fro, and when he reached the deck he
saw Moran busy forward, shortening cable. Bethune released him from his
canvas dress, and lifted the bag.

“You got in?” he cried.

“Yes; here’s a bag of gold. I saw two boxes, and expect there are others
in the sand.”

Bethune clenched his hand tight.

“And we can’t hold on! It’s devilish luck, I say! She has dragged the
kedge up to the stream anchor, and is putting her bows in. Still, I’m
going to make a try.”

Glancing at the sea, Jimmy shook his head. The combers were getting
bigger with the rising tide and the sloop plunged into them viciously,
flooding her forward deck, and jarring her cable.

“No,” he said. “I had trouble in reaching the ladder, and she might drag
to leeward before you could get back. The thing’s too risky.”

Moran, coming aft, felt the bag, and looked at the diving dress with
longing, but he supported Jimmy’s decision.

“I surely don’t want to light out, but we’ll have to get sail on her.”

Crouching in the spray that swept the bows, they laboriously hauled in
the chain with numbed and battered hands, and, leaving Bethune to hoist
the reefed mainsail, coiled the hard, soaked kedge warp in the cockpit.
Then they set the small storm-jib, and the _Cetacea_ drove away before
the sea for the sheltered bight.

“We’d have known how we stood in another hour,” Bethune grumbled,
shifting his grasp on the wheel to ease his sore wrist.

They were too tensely strung up to talk much after supper, for the
weight of the bag was sufficient to indicate the value of its contents,
and they thought it better not to break the seals. Jimmy grew drowsy,
and he had lain down on a locker when Moran opened the scuttle-hatch.

“Now that it’s too late to dive, the wind’s dropping and coming off the
land,” he said.

Jimmy went to sleep, and it was daybreak when he was wakened by an
unusual sound. It reminded him of breaking glass, though now and then
for a few moments it was more like the tearing of paper. He jumped up
and listened with growing curiosity. The noise was loudest at the bows,
but it seemed to rise from all along the boat’s waterline. Moran was
sleeping soundly, but when Jimmy shook him he suddenly became wide
awake.

“What is it?” Jimmy asked quickly.

“Ice; splitting on her stem.”

“Then it’s too thin to worry about.”

“That’s the worst kind,” Moran replied, slipping into his pilot coat.
“Get your slicker on; I’m going out.”

There was not much to be seen when they reached the deck. Clammy fog
enveloped the boat, but Jimmy could see that the surface of the water
was covered by a glassy film. He knew that heavy ice is generally opaque
and white, but this was transparent, with rimy streaks on it that ran to
and fro in irregular patterns. As the tide drove it up the channel, it
splintered at the bows, throwing up sharp spears that rasped along the
waterline. Still, it did not seem capable of doing much damage, and
Jimmy was surprised at Moran’s anxious look.

“Shove the boom across on the other quarter!” Moran said sharply.

Jimmy moved the heavy spar, the boat lifted one side an inch or two, and
Moran, lying on the deck, leaned down toward the water. Jimmy, dropping
down beside him, saw a rough, white line traced along the planking where
the water had lapped the hull. It looked as if it had been made by a
blunt saw.

“She won’t stand much of this,” Jimmy said gravely, running the end of
his finger along the shallow groove made by the sharp teeth of the
splitting ice.

“That’s so. I’ve seen boats cut down in a tide. The trouble is, the
stream sets strong through the gut, except at the bottom of the ebb.”

Jimmy nodded. This was his first experience of thin sheet-ice, but he
could understand the dangerous power it had when driven by a stream fast
enough to break it on the planking, so that its edge was continually
furnished with keen cutting points. He could imagine its scoring a
boulder that stood in its way; while, instead of changing with flood and
ebb, the tide flowed through the channel in the sands in the same
direction, as tidal currents sometimes do round an island.

Bethune came up and looked over the side. A glance was enough to show
him their danger.

“What’s to be done?” he asked.

“I don’t quite know,” said Moran, with a puzzled air. “The ice gathers
along the beach, and the patches freeze together as the tide sweeps them
out. She’d lie safe where the stream is pretty dead, but there’s no
place except this bight where we’d get shelter from wind and sea.”

“It’s plain that we can’t stay here, and we’d better get off as soon as
possible,” said Jimmy. “We can hang on to the wreck unless it blows, but
I want the breakers filled before we start.”

“It will take us some time,” Bethune objected. “I feel I’d rather get up
those boxes from the hold.”

“So do I,” Jimmy rejoined. “But I’m taking no chances when there’s a
risk of our being blown off the land.”

“The skipper’s right,” declared Moran. “We’ll go off with the dory,
while he drops her down with the tide.”

They helped to shorten cable, and, after breaking out the anchor, pulled
the dory toward the beach through the thin ice, while the sloop drifted
slowly out to sea. Jimmy was relieved to hear the unpleasant crackle
stop, and he leisurely set about making sail, for the wind was light. He
must have canvas enough to stand off and on until the others rejoined
him.

He found the waiting dreary when he reached open water, for he was
filled with keen impatience to get to work. The gold lay in sight in the
hold of the wreck, and an hour or two’s labor was all that was required
to transfer it to the sloop. And it was obvious that this must be done
at once, because the drift ice was gathering in the offing, and an
on-shore breeze might suddenly spring up. They had nowhere to run for
shelter, now that the only safe haven was closed to them. Still, Jimmy
felt that he had done wisely in exercising self-control enough to send
for the water.

It was almost calm and very cold. Sky and water were a uniform dingy
gray, and the mist, which had grown thinner round the land, still
obscured the seaward horizon. Once Jimmy thought he made out an ominous
pale gleam in a belt of haze, but when it trailed away before a puff of
fitful breeze, he saw nothing. For two hours he sailed to and fro in
half-mile tacks, finding just wind enough to stem the tide; and then,
when his patience was almost exhausted, he felt a thrill of relief as he
heard the measured splash of oars. A few minutes later the dory came
alongside, and Bethune handed up the casks.

“We had to break the ice with a big stone, and I hardly thought we’d get
through,” he said. “It froze up again while we carried the first load
down.”

“It doesn’t matter so much now,” Jimmy replied. “If all goes well, we
should be away at sea by daybreak to-morrow.”

While they stowed the breakers the wind dropped, and Jimmy, watching the
sails shake slackly, made a gesture of fierce impatience.

“The luck is dead against us! It looks as if we should never get at that
gold! There’s a two-knot stream on her bow, and she’ll drift to leeward
fast.”

“Then we’ll tow her!” Moran said stubbornly. “Get into the dory; you
haven’t carried those breakers, and I’m not used up yet.”

Though Jimmy had rested since the previous evening, he found the work
hard. He had suffered from his exertions under water during the past
week, and the tide ran against them, and the long heave threw a heavy
strain upon the line as the sloop lifted. The smaller craft was often
jerked back almost under her bowsprit, and it needed laborious rowing to
straighten out the sinking line. Still, they made progress, and at last
dropped anchor beside the wreck early in the afternoon.

“Now,” said Moran, “I guess we’ll go down unless you want your dinner
before you start. We haven’t had breakfast yet.”

Bethune laughed and looked at Jimmy.

“Could you eat anything?” he asked.

“Not a bite! I don’t expect ever to feel hungry until we get those boxes
up. Lash the ladder while I couple the pipe to the pump!”

Bethune was the first to go down. When he came back after an unusually
long stay, he reported that he had been unable to extricate the nearest
box, though he had cleared the sand from it before he was forced to
ascend. Jimmy took his place, and worked savagely, dragging out the box
and moving it toward the bulkhead, but in the confined space, which was
further narrowed by some broken timbers, he could not lift it through
the opening. While he tried, with every muscle strained, a piece of
timber shifted in the sand beneath his feet; and Jimmy lost his balance
and fell forward, putting out his lamp.

He felt smaller and less buoyant when he got up, his breath was hard to
get, and he grew uncomfortably hot. Then it flashed upon him with a
shock of unnerving fear that his air-pipe was foul, and for a moment he
grappled sternly with his dismay. There was no time to lose, but he must
keep his head. Passing his hand over the canvas dress, which felt
ominously slack, he fumbled at the lamp. As he did so a wavering beam of
light shot out, shining uncertainly through the water; and he supposed
that in falling he must have broken the circuit by pressing the switch.
Lifting the lamp, he saw that the tube was bent sharply round a ragged
timber, and while his heart throbbed painfully and his breath grew
labored, he moved back and reached for it; but he found his hands
nerveless and his legs unsteady, and when he stooped to loose the line
his head reeled and he pitched forward across the timber, grasping the
line as he fell.

CHAPTER XVIII—BOGUS GOLD

Cold as it was, Jimmy lay for a long time on the sloop’s deck when he
had been stripped of the diving gear. How he had crawled out of the hole
and climbed the ladder was not clear to him; he thought that he must
have untangled the line as he fell and have been driven forward by an
overpowering longing for the upper air.

He found some trouble in explaining to Moran what had happened, for he
felt limp and shaky yet. And he shuddered at the thought of going down
again.

“When we once get the box out of the hold,” he said, “there should be no
trouble in swinging it on board.”

Moran smoked out a pipe before he took his turn. When the copper helmet
disappeared, Jimmy got a firm grip on the signal line; and while he
waited he looked about.

The days were rapidly shortening, and the light was growing dim. The
horizon seemed to be creeping in on them, obscured by smoky fog, which
stirred and wreathed about as the wind sprang up. Small ripples were
splashing round the sloop, and the swell was steeper.

“I hope Hank will manage to sling that box,” Jimmy said to Bethune, who
nodded as he steadily turned the pump.

“We may get another turn or two, but that will be all. There’s a breeze
behind the heave that’s working in.”

Neither of them said anything further, but waited with what patience
they could summon until Moran came up.

“I got the box out of the hold before I was beat; the next man shouldn’t
have much trouble in hitching a sling round it,” he said, and glanced
out to sea as he added significantly: “He’d better get through mighty
quick.”

A gust of wind rent the fog, and a long, low mass, shining a dead, cold
white, appeared in the gap. Then, while the haze streamed back, another
pale streak showed up on the opposite bow.

“They’re all around us!” Jimmy exclaimed hoarsely.

The men were not easily daunted, and they had borne enough in the North
to harden them, but the sight was strangely impressive, and their
courage sank. This was a peril with which none of them except Moran had
grappled; and he had no cause for thinking light of it. The pack-ice was
gathering round the island, hemming them in, and the sloop would be
crushed like an eggshell unless she could avoid its grip. Then, to make
things worse, a blast of bitter air whipped the men’s anxious faces, and
the sea broke into short, angry ripples.

“We have got to quit,” said Moran despondently. “But I surely want that
box.”

“You shall have it, if I can get the sling on,” Bethune replied. “Help
me on with the dress as quick as you can.”

He flung a hasty glance about. A long raft of ice with ragged edges was
drifting nearer, and the fog, disturbed by the rising breeze, rolled
across the sea in woolly streamers.

“It looks as if I had to finish the job this time,” he said with a harsh
laugh. “I no longer have the cheap hotel to fall back on.”

When he had been down for some time, Jimmy, turning the pump in
obedience to the plucking of the signal line, began to wonder when he
would come up. Bethune seemed particular about his air supply, and Jimmy
surmised that he found it needful to move the case along the bottom to
get a clear lead for the lifting line because the _Cetacea_ had altered
her position. Moran put his hand on the crank when required, but at
other times he stood motionless, watching the ice with an imperturbable
brown face. Indeed, Jimmy, as a relief from the tension, began to
speculate about his comrade and wonder what he thought. Though they had
toiled hard and faced many perils together with mutual respect and
confidence, he felt that he knew very little about the man. Moran’s
reserve and stolid serenity were baffling. When strenuous action was
required he could be relied upon, but even then he was seldom hurried,
and his movements somehow suggested that his splendid frame was endowed
with unreasoning, automatic powers. For all that, Jimmy knew that such a
conception of his friend was wrong. He had seen the cool judgment and
indomitable courage that controlled the man’s strength in time of heavy
stress.

All this, however, was not of much consequence. Jimmy fixed his eyes
upon the frothing patch of bubbles that broke the troubled surface of
the swell. It was stationary, and Bethune had already stayed below an
unusual time. He was not in difficulties, because when Jimmy jerked the
line he got a reassuring signal in reply. It looked as if the man
expected to bring up the case.

In the meanwhile the ice was driving nearer, propelled by wind and tide,
and its low height suggested that it had formed in some shallow bight.
If this were so, it might not ground before reaching the sloop. Still,
its progress was not rapid, and Jimmy did not think there was any urgent
need to recall Bethune, particularly as he must finish his task or
abandon it.

At last the bubbles began to move back. It was difficult to follow them
because the swell was streaked with foam, but although they were
occasionally lost for a few moments, they reappeared. Then the top of
the ladder swung against the rail and soon the copper helmet rose out of
the sea. Bethune flung an arm on deck and grasped a cleat, but he seemed
to have some difficulty in getting any farther, and they dragged him on
board. His face was livid when they released him, and he lay back on the
skylight without speaking for some moments. Then he gasped painfully:

“The case is slung; I had to move it clear of her. Heave up!”

They sprang to the line he had brought and hauled it in; Jimmy trying to
control his fierce impatience. Care was needed lest the sling get loose
in dragging along the sand. At last the line ran perpendicularly down,
and they were encouraged by the weight they had to lift. Even Moran
showed excitement as a corner of the box broke the surface. Throwing
himself down, he swung it on board with a powerful heave. Then he and
Jimmy dropped down limply on the deck and gazed at their treasure. The
box was thick and bound with heavy iron, the wood waterlogged; but,
making allowances for that, it obviously contained a large quantity of
gold. Jimmy felt exultant, but after a time Bethune disturbed his
pleasant reflections.

“Look at the ice!” he exclaimed.

The floe was bearing down on them, and in the distance, half hidden by
the fog, a taller mass seemed to have stranded on the reef, for the
spray was leaping about it and there was a great splash as a heavy block
fell off. Moran glanced at the floe and ran forward. Jimmy joined him
and they hurriedly got the chain cable in; then, with Bethune’s help,
they reefed the mainsail and stowed the folding ladder and pumps below,
but they had a struggle to lift the kedge anchor. It seemed to have
fouled some waterlogged timber below; but they would not sacrifice it by
slipping the warp, because they knew it might be a long time before they
could come back. When they finally broke it out Bethune had already
hoisted the mainsail. There was no time to lose, for the fog was getting
thicker in spite of the rising wind, and a glimmering mass of ice had
crept up threateningly close. Moreover, the light was going and the sea
getting up. Hurriedly setting a small jib, they stood out for open sea.

“Make the best offing you can,” directed Jimmy, leaving Moran at the
helm. “I’ll get the stove lighted, and after supper we’ll open the
case.”

It was nearly twenty-four hours since he had eaten anything and he was
beginning to feel faint from want of food. Indeed, he had some
difficulty in getting the fire to burn and was conscious of an annoying,
slack clumsiness. When the meal was ready he called Bethune down and
handed out Moran’s share.

“I’ve been extravagant, but we have earned a feast to-night,” he said
exultantly.

They ate hungrily while the water splashed beneath the floorings and the
lamp swung at erratic angles as the _Cetacea_ rolled; and Bethune made
no objection when Jimmy afterward lighted his pipe. The case lay against
the centerboard trunk, but they did not feel impatient to open it. This
was a pleasure that would lose nothing by being deferred; they were
satisfied to sit still in the warm cabin and gloat over their success.

“Strictly speaking, we have no right to break into the thing,” Bethune
said; “and it might perhaps lay us open to suspicion; but I’m afraid I
can’t keep my hands off until we get home. Get out the tools, Jimmy.”

Jimmy did so, and then, opening the scuttle, called to Moran.

“We’re going to look inside the box. Is it safe for you to come down?”

Moran seemed to make a negative sign, though Jimmy could hardly see him.
It had grown dark, and thick fog was driving past the boat, while the
spray that beat in through the weather shrouds indicated that she was
sailing hard. Dropping back below, Jimmy closed the scuttle and took up
a hammer. His fingers shook and he felt his nerves tingle as he drove a
wedge under the first band.

“I wish we’d cleaned out the strong-room; but we can come back, and we
have got enough to wipe off our debt and give us a luxurious winter,” he
said happily. “It will be a change to put up at a good hotel—we might
even make a trip to California; and if Jaques can get somebody to run
the store we will bring him and his wife to town.”

“It’s not a very ambitious program,” Bethune laughed. “I dare say we can
carry it out; though we don’t know yet what our share will come to.”

“I’ll stand out for half,” declared Jimmy with a determined air. “In
fact, we’ll make a bargain before we deliver up the stuff.”

Working eagerly, he soon started the band and inserted a chisel under a
board. In a few moments he prized it loose, and thick folds of rotten
canvas were exposed.

“There seems to be a lot of packing,” Bethune remarked. “There’s a seal
here we’ll have to break; but we have smashed one already. Don’t waste
time. Rip it open!”

Jimmy used his knife, and plunged his hand into the case. He was
surprised by the feel of its contents.

“It seems to be in small ingots,” he said.

“That’s curious, because there’s no smelter in the country. Slash the
wrapping to bits and let’s see it!”

Jimmy did so and then uttered an exclamation as he dropped the object he
took out. It was dark-colored, and fell with a dull thud.

“It’s lead!” he cried.

Tilting the case in savage anger, Jimmy shook out a number of small gray
lumps. They scattered about the floorings, and when he gashed one with
his knife the metal cut soft and showed a silvery luster. He dropped the
knife and his face grew hard and white. There was tense silence for a
moment, and then Jimmy, rousing himself with an effort, flung the
scuttle back.

“Hank!” he called, and his voice was strangely hoarse.

It seemed that Moran recognized the urgent tone, for they felt by the
change of motion that he was altering the boat’s course, but with
characteristic coolness he neglected no seamanlike precaution. Jimmy
heard the jib being hauled aback and the mainsheet got in, and she was
hove to, rising and falling with an easy lurch, when Moran dropped
through the scuttle. He stooped over the box, and after a time looked up
with a heavy frown.

“Some crook has worked off a low-down trick on us!” he said.

“On the underwriters first, but that’s no matter,” replied Bethune, who
was struggling against the shock. “Slit one of the bags, Jimmy, and
let’s see if it’s all the same.”

Jimmy took the bag he had found in the wreck, and when he cut it open a
few coarse, yellow grains ran out.

“That looks all right, but there’s not very much of it; and the bag Hank
brought up isn’t large,” he said gloomily.

“You want to sew it up before you lose the stuff,” advised Moran,
sitting down on the box. “Now, if there’s anything to be fixed, we had
better get it settled. She’s carrying all the sail she wants and I can’t
leave her long.”

“Are we to go back?” Bethune asked. “We haven’t emptied the strong-room,
and what we have left behind may be genuine.”

“Can’t do it,” Moran said grimly. “The way the wind is, the drift ice
will be packed solid along the shore to-morrow.”

They sat silent for a while. There was only one thing to be done, but
they shrank from indicating it and owning their defeat. At last Jimmy
made a gesture of resignation.

“Square away; our course is south,” he said.

Moran nodded silently and went up through the scuttle, and Jimmy threw
himself down on the locker while Bethune lighted his pipe. Neither of
them spoke until they heard a rattle of blocks and the rush of water
along the lee side showed that the _Cetacea_ had swung round.

“Our plans for the winter won’t materialize,” Bethune said; “we’ll be
glad to put up at a dollar hotel if we’re lucky enough to get taken on
at a mill. However, we can talk about this to-morrow; I don’t feel quite
up to it now.”

After a curt sign of agreement, Jimmy pulled a damp sail over him and,
although he had not expected to do so, presently went to sleep.

When Moran wakened him to take his turn at the helm it was blowing hard
and bitterly cold. Settling himself as far as he could in the shelter of
the coaming, he began his dreary watch. Long, white-topped seas raced
after the sloop, ranging upon her weather quarter, while the spray she
flung aloft beat in heavy showers on Jimmy’s slicker. He could scarcely
see her length ahead, and knew that he was running a serious risk if
there was ice about; but he thought she would not be much safer if he
hove her to, and, fixing his eyes on the compass, he let her go.

After exhausting toil and many hardships, their search had failed, and
he was too jaded and depressed to wonder whether it would ever be
resumed. They were going back bankrupt; he could not see how they were
even to retain possession of the sloop. At the best, they could make no
use of her until the spring. The outlook was black, and what intensified
the gloom was that Jimmy now recognized that since Bethune had first
broached the scheme he had been buoyed up by a faint but strongly
alluring hope. He had not allowed his mind to dwell on it, but it had
hovered in the background, beckoning him on. After all, there had been a
certain chance that their project would succeed, and in that case his
share of the salvage should have been sufficient to set him on his feet.
There were many openings in western Canada for a man with energy and
means enough to give him a start, and Jimmy did not see why he should
not prosper. Then when he had begun to make progress he might renew his
acquaintance with Ruth Osborne.

He had thought of her often, and looking back on their voyage, he
ventured to believe that he had to some extent won her favor. He
recollected trivial incidents, odd words and glances, which could not
have been altogether without their significance. Could he lift himself
nearer her social level, it was not impossible that he should gain her
love. The thought of this had driven him stubbornly on.

Now he had failed disastrously. He was going back a ruined man. The best
he could hope for was that by stern self-denial and rough work on the
wharves or in the sawmills, he might earn enough to discharge his debt
to the storekeeper who had trusted him. Beyond that there was nothing to
look forward to. He must try to forget Ruth.

Jimmy’s heart sank as he sat shivering at the helm while the bitter
spray whirled about him and the sloop lurched on through the darkness,
chased by foaming seas.

CHAPTER XIX—A DANGEROUS SECRET

A cold snap had suddenly fallen over the northern half of Vancouver
Island, and tall pines and unpaved streets were white with frozen snow.
A chilling wind swept round Jaques’ store and rattled the loose windows;
tiny icicles formed a fringe about the eaves; but the neat little back
room, with its polished lamp and its glowing stove, seemed to Jimmy and
his comrades luxuriously bright and warm. Supper had been cleared away,
and the group sat about the table discussing what could now be done,
after the failure of the second attempt to recover the gold.

Jaques leaned his head on his hand, with his elbow resting on the table;
Mrs. Jaques sat opposite him, her eyes fixed intently on Bethune, who
was the spokesman for the party. Jimmy, with a gloomy expression, gazed
toward the one window, where a frozen pine bough occasionally scraped
against the pane with a rasping sound that was heard above the rattle of
the sashes. Moran, with a downcast face, sat where the lamplight fell
full upon him.

There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the cheery crackle
of the stove. Then Jaques spoke.

“We might as well thrash the thing out from the beginning,” he said.
“The first matter to be decided is what had better be done with your
boat.”

“That raises another point,” asserted Bethune. “What we do with her now
depends on our plans for the future, and they’re not made yet.”

“Then suppose we consider that you’re going back to try again in the
spring?”

Jimmy looked at Mrs. Jaques, and fancied that her expression was
encouraging.

“You’re taking it for granted that we can get out of debt. If such a
thing were possible, we’d haul her up and strip her for the winter with
the first big tides.”

“Not here,” Jaques said pointedly. “For one thing, she’d be spotted, and
you’ll see why you had better avoid that if you’ll listen.”

“I see one good reason now,” Bethune answered with a rueful grin.
“You’re not our only creditor, and the other fellow isn’t likely to show
us much consideration.”

“Let that go for the present. Do you know any lonely creek some distance
off where she’d lie safe and out of sight?”

“I dare say we could find one,” Jimmy replied.

“Then I’m going to talk. Some time after you left, a man from Victoria
called on me. Said he was an accountant and specialized on the
development of small businesses. He’d undertake to collect doubtful
accounts, show his clients how to keep their books, and buy on the best
terms, or sell out their business, if they wanted; in fact, he said that
some of his city friends thought of trying to make a merger arrangement
with the grocery stores in the small Island ports.”

“No doubt it seemed an opportunity for getting a good price for your
store,” Bethune suggested.

“I wasn’t keen. Things had improved since you were here, and trade was
looking up. However, I showed the man my books, and I saw that he was
especially interested when he came to your account. Asked me did I know
that you were a remittance man who had forfeited his allowance and that
your partner was a steamboat mate who’d been fired out of his ship. I
told him that I was aware of it; and he said the chances were steep
against your making good. Then he gave me some useful hints and went
away.”

“That’s interesting,” Bethune commented. “Did you hear anything more
from him?”

“I did; not long ago he sent me an offer for my business as it stands,
with all unsettled claims and liabilities. When I got a Vancouver
drummer I know to make inquiries, he said that it ought to be a safe
proposition—the money was good.”

“Ah! It looks as if somebody thought us worth powder and shot. Did you
take his offer?”

“No, sir! I stood off, for two reasons. I knew that the buyers either
foresaw a boom in the Island trade, in which case it would pay me to
hold on, or they’d some pretty strong grounds for wanting to get hold of
you. On thinking it over, I didn’t see my way to help them.”

“Thanks. I wonder whether Mrs. Jaques had any say in the matter?”

“She certainly had,” Jaques admitted fondly. “She thought it wouldn’t be
the square thing to give you away, and that to see you through might be
the best in the end.”

“We’re grateful; but I’m not sure that she was wise. It’s obvious that
there was something crooked about the wreck, and what you have told us
implies that some men with money are anxious to cover up their tracks. I
suspect they’ve grown richer since the bogus gold was shipped, and might
be willing to spend a good sum to keep the matter dark. The fellow who
called on you probably knew nothing of this; he’d be merely acting for
them on commission.”

None of the others spoke for the next minute. The situation demanded
thought, for they were people of no consequence, and they did not doubt
that men with means were plotting against them.

“You seem to have got hold of a dangerous secret,” Mrs. Jaques said,
breaking the silence.

“An important one, at least,” Bethune agreed. “It might, perhaps, get us
into trouble; but our position’s pretty strong. I’ll admit, though, that
I can’t see what use we had better make of it.”

Mrs. Jaques watched him closely.

“I suppose it has struck you that you might make a bargain with the
people who insured the gold? They’d probably pay you well if you put the
screw on them.”

Jimmy started and frowned, but Bethune motioned to him to be silent.

“I wonder whether you really thought we’d take that course, ma’am?” he
asked.

“No,” she smiled; “I did not. But what’s the alternative?”

“We might go to the underwriters and see what we could get from them. I
suppose that’s what we ought to do; but I’d rather wait. If we can clean
out the strong-room, we’ll have the whole thing in our hands.”

“In your hands, you mean.”

“No; I meant what I said. My suggestion is that your husband should
relinquish his claim on us, and take a small share in the venture. If
he’d do so, we could go back next spring. It’s a proposition I wouldn’t
make before, but things have changed, and we want another man.”

“Well,” said Jaques, “I half expected this, and I’ve been doing some
figuring. The mills are booked full of orders for dressed lumber,
there’s a pulp factory going up, and I’m doing better now that trade’s
coming to the town. Still, I see a risk.”

“So do I,” Bethune replied. “We’re three irresponsible adventurers
without a dollar to our credit, and we have men of weight and business
talent up against us. It’s possible that they may break us; but I think
we have a fighting chance.” He turned to Mrs. Jaques. “What’s your
opinion?”

“Oh, I love adventure! And somehow I have confidence that you’ll make
good.”

“Thank you! It’s evident that the opposition can do nothing at the wreck
when we’re on the spot, and the ice will keep the field for us while
we’re down here; but we must get back before they can send a steamer in
the spring. In the meanwhile, we have the bags of gold to dispose of.”

“That’s a difficulty,” said Jaques. “They certainly ought to be handed
to the underwriters.”

“Just so; but as soon as we part with them we give our secret away. We
must stick to them and say nothing until we finish the job.”

“Wouldn’t it be dangerous? You have cut one bag and broken into the box.
If the fellows who are working against you found that out, they’d claim
you had stolen the gold. Then you’d be in a tight place.”

“The experience wouldn’t be unusual,” Bethune answered with a laugh. “We
must take our chances, and we’ll put the stuff in your safe. What most
encourages me to go on is that there were several different consignments
of gold sent by the steamer and insured, and I can’t take it for granted
that all the shippers were in the conspiracy. There’s no reason to
suspect the contents of the remaining cases.”

“You hadn’t made out the marks when I last asked you about them,” Jimmy
broke in.

“No; they’re hardly distinguishable; but I now think I have a clue. I’m
inclined to believe the case was shipped by a man named Osborne. His
name’s in the vessel’s manifest, and he has been associated with her
owner for a long time. I found that out when I was considering the
salvage scheme.”

Jimmy started.

“His Christian name?”

“Henry. I understand he has a house on the shore of Puget Sound. You
look as if you knew him!”

Jimmy said nothing for a few moments, though he saw that the others were
watching him curiously. Bethune’s suggestion had given him a shock,
because it seemed impossible that the pleasant, cultured gentleman he
had met on board the _Empress_ should be guilty of common fraud.
Besides, it was preposterous to suppose that Ruth Osborne could be the
daughter of a rogue.

“I do know him; that is, I met him on our last voyage. But you’re
mistaken,” he said firmly.

“It’s possible,” Bethune admitted. “Time will show. I’ve only a
suspicion to act on.”

“How do you mean to act on it? What do you propose to do?”

Bethune gave him a searching glance.

“Nothing, until we have emptied the strong-room and we’ll have to
consider what’s most advisable then. In the meanwhile, I expect the
opposition will let us feel their hand; there may be developments during
the winter.” He turned to Jaques. “We’ll lay the sloop up out of sight
with the next big tides and then go south and look for work. In the
spring we’ll ask you to grubstake us, and get back to the wreck as soon
as the weather permits. I think that’s our best plan.”

The others agreed, and soon afterward the party broke up. As they went
back to the boat Bethune turned to Jimmy.

“Do you feel inclined to tell me what you know about Osborne?” he asked.

“I only know that you’re on the wrong track. He isn’t the man to join in
a conspiracy of the kind you’re hinting at.”

Bethune did not reply, and they went on in silence down the snowy
street. Jimmy found it hard to believe that Osborne had had any share in
the fraud, but a doubt was beginning to creep into his mind. For a few
minutes he felt tempted to abandon the search for the gold; but he
reflected that he was bound to his comrades and could not persuade them
to let the matter drop. Besides, if by any chance Bethune’s suspicion
proved correct, he might be of some service to Miss Osborne. No matter
what discovery might be made, she should not suffer; Jimmy was resolved
on that.

Leaving port the next day, they found a safe berth for the sloop; and
when they had hauled her up on the beach they walked to a Siwash
rancherie, where they engaged one of the Indians to take them back in a
canoe. Reaching Vancouver by steamboat, they had some trouble in finding
work, because the approach of winter had driven down general laborers
and railroad construction gangs from the high, inland ranges to the
sheltered coast. There was, however, no frost in the seaboard valleys,
and at last Jimmy and his friends succeeded in hiring themselves to a
contractor who was clearing land.

It was not an occupation they would have taken up from choice, but as
their pockets were empty they could not be particular. The firs the
choppers felled were great in girth, and as Moran was the only member of
the party who could use the ax, the others were set to work sawing up
the massive logs with a big crosscut. Dragging the double-handled saw
backward and forward through the gummy wood all day was tiring work,
while, to make things worse, it rained most of the time and the clearing
was churned into a slough by the gangs of toiling men. When they left it
to haul out a log that had fallen beyond its edge they were forced to
plunge waist-deep into dripping brush and withered fern.

For all that, Bethune and Jimmy found the use of the crosscut easy by
comparison with their next task, for they were presently sent with one
or two others to build up the logs into piles for burning. The masses of
timber were ponderous, and the men, floundering up to the knees in
trampled mire, laboriously rolled them into place along lines of skids.
Then they must be raised into a pyramid three or four tiers high, and
getting on the last row was a herculean task carried out at the risk of
being crushed to death by the logs overpowering them and running back.

Jimmy and Bethune stuck to it because they had no other recourse,
toiling, wet through, in the slough all day and dragging themselves
back, dripping, dejected, and worn out, to the sleeping shack at night.
The building was rudely put together, and by no means watertight. Its
earth floor was slimy, the stove scarcely kept it warm, while it was
filled with a rank smell of cooking, stale tobacco, and saturated
clothes. The bunks, ranged like a shelf along the walls, were damp and
smeared with wet soil from the garments the men seldom took off; and
Jimmy was now and then wakened by the drips from the leaky roof falling
on his face. He felt that once he was able to lay them down he would
never wish to see a cant-pole or a crosscut-saw again.

But the deliverance he longed for came in a way he did not anticipate.

CHAPTER XX—HOUNDED

Clammy mist hung about the edge of the clearing, veiling the somber
spires of the pines, but leaving the rows of straight trunks uncovered
below a straight-drawn line. It was a gloomy morning. Jimmy, standing
with Bethune and several others beside a growing log-pile, stopped a
moment to rest his aching muscles. He was wet through, and his arms and
back were sore from the previous day’s exertions. Two strong skids,
placed so as to form an inclined bridge, led to the top of the log-pile
and the soil between them was trodden into a wet, slippery mess in which
it was difficult to keep one’s footing. A length sawed off a massive
trunk lay across the ends of the skids, and Jimmy and his companions
were trying to roll it into its place on top of the previously laid
tier.

Getting their poles beneath it they forced it upward, little by little.
When they got half-way, a pole slipped, and for a few anxious moments
the men strained every muscle to prevent the mass from rolling back,
while their companion found a fresh rest for his pole. The log must be
held: they could not jump clear in time. Breathing hard, with the sweat
dripping from them, they raised it a foot or two, until it seemed
possible to lift it on to the lower logs by a strenuous effort. They
made the attempt; and one of the skids broke. Laying their shoulders
beneath the mass, they struggled with it for their lives. If it
overpowered them, they would be borne backward and crushed. With one
support gone, it seemed impossible that they could lift it into place.
For a few moments they held it, but did no more, though Jimmy felt the
veins swell on his forehead and heard a strange buzzing in his ears. His
mouth was dry, his heart beat painfully, and he knew he could not stand
the cruel strain much longer. But there was no help available. They must
conquer or be maimed.

“Lift! You have got to land her, boys!” cried somebody in a half-choked
voice. And they made their last effort.

For a moment the mass hung in the balance, and then rose an inch. Again
they hove it upward before their muscles could relax, and now its weight
began to rest upon the lower logs. Another thrust rolled it slowly
forward—and the danger was past.

Though the incident was not of an unusual character, Jimmy sat down
limply in the wet fern to recover breath, and he was still resting when
the foreman came up and beckoned him.

“We’ll not want you and your partner after to-night,” he said abruptly.

Jimmy looked at him in surprise.

“As you haven’t found any fault with us, might one ask the reason?”

“You might; but I can’t tell you. There it is—you’re fired. I’ve got my
orders.”

The Canadian is often laconic, and Jimmy nodded.

“Very well,” he said; “we’ll go now. This isn’t a luxurious job.”

“As you like,” replied the foreman. “The boss’s clerk is in the shack;
I’ll give him your time.”

Jimmy followed him to the office and drew his pay, but the clerk seemed
unable to explain his dismissal.

“I guess it’s because we can’t get our value out of the boys in this
rain,” he said evasively.

“But why single us out?” Jimmy persisted. “I don’t know that I want to
stay; but I’m curious. Our gang has put up as many logs as the others.”

“I’ve no time for talking!” the clerk exclaimed. “Take your money and
quit!”

Bethune drew Jimmy away and they crossed the clearing to where Moran was
at work. He showed no great surprise when he heard their news.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll finish the week here and then follow you to the
city. We’ll need the money.”

“All right,” Bethune agreed; “if you get the chance of staying; but
that’s doubtful. You know where to find us.”

They went back to the sleeping shack to get their clothes.

“What did you mean when you said he might not have the chance?” Jimmy
asked.

“I have a suspicion that Hank will get his time in the next day or two.
The boss wouldn’t want to make the thing too obvious, and Hank’s a good
chopper. There are some awkward trees to get down where he’s working.”

“But why should they want to get rid of him—or us?”

Bethune smiled grimly.

“I think we’re marked men. We’ll find out presently whether I’m right.”

Bethune’s forebodings proved correct, for only a few days elapsed before
Moran joined him and Jimmy in Vancouver. After spending a week in
searching for employment they got work with a lumber-rafting gang and
kept it for a fortnight, when they were dismissed without any convincing
reason being given.

On the evening after their return to the city they sat in a corner of
the comfortless lobby at the hotel. It was quiet there because the other
boarders lounged in tilted chairs before the big windows with their hats
on and their feet supported by the radiator pipes, watching the
passers-by.

“I came across the fellow we got the pumps from this afternoon,” Jimmy
remarked. “The last time I saw him he was fairly civil, but he’s turned
abusive now. Wanted to know when we were going to pay him the rest of
his money, and made some pointed observations about our character.”

“That won’t hurt us,” laughed Bethune. “As we have nothing to give him
and the sloop’s safely hidden, he can’t make much trouble. I heard
something more interesting. An acquaintance of mine mentioned that they
had a big lot of lumber to cut at the Clanch mill and wanted a few more
men. If we could get a job there, we might hold it.”

“It seems to me we can’t hold anything,” Jimmy grumbled. “Why that?”

Bethune chuckled in a manner that indicated that he knew more than he
meant to tell.

“Boldness often pays, and I imagine that our mysterious enemies won’t
think of looking for us at the Clanch mill. We’ll go out there
to-morrow.”

They found it a long walk over a wet road, for soon after they left the
city rain began to fall. On applying at the mill gate, they were sent to
the office, and Jimmy was standing, wet and moody, by the counter,
waiting until a supercilious clerk could attend to him, when an inner
door opened and a young man came out. Jimmy started as he recognized the
yachtsman they had met on the island; but Aynsley moved forward with a
smile.

“This is a pleasant surprise! I’m glad you thought of looking me up.”

“As a matter of fact, we are looking for work,” Bethune said
laconically.

Aynsley laughed and indicated the door behind him.

“Go in and sit down. I’ll join you in a minute or two, and we’ll see
what can be done.”

They entered his private office, which was smartly furnished, and, being
very wet, felt some diffidence about using the polished hardwood chairs.
The throb of engines and the scream of saws made it unlikely that their
conversation could be overheard, and Jimmy turned to Bethune with a
frown.

“You made a curious remark about boldness paying, when you suggested
coming here. Did you know that young man was in charge?”

“No; it’s an unexpected development. But I’ll confess that I knew the
mill belonged to his father.”

“Clay?” Jimmy exclaimed. “The owner of the wreck?”

“Her late owner. She belongs to the underwriters now. It seems to me the
situation has its humorous side; I mean our getting a job from the man
who’s been hunting us down.”

“You suspected Osborne not long ago,” Jimmy said shortly.

“They’re partners; but, from what I’ve gathered, it’s more likely that
Clay’s the man who’s on our trail. We helped him to follow it by
registering with an employment agent—and that makes me wonder whether it
would be an advantage to change our names?”

“I’ll stick to mine!” said Jimmy; and Moran declared his intention of
doing the same.

“After all, it’s a feeble trick and not likely to cheat the fellow we
have to deal with,” Bethune agreed. “He has obviously got a pretty
accurate description of us.”

“But would a man of his kind spend his time in tracking us? And wouldn’t
it lead to talk?”

Bethune laughed.

“He’ll act through agents; there are plenty of broken-down adventurers
in Vancouver who’d be glad to do his dirty work. These cities are full
of impecunious wastrels; I was one myself.”

“Perhaps we’d better clear out,” suggested Jimmy. “I’d hate to take the
fellow’s pay.”

“You needn’t feel diffident. If it’s any consolation, the mill foreman
will get full value out of you. However—” Bethune broke off as Aynsley
came in.

“The fishing doesn’t seem to have been very profitable,” he said,
putting a box on the table. “Have a cigar.”

“All we caught hardly paid for the net,” Bethune replied. “On the whole,
I don’t think we’ll smoke. Perhaps we had better not, so to speak,
confuse our relations at the start. You see, though we didn’t know you
were the manager, we came along in the hope that you might have an
opening for three active men.”

“If I hadn’t, I’d try to make one,” Aynsley answered. “However, as it
happens, we do need a few extra hands; but I’m afraid I’ve only rough
work to offer.”

“It couldn’t be much rougher than we’ve been doing. I believe we can
make ourselves useful; and that Hank here could move more lumber in a
day than any man in your mill. But of course you’re under no obligation
to take us.”

“We’ll let that go; I need help. You can begin with the stacking gang,
but something better may turn up. Now tell me something about your
northern trip.”

Bethune told him as much as he thought advisable, and, although he used
tact, Aynsley gave him a keen glance now and then, as if he suspected
some reserve. Before Aynsley could make a comment, Bethune stood up.

“I’ve no doubt you’re a busy man,” he said, “and we mustn’t waste your
time. Shall we make a start in the morning?”

“You can begin right now.”

Aynsley rang a bell and handed them over to his foreman.

For some weeks the men remained contentedly at the mill. The work was
hard, but the pay was fair, and the boarding arrangements good, and
Aynsley seldom failed to give them a pleasant word as he passed. Indeed,
Jimmy felt a warm liking for him; and it was not by his wish but by
Bethune’s that their respective stations as employer and workmen
remained clearly defined.

One day, when Aynsley had been absent for more than a week, the foreman
came to them.

“I’m sorry you’ll have to quit,” he said. “We’re paying off several of
the boys.”

“Quit!” Jimmy began indignantly; but he caught Bethune’s warning look
and added lamely, “Oh, well; I suppose it’s by Mr. Clay’s orders?”

“No, sir,” the foreman answered unguardedly; “Mr. Aynsley had nothing to
do with it. He didn’t even know—” He broke off abruptly. “Anyhow, you’re
fired!”

He turned away from them quickly; and Bethune, sitting down on a pile of
lumber, took out his pipe.

“Since I’ve got my notice with no reason given,” he drawled, “I don’t
see why I should exhaust myself by carrying heavy planks about. Of
course you noticed his statement that Mr. Aynsley was not
responsible—though the fellow was afterward sorry he had made it. I’m of
the opinion that there’s something to be inferred from his use of our
employer’s Christian name, particularly as a big automobile stood at the
gate for two hours yesterday. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that
Clay, senior, had examined the pay-roll.”

“What’s the blamed hog aiming at in getting after us like this?”
questioned Moran.

Bethune looked thoughtful.

“He may wish to drive us out of the country; but I’m more inclined to
believe he means to wear us out, and then make some proposition when he
thinks we’re tame enough.”

“He’ll be badly disappointed if he expects we’ll come to terms!” Jimmy
strode up and down, his face flushed with anger. “Anyway, I can’t
believe that Aynsley knows anything about this.”

“He doesn’t.” Bethune smiled grimly. “I know by experience how the
scapegrace son tries to conceal his escapades from his respectable
relatives, but I rather think the unprincipled parent who doesn’t want
his children to find him out is more ingenious. All this, however, isn’t
much to the purpose; we’ll have the boys down on us unless we clear the
lumber from the saws.”

They left the mill the next morning and tramped back to Vancouver in a
generally dejected mood.

“What’s to be done now?” asked Jimmy as they reached the outskirts of
the city.

“How about going down into the States and trying our luck?” Bethune
suggested. “We’d at least be out of Clay’s reach—anywhere but Seattle.”

“What—run!” Jimmy exclaimed indignantly. “I stay right here!”

“Me too!” grunted Moran.

Bethune laughed.

“Well, how about turning and charging the enemy? I’ll admit that I’d
enjoy a good fight right now—physical or verbal.”

“Won’t do,” objected Moran; “we won’t be well armed until we know just
what those other boxes in the strong-room contain. Before we get a
chance to find out, I’ve an idea our enemy himself will make a move.”

And he did.

CHAPTER XXI—JIMMY’S EMBARRASSMENT

Jimmy’s courage had fallen very low, dragging with it the last remnants
of hope and ambition. Every loophole of escape from poverty seemed
closed against him. For days he had tramped the streets of Vancouver,
making the rounds of the wharves and mills in search of work, and had
found nothing. He loathed the dreary patrol of the wet streets; he
abhorred his comfortless quarters in the third-rate hotel; and the curt
refusals that followed his application for a humble post were utterly
disheartening. Worse than all, he felt that he had drifted very far from
the girl who was constantly in his thoughts. He had almost lost hope of
the salvage scheme’s succeeding, but he was pledged to his comrades, and
they meant to try again if they could finance another venture with
Jaques’ assistance. They must pick up a living somehow, and, if
possible, save a few dollars before the time to start arrived.

One gloomy afternoon Jimmy stood outside an employment bureau among a
group of shabbily dressed, dejected men, some of whom were of distinctly
unprepossessing appearance. One had roughly pushed him away from the
window; but he did not rouse himself to resent it. He felt listless and
low-spirited, and to wait a little would pass the time. Besides, he
thought he had read all the notices about men required which the agent
displayed, and had offered himself for several of the posts without
success. He got his turn at the window at last, and left it moodily; but
when he reached the edge of the sidewalk he stopped suddenly and the
blood rushed to his face. Ruth Osborne was crossing the street toward
him.

Jimmy looked around desperately, but it was too late to escape; he could
only hope that Miss Osborne would pass without recognizing him. He did
not want her to see him among the group of shabby loungers. His own
clothes were the worse for wear, and he knew that he had a broken-down
appearance. The employment bureau’s sign suggested what he was doing
there, and he would not have the girl know how low he had fallen. He had
turned his back toward her and pulled his shabby hat low down over his
eyes, when her voice reached him.

“Mr. Farquhar!”

Jimmy turned, thrilled but embarrassed, and Ruth smiled at him.

“I can’t compliment you upon your memory,” she said.

Jimmy saw that the other men were regarding them curiously. He was not
surprised, for Ruth had a well-bred air and her dress indicated wealth
and refinement, while his appearance was greatly against him; but it was
insufferable that those fellows should speculate about her, and he moved
slowly forward.

“I think my memory’s pretty good,” he answered with a steady glance.

“That makes your behavior worse, because it looks as if you meant to
avoid me.”

“I’ll confess that I did; but I’m not sure that you can blame me. No
doubt you saw how I was employed?”

Ruth’s eyes sparkled and there was more color than usual in her face.

“I do blame you; it’s no excuse. Did you think I was mean enough to let
that prevent me from speaking to you?”

“Since you have asked the question, I can’t imagine your being mean in
any way at all,” Jimmy answered boldly. “I’m afraid I was indulging in
false sentiment, but perhaps that wasn’t unnatural. We all have our
weaknesses.”

“That’s true; mine’s a quick temper, and you nearly made me angry. I
feel slighted when people I know run away from me.”

“One wouldn’t imagine it often happens. Anyhow, I’ve pleaded guilty.”

“Then, as a punishment, you must come with me to our hotel and tell us
of your voyage to the North. My father will not be back until late, but
I think you’ll like my aunt.”

Jimmy looked surprised.

“You knew I was in the North?”

“Yes,” she answered, smiling. “Does that seem very strange? Perhaps you
find it easy to let a pleasant acquaintance drop.”

“I found it very hard,” Jimmy said with some warmth.

Then he pulled himself up, remembering that this was not the line he
ought to take. “After all,” he added, “it doesn’t follow that a
friendship made on a voyage can be kept up ashore. A steamboat officer’s
privileges end when he reaches land.”

“Where he seems to lose his confidence in himself. You’re either
unusually modest or unfairly bitter.”

“It’s not that. I hope I’m not a fool.”

Ruth felt half impatient and half compassionate. She understood why he
had made no attempt to follow up their acquaintance; but she thought he
insisted too much upon the difference between their positions in the
social scale.

“I suppose your father learned where I had gone?”

“No; it was Aynsley Clay who told me. My father certainly asked one of
the _Empress_ mates what had become of you, but learned only that you
had left the ship. You must remember Aynsley, the yachtsman you met on
the island.”

“Yes,” said Jimmy incautiously. “My partners and I worked in his mill
until a week or two ago. Then we were turned out.”

“Turned out? Why? I can’t imagine Aynsley’s being a hard master.”

“He isn’t. We got on very well. I don’t believe we owe our dismissal to
him.”

Ruth started. She was keen-witted and quick to jump to conclusions.
Jimmy’s statement bore out certain troublesome suspicions, and she
remembered that she had forced Aynsley to speak about him in Clay’s
presence. Perhaps she was responsible for his misfortunes; she felt
guilty.

“Then whatever you were doing in the North was not a success?” she
suggested.

“It was not,” Jimmy answered with some grimness.

Ruth studied him with unobtrusive interest. It was obvious that he was
not prospering, and he looked worn. This roused her compassion, though
she realized that there was nothing that she could do. The man’s pride
stood between them.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “You may be more fortunate another time. I
suppose you have some plans for the future?”

She seemed to invite his confidence, and he saw that her interest was
sincere. It was unthinkable that she should have any knowledge of the
conspiracy between her father and Clay, but he could not speak to her
openly. Loyalty to his friends prevented his taking such a course,
because she might inadvertently mention what she had heard, and it was
impossible to ask her to keep it secret from her relatives.

“They’re indefinite,” he answered. “I expect we’ll find something that
will suit us by and by.”

She saw that he was on his guard, and felt hurt by his reserve,
particularly as she had made several advances which he would not meet.
Then, glancing down a street that led to the wharf, she saw, towering
above the sheds, a steamer’s tunnel and a mast from which a white and
red flag fluttered.

“That’s your old boat; she came in this morning,” she said. “I wonder
whether we might go on board? After the pleasant trip we had in her, I
feel that I’d like to see the ship again.”

“As you wish,” said Jimmy, with obvious hesitation.

Ruth regretted the mistake that she had made, because she thought she
understood his reluctance. He looked as if he had come down in the
world, and would no doubt find it painful to re-visit the boat on board
of which he had been an officer.

“Perhaps there isn’t time, after all,” she said. “I told my aunt when I
would be back at the hotel, and we are almost there. She will be glad to
talk with you.”

Jimmy glanced at the building and stopped. Several luxuriously appointed
automobiles were waiting in front of it, and a group of well-dressed
people stood on the steps. He felt that he would be out of place there.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse my not coming in,” he said.

“But why? Have you anything of importance to do just now?”

“No,” said Jimmy with a smile; “unfortunately I can’t give that as a
reason. I wish I could.”

“You’re not very flattering, certainly.”

“I’m sorry. What I meant was that I’d kept you rather long already, and
of course one can’t intrude.”

She looked at him steadily, offering him no help in his embarrassment.

“You’re very kind,” he said with determined firmness. “But I don’t
intend to take advantage of that by coming in.”

“Very well,” she acquiesced; and, giving him her hand, she let him go.

The calmness with which she had dismissed him puzzled Jimmy as he went
away. He wondered whether he had offended her. He had, no doubt, behaved
in an unmannerly way, but there was no other course open. Indeed, it was
fortunate that he had kept his head, and she might come to see that it
was consideration for her that had influenced him. Then he reflected
bitterly that she might not trouble herself any further about the matter
and that it would be more useful if he resumed his search for something
to do.

But Ruth did trouble herself. That evening she and her father were
sitting in the rotunda of the big hotel with Aynsley and Clay. The
spacious hall was lavishly decorated and groups of well-dressed men and
women moved up and down between the columns and sat chatting on the
lounges. Some were passengers from the _Empress_ and some leading
inhabitants of the town who, as is not uncommon in the West, dined at
the hotel. Outside there was obviously a fall of sleet, for the men who
came in stamped their feet in the vestibule and shook wet flakes from
the fur-coats they handed to a porter.

Perhaps it was the air of luxury, the company of prosperous people, and
the glitter of the place, that made Ruth think of Jimmy walking the wet
streets. The contrast between his lot and the comfort she enjoyed was
marked, and she felt disturbed and pitiful. This, however, could not
benefit Jimmy; and, although he had rather pointedly avoided any attempt
to presume upon their friendship or to enlist her sympathy, she longed
to offer him some practical help. She must try to find out something
about his affairs, using subtlety where needed; while generally frank,
she was not repelled by the idea of intriguing, so long as her object
was good. It was obvious that in Clay she had a clever man to contend
against; but this rather added to the fascination of the thing, and she
had some confidence in her own ability.

“I met Jimmy Farquhar this afternoon,” she said abruptly, speaking to
her father.

“The _Empress’s_ mate? What is he doing in Vancouver, and why didn’t you
ask him in?”

“He wouldn’t come. I gathered that he’d been having rather a hard time
lately.”

The remark she had made at a venture had not been wasted. Her father’s
easy manner was not assumed; it was natural, and convinced her that he
was not connected with Jimmy’s misfortunes. This was a relief, but she
had learned something else, for, watching Clay closely, she had seen him
frown. The change in his expression was slight, but she had expected him
to exercise self-control and she saw that he was displeased at the
mention of Farquhar. This implied that he had a good reason for keeping
his dealings with Jimmy in the dark.

“Then I must try to overcome his objections if I run across him,” said
Osborne. “I liked the man.”

“The C.P.R. pick their officers carefully,” Clay remarked with a
careless smile at Ruth. “Still, the fellow didn’t show much taste when
he refused your invitation.”

“I really didn’t feel flattered,” Ruth said lightly, wondering whether
he had imagined that he might learn something from an unguarded reply.

“I guess he’s not worth thinking much about. You wouldn’t have had to
ask me twice when I was a young man, but it’s my opinion that the
present generation have no blood in them.”

“I believe that’s an old idea,” Ruth laughed. “Your father may have
thought the same of you.”

Clay was quick to seize the opportunity for changing the subject.

“You’re not right there,” he chuckled. “My folks were the props of a
small, back-East meeting house, and did their best to pound the wildness
out of me. It wasn’t their fault they didn’t succeed, but I’d inherited
the stubbornness of the old Puritan strain, and the more they tried to
pull me up the hotter pace I made. That’s why I’ve given Aynsley his
head, and he trots along at a steady clip without trying to bolt.”

Ruth paid little attention to what he was saying. She was puzzling about
Clay’s connection with Jimmy’s affairs, searching for some reason for
Clay’s evident attitude. She was not sorry when he and Osborne rose and
turned toward the smoking-room, for she wanted to question Aynsley.

“Why did you turn Jimmy Farquhar out of your mill?” she asked as soon as
they were alone.

Aynsley was taken by surprise.

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t turn him out.”

“Then did he and his friends go of their own accord?”

“No,” said Aynsley with some awkwardness; “I can’t say that they did.”

“Then somebody must have dismissed them. Who was it?”

He could not evade the direct question, for he had none of his father’s
subtlety, but he felt a jealous pang. Ruth would not have insisted on an
answer unless she had an interest in one of the men. Farquhar was a
good-looking fellow with taking manners; but Aynsley erred in imagining
that she was concerned only about Jimmy. The girl saw that there was
more in the matter and she was feeling for a clue.

“The old man came along when I was away and cut down the yard gang,” he
explained. “He’s smart at handling men economically, and thought I was
paying too much in wages.”

“But why did he pick out those three? Didn’t they work well?”

Aynsley felt confused; but he would not seek refuge in deceit.

“So far as I could see, they were pretty smart; but I’m not so good a
judge. Anyway, he didn’t explain.”

“Then you asked him about it?”

“Yes,” Aynsley answered lamely. “Still, I couldn’t go too far. I didn’t
want him to think I resented his interfering. After all, he bought me
the mill.”

Ruth saw that he suspected Clay’s motive. So did she, but she did not
think he could tell her anything more, and, to his relief, she changed
the subject.

CHAPTER XXII—A WARNING

In the luxuriously appointed smoking-room of the hotel Clay leaned
forward in the deep leather chair into which he had dropped and looked
keenly at Osborne.

“Tell me how you are interested in this fellow Farquhar,” he demanded.

“I don’t know that I am much interested,” Osborne replied. “He was of
some service to us during our voyage from Japan, and seemed a smart
young fellow. It merely struck me that I might give him a lift up in
return for one or two small favors.”

“Let him drop! Didn’t it strike you that your daughter might have her
own views about him? The man’s good-looking.”

Osborne flung up his head, and his eyes narrowed.

“I can’t discuss—”

“It has to be discussed,” Clay interrupted. “You can’t have that man at
your house: he’s one of the fellows who were working at the wreck.”

“Ah! That makes a difference, of course. I suppose you have been on
their trail, but you have told me nothing about it yet.”

“I had a suspicion that you didn’t want to know. You’re a fastidious
fellow, you know, and I suspected that you’d rather leave a mean job of
that kind to me.”

“You’re right,” Osborne admitted. “I’m sure you would handle it better
than I could; but I’m curious to hear what you’ve done.”

“I’ve gone as far as seems advisable. Had the fellows fired from several
jobs and made it difficult for them to get another; but it wouldn’t pay
to have my agents guess what I’m after.” Clay laughed. “Farquhar and his
partners are either bolder or smarter than I thought; I found them
taking my own money at the Clanch Mill.”

“You meant to break them?”

“Sure! A man without money is pretty harmless; but wages are high here,
and if they’d been left alone, they might have saved enough to give them
a start. Now I don’t imagine the poor devils have ten dollars between
them.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I don’t know yet. I thought of letting them find out the weakness of
their position and then trying to buy them off; but if I’m not very
careful that might give them a hold on me.”

Osborne looked thoughtful.

“I wonder whether the insurance people would consider an offer for the
wreck? I wouldn’t mind putting up my share of the money.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Clay said firmly. “They’d smell a rat. I suppose you
felt you’d like to give them their money back.”

“I have felt something of the kind.”

“Then why did you take the money in the first instance?”

“You ought to know. I had about two hundred dollars which you had paid
me then, and I wanted to give my girl a fair start in life.”

“And now she’d be the first to feel ashamed of you if she knew.”

Osborne winced.

“What’s the good of digging up the bones of a skeleton that is better
buried!” he said impatiently. “The thing to consider is the wreck. If we
could buy it we could blow it up.”

“We can blow it up, anyway. That is, if we can get there before the
Farquhar crowd. We have steam against their sail, and I’ve made it
difficult for them to fit out their boat. Unless I find I can come to
terms with the fellows, I’ll get off in the yacht as soon as the ice
breaks up.”

“Your crew may talk.”

“They won’t have much to talk about; I’ll see to that. Now, I don’t know
what claim insurers have on a vessel they’ve paid for and abandoned for
a number of years, but I guess there’s nothing to prevent our trying to
recover her cargo, so long as we account for what we get. It’s known
that the yacht has been cruising in the North, and what more natural
than that we should discover that a gale or a change of current had
washed the wreck into shallow water after the salvage expedition gave
her up? If there had been anything wrong, we’d have made some move
earlier. Very well; knowing more about the vessel and her freight than
anybody else, we try what we can do. If we fail, like the salvage
people, nobody can blame us.”

“You’d run some risk, for all that,” Osborne said thoughtfully.

“I can’t deny it. If Farquhar and his friends were business men, I’d
feel uneasy. He has cards in his hand that would beat us; but he doesn’t
know how many trumps he holds. If he did know, we’d have heard from him
or the underwriters before this.”

“It seems probable,” Osborne agreed. “All the same, I wish the winter
was over and you could get off. It will be a relief to know that she is
destroyed.”

“You’ll have to wait; but there won’t be much of her left after we get
to work with the giant-powder,” Clay promised cheerfully.

They talked over the matter until it got late; and the next morning the
party broke up, the Osbornes returning home and Aynsley going back to
his mill. Clay, however, stayed in Vancouver and visited a doctor who
was beginning to make his mark. There were medical men in Seattle who
would have been glad to attend to him, but he preferred the Canadian
city, where he was not so well known. He had been troubled rather often
of late by sensations that puzzled him, and had decided that if he had
any serious weakness it would be better to keep it to himself. Hitherto
he had been noted for his mental and physical force, and recognized as a
daring, unscrupulous fighter whom it was wise to conciliate, and it
might prove damaging if rumors that he was not all he seemed got about.

His work was not finished and his ambitions were only half realized.
Aynsley had his mother’s graces, for Clay’s wife had been a woman of
some refinement who had yielded to the fascination the handsome
adventurer once exercised. The boy must have wealth enough to make him a
prominent figure on the Pacific Slope. Clay knew his own limitations,
and was content that his son should attain a social position he could
not enjoy. This was one reason why he had been more troubled about
Farquhar’s salvage operations than he cared to admit. His personal
reputation was, as he very well knew, not of the best, but his business
exploits, so far as they were known to the public, were, after all,
regarded with a certain toleration and would be forgotten. The wreck,
however, was a more serious matter, and might have a damaging effect on
his son’s career if the truth concerning it came out. This must be
avoided at any cost. Moreover, with his business increasing, he would
need all his faculties during the next few years, and the mysterious
weakness he suffered from now and then dulled his brain. In consequence,
he was prudently but rather unwillingly going to see a doctor.

The man examined him with a careful interest which Clay thought ominous,
and after questioning him about his symptoms stood silent a few moments.

“You have lived pretty hard,” he commented.

“I have,” said Clay, “but perhaps not in the way that’s generally
meant.”

The doctor nodded as he studied him. Clay’s face showed traces of
indulgence, but these were not marked. The man was obviously not in the
habit of exercising an ascetic control over his appetites, but he looked
too hard and virile to be a confirmed sensualist. Yet, to a practised
eye, he showed signs of wear.

“I mean that you haven’t been careful of yourself.”

“I hadn’t much chance of doing so until comparatively recent years,”
Clay replied with a grim smile. “In my younger days, I suffered heat and
thirst in the Southwest; afterwards I marched on half-rations, carrying
a heavy pack, in the Alaskan snow; and I dare say I got into the habit
of putting my object first.”

“Before what are generally considered the necessities of life—food and
rest and sleep?”

“Something of the kind.”

“You work pretty hard now?”

“I begin when I get up; as a rule, it’s eleven o’clock at night when I
finish. That’s the advantage of living in a city hotel. You can meet the
people you deal with after office hours.”

“It’s a doubtful advantage,” said the doctor. “You’ll have to change all
that. Have you no relaxations or amusements?”

“I haven’t time for them; my business needs too much attention. It’s
because I find it tries me now and then that I’ve come here to learn
what’s wrong.”

The doctor told him he had a serious derangement of the heart which
might have been inherited, but had been developed by his having taxed
his strength too severely.

Clay listened with a hardening face.

“What’s the cure?” he asked.

“There is none,” said the doctor quietly. “A general slackening of
tension will help. You must take life easier, shorten your working
hours, avoid excitement and mental concentration, and take a holiday
when you can. I recommend a three months’ change with complete rest, but
there will always be some risk of a seizure. Your aim must be to make it
as small a risk as possible.”

“And if I go on as I’ve been doing?”

The doctor gave him a keen glance. He was a judge of character, and saw
this was a determined, fearless man.

“You may live three or four years, though I’m doubtful. On the other
hand, the first sharp attack you provoke may finish you.”

Clay showed no sign of dismay. He looked thoughtful rather than
startled, for something had occurred to him.

“Would you recommend a voyage to a cold, bracing climate, say in the
spring?”

“I’d urge it now. The sooner the better.”

“I can’t go yet. Perhaps in a month or two. In the meanwhile I suppose
you’ll give me a prescription?”

The doctor went to his desk and wrote on two slips of paper which he
handed to Clay. He had told him plainly what to expect, and could do no
more.

“The first medicine is for regular use as directed; but you must be
careful about the other,” he cautioned. “When you feel the faintness you
described, take the number of drops mentioned, but on no account exceed
it. The dispenser will mark the bottle.”

Clay thanked him and lighted a strong cigar as he went out, then
remembered that he had been warned against excessive smoking, and
hesitated, but the next moment he put the cigar back in his mouth. If
the doctor’s opinions were correct, this small indulgence would not
matter much. With good luck, he could bring all his schemes to fruition
in the next year or two; he had no intention of dropping them. He had
been warned, but he had taken risks all his life, and he had too much on
hand to be prudent now. Still, it would do no harm to have the
prescriptions made up. He looked around for a quiet drugstore. Nobody
must suspect that his career was liable to come to a sudden termination.

CHAPTER XXIII—THE FIRST ATTACK

Clay made no marked change in his mode of living, and shortly after his
visit to the doctor he engaged in a struggle with a group of speculators
who opposed one of his business schemes. They were clever men, with
money enough to make them troublesome enemies, and Clay realized that he
must spare no effort if he meant to win. He beat them and determined to
exact a heavy indemnity, but the battle was stubbornly fought and during
the month it lasted he had little rest by night or day. Long after the
city offices were closed he entertained his supporters in his rooms at
the hotel, and, rising early, altered and improved his plans before the
business day began.

To his delight, he felt no bad effects; he was somewhat limp and lazy,
but that, no doubt, was a natural reaction from the strain. He could
now, however, afford to take a few days’ rest, and he telegraphed
Aynsley that he would spend the week-end at Osborne’s house, which was
always open to both. Enjoying the first-fruits of his victory, in the
shape of some tempting offers, shortly before he left his office, he
traveled down the Sound in high content, and, to complete his
satisfaction, he learned on arriving that Aynsley had secured some large
and profitable orders for lumber.

Dinner was served early on the Saturday evening, and Clay, finding that
he had an excellent appetite, ate and drank more than usual. He was
quite well, he told himself, but had had an anxious time and needed
bracing. Miss Dexter watched him with disapproval when, after dinner was
finished, he stood in the hall with a large glass in his hand. The man
had a high color, but his eyes had a strained look and his lips a
curious bluish tinge. He appeared to be quite sober, which caused her
some surprise, but he was talking rather freely and his laugh was harsh.
She thought he looked coarse and overbearing in his present mood.

The large hall was tastefully paneled in cedar, a fire of pine logs
burned on the open hearth, and small lamps hung among the wooden
pillars. A drawing-room and a billiard-room, both warmed and lighted,
opened out of it, but Osborne left his guests to do what they liked
best, and nobody seemed inclined to move. Ruth and Aynsley were talking
near the hearth, Miss Dexter had some embroidery in her hands, and
Osborne lounged in a deep chair beside the table. Clay, with the now
empty glass in his hand, leaned negligently upon the table, feeling well
satisfied with himself. His manners were not polished, but he was aware
of it, and never pretended to graces he did not possess. He smiled when
he caught Miss Dexter’s censorious glance.

“I’m often in trouble, ma’am, and find I can’t fight on coffee and
ice-water,” he explained humorously.

“Perhaps that’s one of their advantages,” Miss Dexter replied. “But as
we’re not quarrelsome people, you ought to enjoy a few days’ peace.”

“That’s so. I guess I warmed up over telling your brother-in-law about
my latest battle.” He turned to Osborne. “Frame and Nesbitt were in this
morning, ready to take what I’d give them on their knees. Fletcher came
and tried to bluff, but he wilted when I cracked the whip. I have the
gang corralled, and they’ll go broke before they get out.”

Clay’s rather obvious failings included an indulgence in coarse
vainglory, though he had generally the sense to check it when it might
prove a handicap. Now, however, he was in an expansive mood, inclined to
make the most of his triumph.

“The joke is that they were plumb-sure they’d squeeze me dry,” he went
on. “Got hold of a tip about the development land purchase plan and
never guessed I’d planted it for them. Morgan cost me high, and his
nerve is bad, but he’s a cute little rat, and works well in the dark.”

“I thought the opposition had bought him,” Osborne said.

“So they did,” Clay chuckled. “Now they want his blood, and I believe
Denby’s mad enough about it to have him sandbagged. That plays into my
hand, because the fellow will stick to me for protection. If he tries to
strike me for extra pay, I’ve only to threaten I’ll throw him to the
wolves. Guess the way they’re howling has scared him pretty bad.”

“Have you begun the clean-up yet?”

“Washed out the first panful before I came away,” Clay replied in
miners’ phraseology. “Ten thousand dollars for two small back lots. It’s
all good pay-dirt, carrying heavy metal.”

“In a way, I’m sorry for Fletcher. He’s had a bad time lately, and, as
he has got into low water, I’m afraid this will finish him.”

“He joined the gang. Now he has to take the consequences.”

Clay saw that Miss Dexter was listening with disapproval. He was not
averse to having an audience and he had spoken loudly.

“If you saw the people who’d conspired to rob you come to grief through
their greediness, what would you do about it, Miss Dexter?” he asked.

“I should try not to gloat over their downfall,” she answered with some
asperity.

“Looks better,” Clay agreed. “But when I have the fellows down, it seems
prudent to see that they don’t get up again too soon.”

Miss Dexter studied him. Admitting that modesty would have become him
better, she did not believe he was boasting at random. There was power
in the man, though she imagined he did not often use it well. She
disliked his principles, and he frequently repelled her, but sometimes
she felt attracted. He had, she thought, a better side than the one he
generally showed.

“Does it never pay to be merciful?” she asked.

“Very seldom. In my line of business you have, as a rule, to break or be
broken hard. It’s a hard fight. I keep the rules of the ring. Sometimes
they’re pretty liberally interpreted, but if you go too far, you get
hustled out and disqualified. In this country the stakes are high, but
I’ve been through the hardest training since I was a boy, and I’ve got
to win.” He paused with a glance toward Aynsley. “Sounds pretty
egotistical, doesn’t it? But I know my powers, and I can’t be stopped.”

His forceful air gave him a touch of dignity and redeemed the crude
daring of his boast. Osborne looked at him curiously, but Miss Dexter
felt half daunted. She thought his attitude grossly defiant; the
inordinate pride he showed would bring its punishment.

“It sounds very rash,” she said. “You don’t know what you may have to
contend with.”

Clay laughed harshly.

“I’ve some suspicion; but there comes a time, often after years of
struggle, when a man knows he has only to hold on and win the game.
Curious, isn’t it? But he does know, and sets his teeth as he braces
himself for the effort that’s going to give him the prize.”

He spoke with vehemence, the color darkening in his face. Miss Dexter
wondered whether the last glass of whisky and potass had gone to his
head; but the flush suddenly faded and his lips turned blue. Osborne was
the first to notice it. Jumping up, he grabbed Clay by the arms and
shoved him toward the nearest chair. Clay fell into it heavily, and
began fumbling at his vest pocket, but he soon let his hand drop in a
nerveless manner. The next moment Aynsley was at his side. The hall was
large, and the boy had been sitting some distance off, but he did not
run and he made no noise. He had inherited his father’s swiftness of
action, and Ruth, following in alarm, noticed the lithe grace of his
movements. The girl’s impressions were, however, somewhat blurred, and
it was not until afterward that the scene fixed itself vividly in her
mind.

“Perhaps we’d better get the car out,” Aynsley said quickly. “We may
want it if this is going to last.”

Osborne rang a bell and there was silence for a few moments while they
waited, uncertain what to do. Clay’s face was livid and his eyes were
half shut. He seemed unconscious of their presence, and they imagined
that he was struggling against the weakness that was mastering him. His
lips were tight set, his brows knit, and his hand was firmly clenched.
Osborne gave an order to a servant, who immediately disappeared, and
then Clay’s tense pose relaxed. He sank back in the chair, loose and
limp, as if all power had suddenly gone out of him.

The change was more startling to those watching than the first attack.
They had long known his strength and resolution; but now he lay inert,
with head falling forward, a bulky, flaccid figure, suddenly stripped of
everything that had made him feared. He was grotesque in his
helplessness, and Ruth had a curious feeling that there was something
unfitting, almost indecent, in their watching him. It appeared, however,
that he was conscious, for when Osborne held a glass to his lips he
feebly moved his head in refusal, and his slack fingers began to fumble
at the pocket again.

“There’s something he wants there!” Ruth said sharply. “Perhaps it’s
something he ought to take!”

Aynsley thrust his hand into the pocket and brought out a small bottle.

“Six drops,” he read out and was about to lift his father’s head when
Miss Dexter stopped him.

“No,” she said; “you’ll spill it. Wait for a spoon.”

She brought one and with some trouble they administered the dose. For a
while there was no visible result, and then Clay sighed and with a slack
movement changed his pose. A little later he opened his eyes and
beckoned.

“The medicine!” Aynsley requested in a hoarse voice.

“No,” said Miss Dexter firmly. “He has had six drops.”

Aynsley yielded, for it was plain that his father was recovering. A
moment later Clay raised himself in his chair and looked at Miss Dexter
with a feeble, apologetic smile.

“Sorry I made this disturbance.”

“Are you feeling better?” Aynsley asked.

“Quite all right in a minute.” Clay turned to Osborne. “It would be bad
manners to blame your cook; guess the fault was mine. Got breakfast
early, and had no time for lunch.”

Though he had made a hearty dinner, the explanation he suggested did not
satisfy the others, and Ruth thought it significant that he had made it
so promptly. They did not, however, trouble him with questions, and
after a while he rose and walked to another chair.

“The car won’t be needed,” Aynsley said to Osborne.

“The car?” Clay interposed. “What did you want it for?”

“We had thought of sending for a doctor,” Aynsley answered
deprecatingly.

Clay frowned.

“Shucks! You’re easily scared; I wouldn’t have seen him. Where’s that
bottle?” He slipped it hastily into his pocket and turned to Ruth. “Very
sorry all this happened; feel ashamed of myself. Now I wonder whether
you’ll give us some music.”

They went into the drawing-room, and Clay chose an easy chair at some
distance from the others. He cared nothing for music, but he felt shaky,
and he was glad of an excuse for sitting quiet. Moreover, he wanted time
to think. It looked as if the doctor, whom he had begun to doubt, had
after all been right. He had had a warning which he could not neglect;
and as he rather vacantly watched the girl at the piano it was borne in
upon him that she had probably saved his life. The others had thought
him insensible, but she had guessed that he was feeling for the remedy
which had pulled him round.

It was a pity she had refused Aynsley, but he bore her no ill-will,
although he was generally merciless to those who thwarted him. He would
have liked to thank her, but that was inadvisable, for he must not admit
that he had had a dangerous attack. Then it struck him that if he were
seriously threatened, it might be well to take precautions. There was a
good offer he had received for some property he wished to sell, but he
had not answered because all the terms were not settled, and he did not
wish to seem eager. It might be better to close the matter now. When he
had thanked Ruth for the song, he quietly made his way to Osborne’s
writing-room.

It was necessary to write several letters, and he found his fingers
nerveless and composition difficult. Indeed, he laid the pen down and
then resolutely took it up again. He was not going to be beaten by a
bodily weakness, and nobody must notice that his writing was shaky. He
tore up the first letter and wrote it again in a firm, legible hand,
though the sweat the effort cost him gathered on his forehead. His
schemes must be completed and all his affairs straightened out before he
gave in. The man was ruthless and unscrupulous, but he had unflinching
courage and an indomitable will.

In the billiard-room Osborne was talking to Aynsley.

“What do you think about your father?” he asked.

“I’m anxious. Of course, he made light of the matter, and, so far as I
know, he’s never been troubled in this way before, but I didn’t like his
look.”

“It struck me as significant that he’d seen a doctor,” Osborne remarked.
“The bottle proves that. From the careful directions about the dose it
must have been made up from a prescription. Anyway, he’s been overdoing
it lately, and perhaps you had better go along and see what he’s about.
If he’s attending to any business, make him stop and bring him down.”

Aynsley entered the writing-room and left it in a few minutes, rudely
dismissed. Coming down, he made an excuse for taking Ruth into the hall.

“I know you’ll do me a favor,” he begged.

“Of course. I suppose it concerns your father?”

Aynsley nodded.

“He’s writing letters, and I’m afraid it will do him harm. He looks far
from fit, but he’s in a most contrary mood, and ordered me out when I
hinted that he’d better stop. Knowing what he’s capable of, I thought
I’d better go.”

He spoke lightly, but Ruth saw the uneasiness he wished to conceal.

“Do you think I could persuade him?”

“I’d like you to try. Anyway, he won’t be rude to you; and I’ve a
suspicion that you have some influence over him. You ought to be
flattered, because nobody else has.”

Ruth went to the writing-room and stood beside Clay with a reproachful
smile. She felt pitiful. The man looked ill.

“We really can’t allow you to leave us in this way,” she said. “Besides,
it’s too late to think of business matters.”

“I suppose Aynsley sent you,” he answered with grim bluntness. “It would
be better if you took him in hand instead of me. The boy wants looking
after; he’s got no nerve.”

“You ought not to blame him for feeling anxious about you. However, I’m
your hostess and I don’t think you are treating me well. When I tell you
to put away those papers you can’t disobey.”

Clay gave her a steady look.

“Anything you ask me will be done,” he said. “But, as a favor, will you
give me another five minutes?”

“Of course. But you might exceed it, so I think I’ll wait.”

Before the time had quite elapsed Clay closed the last envelope with a
firm hand, and a few minutes later they entered the drawing-room and
Aynsley gave Ruth a grateful glance.

When Clay returned to Vancouver he called at once on the doctor; and
when he left his face was grim, for he had been plainly told that he was
worse, and must change his mode of life at once; but this was more than
Clay could consent to do. He had money in a number of ventures, none of
which had yet achieved the success he looked for. Time was needed before
he could bring them to the desired consummation, and if he sold out now
it must be at a sacrifice of the handsome profit that might otherwise be
secured. He would be left with only a moderate fortune, and he meant to
be rich. Ambitious as he was for his son, he had also a keen reluctance
to leaving his work half finished. In fact, it was obvious that he must
hold on for a year or two longer.

Moreover, the doctor had warned him against increasing the dose of the
restorative, which Clay admitted having done. The powerful drug had
braced him up when he suffered from reaction after any unusual strain
and he had come to regard it as a reliable standby. Now he must curtail
its use, and he would feel the deprivation. Then, since he was running
some risk, it was advisable to take precautions. First of all, the wreck
must be destroyed. If he should be cut off suddenly, no evidence must be
left behind to spoil his son’s career. Aynsley must bear an untarnished
name.

The first step would be to get Jimmy Farquhar and his companions out of
the way—to buy them off if possible; if not—A hard look crept into
Clay’s eyes, and he sat down at once and wrote a short note to Jimmy.

CHAPTER XXIV—THE GIRL IN THE BOAT

Trade was slack in the Pacific province, and men from the interior
flocked down to the coast and overflowed the employment bureaus. This
made it unusually hard for Jimmy and his friends to find work. For a
month they had done almost nothing, only an odd job now and then; they
were in arrears with their hotel bill; and the future looked anything
but bright to them.

After supper one evening they sat in the lobby of their shabby hotel in
a gloomy mood. Jimmy had found temporary work, and since early morning
had been loading a vessel with lumber in a pouring rain. All day he had
been wet through, and he was tired and sore. He had grown thin, and had
a gaunt, determined look.

“What’s this?” he exclaimed, examining Clay’s envelope, which had just
been handed to him. “I have no acquaintances in Vancouver who use
expensive stationery.” He read the note and then looked up with a
surprised frown. “It’s from Clay! He asks me to meet him in the
smoking-room of his hotel. It’s the big, smart place they’ve lately
opened.”

“Oho!” said Bethune. “I’ve been expecting this. I suppose you mean to
go?”

“What’s your opinion?”

“Perhaps it might be wiser to take no notice of the invitation; but I
don’t know. I’d like to see the fellow and hear what he has to say. It’s
curious that we haven’t met him yet, though we have felt his influence.”

“Anyway, I’m not going alone. I might make a mess of things; he’s
evidently a cunning rogue. If you think it’s wise to see him, you’ll
have to come.”

“We’ll all go,” said Bethune with a grin. “I believe he knows us
already, and he won’t get much out of Hank.”

“I’m sure not great at talking,” Moran agreed. “Now, if he tried to have
us sandbagged, and you told me to get after him—”

“It hasn’t come to that yet,” Bethune laughed. “The fellow’s more
refined in his methods, but they’re quite as dangerous.” He looked at
the note. “However, it’s nearly time, and we may as well make a start.”

Clay looked up in surprise from his seat at a small table when the three
walked in, and he felt half amused at Moran’s steady, defiant stare.
This, he thought, was a strange companion for Bethune, whom he at once
recognized as the business leader of the party. Jimmy he dismissed,
after a searching glance, as less dangerous. He was the practical
seaman, no doubt, but it was his partner’s intelligence that directed
their affairs.

“Sit down,” Clay said, taking out his cigar-case. “I wrote to Mr.
Farquhar, but I’m glad to see you all. Will you have anything to drink?”

“No, thanks,” Jimmy answered quickly; and added, “I’m afraid it’s rather
an intrusion, but as we go together, I thought I might bring my
friends.”

Clay understood his refusal as a declaration of hostility, but he
smiled.

“As you prefer,” he said, lighting a cigar and quietly studying his
callers.

The room was large and handsome, with an inlaid floor, massive pillars,
and pictures of snow-clad mountains on the walls. It was then almost
unoccupied, and that added to the effect of its size and loftiness, but
two very smart and somewhat supercilious attendants hovered in the
background. Farquhar and his friends were shabbily dressed, and Clay had
hoped that they might feel themselves out of place and perhaps
embarrassed by his silence, but there was no sign of this. Indeed, they
seemed very much at ease. Bethune’s expression was slightly bored, while
Moran glanced about with naïve curiosity. For all that, they looked
worn, and there was something about them which suggested tension. They
had felt the pressure he had skilfully brought to bear, but whether it
had made them compliant or not remained to be seen.

“Well,” Clay began, “we must have a talk. You have undertaken some
salvage operations at a wreck in the North?”

“Yes,” Jimmy answered concisely.

“You don’t seem to have been very successful.”

“I dare say our appearance proves it,” Bethune smiled. “As a matter of
fact, we haven’t cleared our expenses yet.”

Clay did not know what to think of this frankness; he imagined that if
the man had any wish to extort the best terms he could, he would have
been less candid. He saw that he must be cautious, for he had done a
risky thing in asking Farquhar to meet him. He would rather have left
the fellow alone and tried to destroy the wreck before they reached it;
but he knew that he might not live to do so. He had had his warnings and
he could not leave the matter open.

“It’s obvious that, as the salvage people abandoned the vessel,
something has happened to give you a chance,” he said. “However, as you
can’t have money enough to buy a proper outfit, you’re not likely to
make much use of the opportunity. You want steam and the best diving
gear, and I guess you found them too expensive.”

“We might do better if we had them,” Bethune admitted.

“Very well; are you willing to take a partner?”

There was uncompromising refusal in Jimmy’s face, but he did not speak,
and Clay surmised that Bethune had given him a warning kick under the
table. Bethune, in fact, had done so, and was thinking hard. To refuse
would imply that they expected to succeed and that the salvage could be
easily accomplished with such poor apparatus as they could obtain; but
this was not advisable, because it would encourage Clay to anticipate
them.

“We might consider a sleeping partner who’d be content with his profit
on the money he supplied,” he said.

“That means you intend to keep the practical operations in your own
hands?”

“Yes,” Bethune answered; “you can take it that it does.”

“Then the arrangement wouldn’t suit me. I know more about the vessel
than you do, and I’ve been accustomed to directing things. But I’ll bid
you five thousand dollars for your interest in the wreck.”

“Strictly speaking, we have no interest that we could sell.”

“That’s true; but I’ll buy your knowledge of how she lies and the best
way of getting at her cargo. Of course, after you have taken the money
you’ll leave her alone.”

“It’s tempting,” Bethune said thoughtfully. “But perhaps we had better
be frank. I understand that you were one of the owners, and, as the
underwriters paid you, I don’t see what you would gain.”

“All the gold on board her wasn’t insured.”

Bethune looked hard at him and Clay smiled. “It’s true. Then, there’s no
reason why I shouldn’t have a try at the salvage. I’m open to make a
shot at anything that promises a moderate profit.”

“I suppose there is no reason,” Bethune agreed slowly. “Would you go up
to ten thousand dollars?”

“No, sir!” Clay said firmly. “I stick to my bid.”

“Then I’m sorry we can’t make a deal.” Bethune turned to the others. “I
suppose that’s your opinion?”

“Of course,” said Jimmy; and Moran nodded.

Clay was silent for a few moments. He would gladly have given ten
thousand dollars to settle the matter, but he doubted whether Bethune
would take it; and to bid high would rouse suspicion. It looked as if he
had accomplished nothing, but he had found out that his opponents were
more capable than he had imagined, and he decided that it would be safer
to put no further pressure on them. He did not wish them to learn that
he was the cause of the trouble they had had in finding employment, as
it would indicate that he had some strong reason for preventing their
return to the wreck.

“Well,” he said, “it’s a pity we can’t come to terms, but I can make no
fresh suggestion. You’re up against a pretty big undertaking.”

“So it seems,” Bethune answered pleasantly. “We’ll have to do the best
we can. And now, as we mustn’t take up your time, I’ll bid you
good-night.”

Clay let them go, and as they went down the street Jimmy turned to
Bethune.

“What do you think of the interview?” he asked.

“A drawn game. Neither side has scored; but I’ve learned two things. The
first is that he has no suspicion that we have found the bogus case.”

“How do you infer that?”

“From his view of our character. You must recollect that we’re hard-up
adventurers whom he wouldn’t expect to be scrupulous. He’d conclude that
if we had found anything suspicious we’d have let him know and tried to
sell our secret. He was waiting for some hint, and I was careful to give
him none.”

“What’s the next thing?”

“That he’ll try to clean out the wreck before we get there. It was the
only reason he let us go. I dare say you noticed how careful he was not
to show any anxiety to buy us off. It’s curious, but I really think he
spoke the truth when he said all the gold was not insured.”

“If it had been a straight deal, with nothing behind it, I think I’d
have taken the five thousand dollars,” Jimmy said. “He won’t have much
trouble in getting ahead of us when the ice breaks up. It will cost
something to fit out the sloop, and our pockets are empty.”

“Oh, there’s time yet,” Bethune replied with a cheerful laugh.
“Something may turn up.”

Fortune favored them during the next week, for Bethune secured a post as
hotel clerk, and Moran went inland to assist in repairing a railroad
track which a snowslide had wrecked. Soon afterward Jimmy shipped as
deck-hand on a Sound steamboat and was lucky in attracting the attention
of one of the directors who was on board by the cool promptness with
which he prevented an accident when a passenger gangway broke. The
director had a talk with him, and, learning that he was a steamship
officer, placed him in charge of a gasolene launch which picked up
passengers at unimportant landings and took them off to the boats. The
work was easy, and paid fairly well; and Jimmy had held his post for a
month with some satisfaction when he went off to meet a north-bound
steamer at dusk one evening.

He had no passengers and it was blowing fresh with showers of sleet.
Savage gusts whipped the leaden water into frothing white, and as he
drew out from the shore the ripples which chased the launch grew larger.
When he passed a headland they changed into short, breaking seas, and
the craft plunged wildly as she crossed a strong run of tide. Here and
there an island loomed up dimly, but the shore had faded into the haze.
When Jimmy first joined her, the boat had carried another hand, but the
man had gone and had not been replaced because trade was slack in
winter. Jimmy thought that he might have trouble in getting his
passengers on board; but they were not likely to be numerous, and the
steamer would run into shelter behind an island.

He was late, for his engine was not working well, but there was no sign
of the steamer when he stopped, and the boat lay rolling with the spray
blowing across her rail. It rattled on Jimmy’s slickers and stung his
face, but the cold was mild by comparison with what he had endured in
the North, and he sat in the shelter of the coaming, glancing up the
Sound every now and then. Presently a sleet-storm broke upon him, and
when it blew away a blinking white light and a colored one broke out of
the driving cloud. Jimmy lighted a blue flare and, starting the engine,
headed for the end of the island. When he stopped, the steamer was close
ahead, a lofty, gray mass, banded with rows of lights. She rolled as she
crossed the tide-stream, and he could see the foam about her big
side-wheels and the smoke that swept from her inclined stacks. It did
not look as if she were stopping, and he was about to get out of her way
when a deep blast of her whistle broke through the turmoil of the sea.
In another minute he was abreast of the gangway and caught the rope
thrown down, though he kept the launch off at a few yards’ distance.

The ladder was lowered, and hung banging awkwardly against the vessel’s
side; and while Jimmy waited with his hand on the tiller a deck-hand ran
down to the lowest step and flung a valise into the boat, and then
turned to assist a woman who followed him. Jimmy could not see her well,
but he noticed that she was active and not timid, which was reassuring,
and he cautiously sheered the launch closer in.

“Give me your hand and jump!” he cried.

She did as he directed, and when she was safe on board he stood looking
up at the gangway.

“That’s all!” somebody shouted; and when he let the rope go, the
side-wheels churned and the steamer forged ahead while the launch slid
clear of her with propeller rattling.

Jimmy pulled up a canvas hood which covered part of the cockpit and
lighted a lantern under it before he turned to his passenger.

“If you sit here, you’ll be out of the wind and spray. Where are you
going?”

“To Pine Landing.” She gave a start when Jimmy stooped over the engine
where the light fell upon him. “You!” she cried. “Mr. Farquhar!”

He gazed at her in surprise, with his heart throbbing. Though she had
turned her head quickly and the light was not good, he thought he had
seen a flush of color in her face.

“It was too dark to recognize you until you spoke, Miss Osborne,” he
said as coolly as he could. “Then, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Our house is scarcely a mile from the Landing.”

“The pretty place in the woods? I didn’t know it was yours. I’ve seen it
from a distance, but have never been there.”

“I think you are to blame for that,” she said.

“Until a few weeks ago, I was living on the Canadian side.” Jimmy
laughed as he added: “Besides, I hadn’t many opportunities for making
visits.”

Ruth glanced at him with quick sympathy, remembering how he had looked
when she had last seen him; but he was doing something to the engine and
his face was hidden.

“How did you come to be in this boat?” she asked.

“I’m her captain, but just now I wish I were an engineer,” he answered
humorously. “She’s not running as she ought to do, and I’m afraid you’ll
have rather a long trip. In fact, I think we had better go round behind
the island where there’s smoother water. Will your people be anxious
because you’re late?”

“They don’t expect me until to-morrow. Some friends were traveling by
the boat, and I thought I could get home before it was dark.”

Jimmy thrilled at her nearness, but he knew that he must steel himself
against her charm. Her friends were his enemies and he could not involve
her in any difficulties with them. He must wait until fortune favored
him, if it ever did so. But the waiting was hard.

“You didn’t tell me how you happen to be running this boat,” she
reminded him with a smile.

“Well, you see, I didn’t want to leave this neighborhood,” Jimmy
explained slowly, picking his words. “My partners and I have a plan
which we can’t put into execution yet, and it prevents us from going too
far from Vancouver. I’m not sure that anything will come of it, but it
might. One lives in hope.”

Ruth was relieved by his answer. It had been painful to think of his
following some rough occupation, and, worse still, wandering about the
city in search of work. Though she felt sorry for him, it made her
indignant. She hated to imagine his being content to live among the
broken men she had seen hanging about the dollar hotels.

“Mr. Farquhar,” she said, “even in this country it is hard for a man to
stand alone, and I think there are times when one is justified in taking
a favor from one’s friends. Now, you were very kind on board the
_Empress_, and I’m sure my father—”

He made an abrupt movement, and she stopped, and just then the launch
plunged her bows into a breaking sea and a shower of spray blew inside
the hood.

“It’s impossible,” he said firmly a few moments later. “I suppose I’m
stupidly independent; but there are my partners to consider. They expect
me to see our plans through. After all, they may turn out as we hope.”

“And then?”

“Then,” he answered carelessly, “I don’t think I’ll carry any more
lumber or drive this kind of boat.”

Ruth felt baffled and inclined to be angry. She had had impecunious
admirers who did not consider her father’s money a disadvantage. Jimmy’s
was, of course, a more becoming attitude, but she thought he adhered to
it too firmly. Then, as she remembered his worn look and his threadbare
clothes when she met him in Vancouver, she was moved to pity. The
trouble was that it could not be shown. She could not offer him sympathy
which he did not seem to want.

“I hope that you will succeed in your venture,” she said.

“Thank you,” he answered; “we’ll do our best. Now I must keep a
look-out, for there’s a rock in the channel.”

There was strain in his voice, and she was glad to see that his reserve
cost him something; but she saw the need for caution when a gray mass of
stone loomed out of the darkness close at hand with the sea spouting
about it. After that she made no further attempt to talk, and they went
on in silence, both sensible of constraint and yet not wishing the
voyage at an end.

When they swung round a rocky point, Jimmy stopped the engine, and the
launch ran in toward a small wooden pier. Dark pines rolled down to the
water, and the swell broke angrily upon the beach and surged among the
piles. There was nobody about, but Jimmy caught a trailing rope abreast
of a few steps where the water washed up and down, while the launch
ground against the weedy timber.

“I’ll get out and help you up,” he said.

Ruth hesitated when she saw him stand knee-deep on the lowest step,
holding out his hand; but there was no way of getting ashore dry without
his assistance. The next moment he had thrown his arm about her and
stood, tense and strung up, trying to preserve his balance. She knew
that it would be ridiculous to let herself fall into the sea, and she
yielded to his grasp, sinking down into his arms with her head on his
shoulder. He staggered as he reached the next slippery step, and she
clung closer to him in alarm; then, as she thrilled at the contact, she
felt his heart beat and his muscles suddenly grow tense. He caught his
breath with a curious gasp, and Ruth knew that it was not caused by the
physical effort he had to make. She lay still, not inert but yielding,
until he gently set her down out of reach of the water. She was glad
that the darkness hid her burning face; and Jimmy stood curiously quiet,
with his hand clenched.

No words were needed. Both knew that something had happened to them
during the last few moments; something which might be ignored but could
not be forgotten. They were no longer acquaintances; the tie of
friendship had broken with the strain and could be replaced only by a
stronger bond.

Ruth was the first to recover.

“My valise is in the boat,” she said, with a strange little laugh.

For a tense moment Jimmy was silent. Then:

“Yes,” he replied; “I forgot it.” He sprang down and returned with the
bag. “I’m afraid you’ll have to send for it and go home alone. The
launch would get damaged if I left her here, and I couldn’t take her
alongside your landing to-night.”

“It isn’t very far through the woods,” Ruth said, and hesitated a moment
before she gave him her hand. “I’m glad I met you, and I will look
forward to hearing of your success.”

Jimmy dropped her hand quickly and jumped back on board, but Ruth stood
still until the launch vanished into the darkness. Then she started
homeward with her nerves tingling and her heart beating fast. She knew
what Jimmy felt for her, and she wondered when the time would come when
he could avow it openly.

CHAPTER XXV—PAYING A DEBT

Aynsley, sitting near an open window in his office, laid down his pen
and looked out with a sense of satisfaction. A great raft of lumber was
ready to start down the river, and men were scrambling about it loosing
the mooring-chains. The pond was full of logs lately run down on a
freshet, and the green flood swirled noisily past them. Its color
indicated that the snow was melting fast on the lofty inland ranges, and
sweet resinous scents rose from the stacks of cedar where the sunshine
struck hot upon them. A cloud of smoke streamed across the long sheds
and streaked the pines behind the mill with a dingy smear; and the
scream of saws and the crash of flung-out boards filled the clearing.
All this suggested profitable activity; and Aynsley’s satisfaction
deepened as he glanced at some letters which a clerk handed him. They
contained orders, and he foresaw that he would soon have to increase the
capacity of the mill. He was thinking over a scheme for doing so when
his father was shown in. Clay smiled at his surprise, and sat down in
the nearest chair, breathing heavily.

“Why don’t you locate on the ground-floor instead of making people walk
up those blamed awkward steps?” he asked.

“I can see better from here what’s going on,” Aynsley explained. “I find
it saves me a little money now and then.”

Clay beamed upon him.

“There was a time when I didn’t expect to hear you talk like that.
However, you have a pretty good mill-boss and secretary, haven’t you? Do
you think you could leave them to look after matters for a little
while?”

“I suppose I could,” Aynsley answered dubiously. “They know more about
the business than I do; but, for all that, I’d rather be on the spot.
Things seem to go wrong unless you look closely after them.”

“They do; you’re learning fast, my son. It looks as if the mill is
getting hold of you.”

Aynsley took a plan of some buildings from a drawer.

“What do you think of this?” he asked. “We could keep the new saws busy,
but the job would cost about twenty thousand dollars. Could you let me
have the money, or shall I go to the bank?”

Clay inspected the plan carefully.

“It’s a good scheme,” he declared. “If trade keeps steady, you’ll soon
get the cost back. I could lend you the money easily but perhaps you’d
better try the bank. You’ve got to stand by yourself sooner or later;
and it seems to me that you’re getting pretty steady on your feet. Guess
you’re not sorry now I made you work?”

Aynsley pondered the question. In some respects the business was not to
his taste, but in spite of this it was rapidly engrossing his attention.
There was a fascination in directing, planning for the future, and
bringing about results.

“No,” he said. “In fact, I’m getting a good deal more satisfaction out
of it than I expected.”

“That should help you in another matter. You won’t take your not getting
Osborne’s girl quite so hard.”

For a few moments Aynsley sat still with knitted brows. It was his habit
to be honest with himself, and he saw that to some extent his father was
right. He thought of Ruth with deep tenderness and regret, and he
believed that he would always do so, but the poignant sense of loss
which he had at first experienced had gone. He did not think that he was
fickle or disloyal to her, but his new interests had somehow dulled the
keenness of his pain.

“I suppose that’s true,” he answered quietly.

“Your real trouble will begin when you see her getting fond of another
man. What are you going to do about it then?”

Aynsley winced.

“It’s rather hard to speak about, but, if the fellow’s fit for her, I’ll
try to bear it and wish them well.”

“You’ll make good,” Clay commented with dry approval. “But I’ve been
getting off the track. You have been sticking to your work pretty
closely, and, as things are going, you can leave it without much risk. I
want you to take me North for a few weeks in the yacht. The doctor
recommends the trip.”

It struck Aynsley that his father was not looking well. He had lost his
high color, his face had grown pouchy under the eyes, and he had a
strained, nervous look. Aynsley had some business on hand which demanded
his personal attention, but he recognized his duty to his father. Then,
the North had its fascination, and the thought of another grapple with
gray seas, smothering fog, and biting gales appealed to him.

“Very well,” he said. “When do you want to go?”

“As soon as we can get away. Next week, if possible. You had better tell
the captain to get his crew and coal on board.”

Aynsley called his secretary, and when Clay left he had arranged to meet
him at Victoria in a fortnight.

The time was, however, extended; for on getting the yacht ready for sea
some repairs to rigging and engines were found needful, and these took
longer than the skipper expected. At last Clay received word that they
would be finished in a few days, and he paid a visit to Osborne.
Reaching the house in the evening, he sat talking with his host in the
library after dinner. A shaded lamp stood on a table laid out with wine
and cigars, but this was the only light and beyond its circle of
illumination the large room was shadowy. The floor was of polished wood,
but a fine rug stretched from near the table to the door, where heavy
portières hung. The men spoke in quiet, confidential voices as they
smoked.

“The Farquhar gang have separated, and I’ve lost track of them, but if
they can scrape up three or four hundred dollars between them I’ll be
surprised,” Clay said. “They’re going to have some trouble in fitting
out their boat; and she’s a very small thing, anyway. Though the delay
has worried me, we should get up there long before they do, and we only
need a few days of fine weather to finish the job.”

“There’s some risk in your taking the diver and Aynsley,” Osborne
cautioned. “You may have some difficulty in keeping both in the dark.”

“It oughtn’t to be hard. I take the owner’s berth with the small
sitting-room attached, and everything we bring up will go straight in
there—and I’ll keep the key. The diver’s business ends when he puts the
stuff on deck, and after it’s stowed nobody will touch it but myself.”

“Aynsley may want to see it, and ask questions.”

“Then he won’t be gratified. I have him pretty well drilled, and he
knows when to stop. Besides, I’ll find him useful. When anything needs
talking over, I’ll have him to consult with instead of a paid man. The
skipper’s more of a sailing-master. Aynsley takes command.”

“Still, you can’t keep everything from him,” Osborne persisted. “It
seems to me there are too many people who must, to some extent, be taken
into your confidence. That’s where Farquhar has the advantage. He has
only two partners, whom he can rely upon.”

“Shucks! You get to imagining trouble! Some of the gold is there all
right, and, if it’s needful, I can make a show with that. For all that,
I’d like a companion who knew as much as I did, and I feel a bit sore
because I have to go without. It’s your place to see me through, but
you’ve got so blamed fastidious lately.”

“I’m not going,” Osborne answered softly, for Clay had raised his voice.
“I’ve had enough to do with the wreck.”

Clay indicated the handsome room and its rich fittings with a wave of
his hand.