Chapter 10

"Always there,"--yes, Dan realized, as, with his head on the dank, fishy pillow, he looked up in the glory above him, the stars were always there. Blurred sometimes by earthly mists and vapors, lost in the dazzling gleam of jewelled lights, darkened by the shadows of crooked trees, they shone with pure, steadfast, guiding rays,--the stars that were always there. A witching little Will-o'-the-wisp had bewildered Dan into strange ways this evening; but he was back again in his own straight honest line beneath the stars.

On "The Polly," making her way over the starlit water to Killykinick, things were not so pleasant.

"It was a mean, dirty trick to give Dan away. I don't care who did it!" said big-hearted Jim, roused into spirit and speech.

"It wasn't I,--oh, indeed it wasn't I!" declared Freddy. "I told Tad Dan was the biggest, strongest, finest fellow in the whole bunch. I never said a word about his being a newsboy or a bootblack, though I don't think it hurts him a bit."

"And it doesn't," said Jim, whose blood had been a "true blue" stream before the Stars and Stripes began to wave. "But there are some folks that think so."

"Calling me fool, are you?" said Dud, fiercely.

"No, I didn't," retorted Jim. "But if the name fits you, take it. I don't object." And he turned away, with a flash in his eyes most unusual for Sunny Jim,--a flash that Dud did not venture to kindle into angry fire.

But, though the storm blew over, as such springtime storms will, Dan had learned a lesson, and felt that he never again wished to venture on the dizzy heights where wise heads turn and strong feet falter. Though Dud and Jim, who both had pocket money in plenty, made arrangements at the Boat Club for the use of a little motor boat several times a week, Dan held his own line as second mate at Killykinick, and was contented to share old Neb's voyaging. They went out often now; for, under the old sailor's guidance, Dan was becoming an expert fisherman. And soon the dingy boat, loaded with its silvery spoil, became known to camps and cottages along the other shores. Poor old Neb was too dull-witted for business; but customers far from markets watched eagerly for the merry blue-eyed boy who brought fish, "still kicking," for their early breakfast,--clams, chaps, and lobsters, whose freshness was beyond dispute. Neb's old leather wallet began to fill up as it had never been filled before. And the dinners that were served on the "Lady Jane," the broiled, the baked, the fried fish dished up in rich plenty every day, shook Brother Bart's allegiance to Irish stews, and, as he declared, "would make it aisy for a heretic to keep the Friday fast forever."

Then, Dan had the garden to dig and weed, the cow to milk, the chickens to feed,--altogether, the days were most busy and pleasant; and it was a happy, if tired, boy that tumbled at night into his hammock swung beneath the stars, while old Jeb and Neb smoked their pipes on the deck beside him.

Three letters had come from Aunt Winnie,--a Government boat brought weekly mail to the lighthouse on Numskull Nob. They were prim little letters, carefully margined and written, and spelled as the good Sisters had taught her in early youth. She took her pen in hand--so letters had always begun in Aunt Winnie's schooldays--to write him a few lines. She was in good health and hoped he was the same, though many were sick at the Home, and Mrs. McGraw (whom Dan recalled as the dozing lady of his visit) had died very sudden on Tuesday; but she had a priest at the last, and a Requiem Mass in the chapel, with the altar in black, and everything most beautiful. Poor Miss Flannery's cough was bad, and she wouldn't be long here, either; but, as the good Mother says, we are blessed in having a holy place where we can die in peace and quiet. And Aunt Winnie's own leg was bad still, but she thanked God she could get around a bit and help the others. And, though she might never see him again--for she would be turned on seventy next Thursday,--she prayed for her dear boy nights, and dreamed of him constant. And, begging God to bless him and keep him from harm, she was his affectionate aunt, Winnie Curley.'

The other letters were very much in the same tone: some other old lady was dying or failing fast; for, with all its twilight peace, Aunt Winnie was in a valley of the shadow, where the light of youth and hope and cheer that whistling, laughing Dan brought into Mulligans' attic could not shine.

"I've got to get her home," resolved Dan, who was keen enough to read this loss and longing between the old-fashioned neatly-written lines. "It's Pete Patterson and the meat shop for me in the fall and good-bye to St. Andrew's and 'pipe dreams' forever! Aunt Winnie has to come back, with her blue teapot on her own stove and Tabby purring at her feet again or--or" (Dan choked at the thought) "they'll be having a funeral Mass at the Little Sisters for her."

And Dan lay awake a long time that night looking at the stars, and stifling a dull pang in his young heart that the heights of which he had dreamed were not for him. But he was up betimes next morning, his own sturdy self again. Old Neb had a bad attack of rheumatism that made his usual early trip impossible.

"They will be looking for us," said Dan. "I promised those college girls camping at Shelter Cove to bring them fresh fish for breakfast."

"Let them catch for themselves!" growled old Neb, who was rubbing his stiffened arm with whale oil.

"Girls," said Dan in boyish scorn. "What do girls know about fishing? They squeal every time they get a bite. I'll take Freddy to watch the lines (Brother Bart isn't so scary about him now), and go myself."

XIX.--A MORNING VENTURE.

After some persuasion from Captain Jeb, who declared he could trust matey Dan's navigation now against any wind and tide, Brother Bart consented to Freddy's morning sail with his sturdy chum.

"Sure I know Dan loves laddie better than his own life," said the good old man anxiously, as he watched Neb's ragged sail flitting off with the two young fishermen. "But it's only a boy he is, after all."

"Mebby," said Captain Jeb, briefly. "But thar's boys wuth half a dozen good-sized men, and matey is that kind. You needn't scare about any little chap that ships with him. And what's to hurt him, anyhow, Padre? You've got to let all young critters try their legs and wings."

And Freddy was trying his triumphantly this morning. It was one of Dan's lucky days, and the lines were drawn in again and again, until the college girls' breakfast and many more silvery shiners were fluttering and gasping in old Neb's fish basket. Then Dan proceeded to deliver his wares at neighborly island shores, where summer campers were taking brief holidays. Some of these islands, more sheltered than Killykinick, were fringed with a thick growth of hardy evergreens, hollowed into coves and inlets, where the waves, broken in their wild, free sweep, lapped low-shelving shores and invited gentle adventure.

On one of these pleasant outposts was the college camp; and half a dozen pretty girl graduates, in "middies" and khaki skirts, came down to meet Dan. One of them led a big, tawny dog, who made a sudden break for the boat, nearly overturning Freddy in his leap, and crouching by Dan's side, whining and shivering.

"Oh, he's yours! We said he was yours!" went up the girlish chorus. "Then take him away, please. And don't let him come back; for he howled all night, and nearly set us crazy. Nellie Morris says dogs never howl that way unless somebody is dead or dying; and she left her mother sick, and is almost frantic. Please take him away, and don't ever bring him near us again!"

"But--but he isn't mine at all," replied Dan, staring at the big dog, who, shivering and wretched as he seemed, awoke some vague memory.

"Then whose is he?" asked a pretty spokesman, severely. "He could not have dropped from the clouds, and yours was the only boat that came here yesterday."

"Oh, I know,--I know, Dan!" broke in Freddy, eagerly. "He belongs to that big man who came with us on the steamboat. He had two dogs in leashes, and this is one of them, I know, because I saw his brown spot on his head when I gave him a cracker."

"Mr. Wirt?" Dan's vague memory leaped into vivid light: Mr. John Wirt's big, tawny dog indeed, who perhaps, with some dim dog-sense, remembered Freddy. "I do know him now," said Dan. "He belongs to a gentleman named Wirt--"

"Well, take him where he belongs," interrupted the young lady. "We don't care where it is. We simply can't have him howling here."

"Oh, take him, Dan!" said Freddy. "Let us take him home with us."

"Mr. Wirt must be around somewhere," reflected Dan. "He said perhaps he would come to Killykinick. We'll take him," he agreed cheerfully, as he handed out his basket of fish to the pretty, young campers. "And I think his master will come along to look him up."

And the boys started on their homeward way, with Rex (which was the name on their new companion's collar) seated between them, still restless and quivering, in spite of all Freddy's efforts to make friends.

"He wasn't this way on the boat," said Freddy as, after all his stroking and soothing, Rex only lifted his head and emitted a long, mournful howl. "I went down on the lower deck where the big man had left his dogs, and they played with me fine,--shook paws and wagged their tails and were real nice."

"I guess he knows he is lost and wants to get back to his master," said Dan. "Dogs have a lot of sense generally, so what took him over to that girls' camp puzzles me."

"He didn't like the girls,--did you, Rex?" asked Freddy, as he patted his new friend's nose. "My, he is a beauty,--isn't he, Dan? Just the kind of a dog I'd like to have; and, if nobody comes for him, he will be ours for keeps. Do you think Brother Andrew will let us have him out in the stable at St. Andrew's? Dick Walton kept his rabbits there--"

"Until a weasel came and gobbled them up," laughed Dan, as he steered away from a line of rocks that jutted out like sharp teeth from a low-lying, heavily wooded shore.

"They couldn't gobble Rex,--could they, old fellow!" said Freddy, with another friendly pat.

But, regardless of all these kindly overtures, Rex sprang to his feet, barked in wild excitement for a moment, made a plunge from the boat and struck out for shore.

"Oh, he's gone,--he's gone!" cried Freddy, desperately.

"Rex! Rex!" called Dan. "There's nothing or nobody there. Come back,--come back! Well, he must be a durned fool of a dog to be jumping off at every island he sees.--Rex! Rex!--He'll starve to death if we leave him here."

"Oh, he will,--he will!" said Freddy, wofully. "Come back, Rex, old fellow, nice dog,--come back!"

Freddy whistled and called in vain: Rex had vanished into the thick undergrowth.

"Oh, let's go for him,--let's go for him, Dan!" pleaded Freddy. "Maybe he is after a wild duck or something. We ought not to let a fine dog like that get lost and starve to death. One of the deck hands on the steamboat told me those dogs were worth a hundred dollars a piece, and that they had more sense than some humans."

"Well, he isn't showing it this morning, sure; and he didn't yesterday either," said Dan, gruffly. "He isn't the kind of dog to leave around here for any tramp to pick up, I'll agree; but how are we to haul him back, unless he chooses to come? And I know nothing about this shore, anyhow. Neb told me they called it Last Island, and there was once a light here that the old whalers could see fifty miles out--why, halloo!" Dan paused in his survey of the doubtful situation. "He's coming back!"

"Rex! Rex!" shouted Freddy, gleefully; for it was Rex indeed,--Rex coming through the dense low growth, in long leaps, with quick, sharp barks that were like calls; Rex plunging into the water and swimming with swift strokes to the waiting boat; but Rex refusing absolutely to be pulled aboard. He only splashed and shook himself, scattering a very geyser of salt water on the tugging boys, and barked louder and sharper still as if he were doing his best to talk.

"Jing!" exclaimed Dan, giving up all efforts to manage him. "I never saw such a durned chump of a dog! I'm wet to the skin."

"Oh, he wants something!" said softer-hearted Freddy. "He is trying to tell us something, Dan."

Rex barked again, as if he had heard the words; and, leaping on the edge of the boat, he caught Freddy's khaki sleeve.

"Lookout there, or he'll pull you overboard!" shouted Dan in fierce alarm, as Rex pulled still harder. "Golly! I believe he wants us to come ashore with him."

"Oh, he does,--he does!" said Freddy, eagerly. "He has hunted something down and wants us to get it, Dan. Let us see what it is."

It was a temptation that two live boys could not resist. Mooring Neb's old fishing boat to a sharp projecting rock, they proceeded to wade where it would have been impossible to navigate; Rex leaping before them, barking jubilantly now, as if he had won his point.

"You stand back, kid!" (Through all the excitement of a discoverer, Dan did not lose sight of his responsibilities.) "Let me go ahead, so if there is anything to hurt I'll strike it first. Straight behind in my steps, and lookout for suck-holes!"

And, with Rex leading, they proceeded Indian file over the narrow strip of sand that shelved to the sea, and then on through thicket and branches that hedged the shore in wild, luxuriant growth, until suddenly the ruins of the old lighthouse rose out of the tangle before them. The shaft that had upheld the beacon light was all gone save the iron framework, which rose bare and rusted above the little stone cabin that had sheltered the keeper of long ago, and that still stood amid crumbling stones and fallen timbers.

"Back, Freddy,--back!" shouted Dan, as something big and fierce bolted out of the ruins. "Why, it's the other dog!" he added in relief. "Mr. Wirt _must_ be somewhere around."

And, peering into the open door of the cabin, he stood dumb with dismay; for there indeed, stretched upon the rotten floor under the broken roof, was his friend of the steamboat. His gun was beside him, his head pillowed on his knapsack, his eyes closed, all his pride and strength and manly bearing gone; only the short, hard breathing showed that he was still alive.

"Golly!" gasped Freddy, who had crept in behind his chum. "Is--is he dead, Dan?"

"Not--not--yet, but he looks mighty close to it. Mr. Wirt--" he faltered, bending over the prostrate form; "Mr. Wirt!" he repeated louder. There was no answer. "I'm afraid he's gone," said Dan, in an awe-struck voice; and Freddy burst into boyish tears.

"What are you crying about?" asked Dan, gruffly.

"Oh, I don't know,--I don't know!" was the trembling answer. "I--I never saw anybody dead before. What--what do you think killed him, Dan?"

"Nothing. He isn't killed," replied Dan, who had been taking close observations. "He is still breathing. I guess he came here to hunt and got sick, and that's what the dog was trying to tell people. Gosh, it's a pity dogs like that can't talk!"

"Oh, it is,--it is!" murmured Freddy, putting his arm around Rex, who, his duty done, was seated on his hind legs, gravely surveying his master.

The sick man moved a little, and groaned feebly: "Water!" the word came faintly through parched lips. "Water,--a little--Water!"

Dan picked up a can that had evidently done duty before.

"Stay by him, Freddy, so he'll know there is something here. I'll go to get some water. They must have had a pump or well around a place like this,"

And while Dan discovered the broken, half-choked cistern at the back of the Old Light, Freddy watched the sick man. He had never before seen any one very sick, and it took some pluck to keep his post especially when Mr. Wirt suddenly opened his eyes and looked at him. It was such a strange, wild, questioning look that Freddy felt his heart nearly leap into his throat.

Then Dan came back with the can full of water, and together they did their best for their patient,--bathing his head, wetting his parched lips, laving the helpless hands that were burning with fever, until the bright, sunken eyes closed and the sick man sank into a fitful sleep.

"He is pretty badly off," said Dan, who had seen pain and sickness and death, and knew. "He ought to have a doctor right away, and it's for us to get one quick as we can. But it will be a good three hour's job; and" (Aunt Winnie's boy's voice softened) "I hate to leave the poor fellow here without any one to give him a drop of water, when he's burning up like this. But you can't sail the boat alone, kid."

"No, I can't," faltered Freddy,--"I can't sail the boat, Dan; but--but" (the young voice steadied bravely) "I can stay here with him."

"You can!" echoed Dan, staring at his little chum in amazement. "You'd scare to death, kid, here all alone with a dying man. He is likely to go off any minute."

"Maybe," faltered Freddy. "But--but I'd stay by him all the same, Dan. I can bathe his head and his hands, and give him water to drink, and say prayers like Brother Bart says we must when people are dying. O Dan, we can't leave him here to die alone!"

"No, we can't," said Dan, heartily. "I'd never think of asking a kid like you to stay. But, with the two dogs on the watch, there's nothing to fear. And you are doing the real right and plucky thing, for sure. I'll sail over to Killykinick and see if I can get Jim or Dud off for the nearest doctor, and be back here as quick as I can. And you, kid" (Dan's tone softened tenderly to his little chum), "don't scare more than you can help. Stick it out here as best you can."

Dan was off at the words, and for a moment Freddy felt his heart sink within him. He looked at the broken walls, the gaping roof, the dying man, and his blood chilled at the thought of the long hours before any one could return to him. Standing at the door of the Old Light, his eyes followed Dan's sturdy figure leaping swiftly through the bramble bush, and now he had reached the boat and put off.

Freddy was left indeed. He gulped down a big lump that rose in his throat, and, with the can of water Dan had freshly filled for him, took his seat at his patient's side. Rex came up and put a cold nose on his knee, and Freddy's watch began.

XX.--LITTLE BOY BLUE.

Mr. Wirt lay very still. Freddy never remembered seeing any one quite so still before. Even his breathing had grown quiet, and the rise and fall of the broad breast was the only sign of life in the otherwise motionless figure. All around him was very still, too. Freddy could hear the plash of the waves on the beach, the rustle of the wind through the dwarf trees, the whir of wings as some sea bird took its swift flight above the broken roof. But within there was a solemn hush, that to the small watcher seemed quite appalling.

Roy, as the other dog was named on his collar, dozed at his master's feet. Rex kept his place at Freddy's side, as if conscious of his responsibilities; and for a time that seemed quite interminable, all were silent. Freddy found himself studying the big man's pale face with fearsome interest. How very pale it was! And the rough growth of beard that hid mouth and chin made it seem paler still. But the nose was straight and smooth as Freddy's own. The silver-streaked hair fell in soft waves over a broad handsome brow. And there was a white scar on the left temple, that throbbed with the low breathing. Somehow, that scar held Freddy's eye. Surely he had seen a V shaped scar like it before, where or when he could not think; perhaps on one of the big football players at St. Andrew's.

"Ah, if good Brother Tim were only here now!" thought Freddy hopelessly, as the picture of the spotless stretch of infirmary arose before him. The rows of white beds so safe and soft; the kind old face bending over the fevered pillows; Old Top waving his friendly shadow in the sunlit window; the Angelus chiming from the great bell tower; the merry shouts of the ball players on the green below,--all these memories were in dire contrast indeed to the present scene.

If Dan would only come back! But he wouldn't--he couldn't--for hours. And maybe this big, strange man might die while he was gone,--die with only a little boy beside him,--a little boy to help him, to pray for him. Freddy's thoughts grew more and more solemn and awesome. People always prayed by dying beds, he knew. Oh, if Dan would only come with a doctor and perhaps a priest! For Freddy felt that big men who wandered around the world with dogs and guns were likely to need higher spiritual ministrations than a small boy could give. In the meanwhile he would do his best; and, drawing out his silver-mounted rosary, he began to say his beads.

And perhaps, as the young watcher had been an early riser this morning, he was nodding a little over his decades when a sudden movement of his patient roused him. Mr. Wirt was awake, his eyes fixed steadily on Freddy's face.

"Still here," he murmured,--"still here? Boy,--little boy! Are you real or a death dream?"

It was a startling question; but Freddy had learned something of fever vagaries during the measles, when even some of the Seniors had lost their heads.

"Oh, I'm real!" he answered cheerfully. "I'm a real boy all right. I'm Freddy Neville, from St. Andrew's College--"

"My God!" burst in a low cry from the pale lips.

"Yes," said Freddy. "It's time for you to say that,--to say your prayers, I mean; because--because--you're very sick, and when people are very sick, you know, they--sometimes they die."

"Die!" was the hoarse echo. "Aye, die as I have lived,--in darkness, despair! Lost--lost--lost!"

"Oh, no, no, no!" Boy as he was, Freddy felt his young heart thrill at the cry. "You're not lost yet. You're never lost while you live. You can always say an act of contrition, you know, and--and--" Freddy's voice faltered, for the role of spiritual adviser was a new one; but he had not gone through the big Catechism last year without learning a young Catholic Christian's obligations. "Would--would you like me to say an act of contrition for you?" he asked.

There was no answer save in the strange softening of the eyes fixed upon the boyish face. And, feeling that his patient was too far gone for speech, Freddy dropped on his knees, and in a sweet, trembling tone repeated the brief, blessed words of sorrow for sin, the plea for pardon, the promise of amendment. It had been a long, long time since those familiar words had fallen on his listener's ears; a longer time since they had reached his heart. For years he had believed nothing, hoped nothing, feared nothing. Life had been to him a dull blank, broken only by reckless adventure; death, the end of all. But for three days and nights he had lain helpless, fever-smitten, stricken down in all his proud strength in this wilderness, with no friends but his dogs, no home but the ruined hut into which he had crawled for shelter, no human aid within reach or call. The derelict, as he had called himself to Dan, had drifted on the rocks beyond hope and help, as derelicts must. And in those three days and nights he had realized that for him there was no light in sea or sky,--that all was darkness forever.

And then young voices had broken in upon the black silence; and, opening his eyes, closed on hideous fever dreams, he had seen Freddy,--Freddy, who was not a dream; Freddy, who was kneeling by his side, whispering sweet, forgotten words of peace and hope and pardon; Freddy--Freddy--he could not speak, there was such a stirring in the depths of his heart and soul. He could only stretch out his weak, trembling hand, that Freddy met with a warm, boyish grip.