Part 16

But the men were already crowding into the cabin with the hose; and, directing me to go on deck and watch the ship, he ordered the men to drag out on deck all half-consumed articles, as fast as they could handle them. Angry and jealous that this young prig should have proved himself the man of the hour, I obeyed him, and found the skipper and the young lady aft near the wheel, both conscious, but weak. I reported that the fire was out, thanks to the first mate and a fire extinguisher.

"Yes, it was in his room, ready for such an emergency," said the captain. "Josie, this is the second mate, Mr. Winters; my niece, Mr. Winters. She has been very seasick, so far, and has not shown herself. Do you know, Mr. Winters, I have hopes of our first officer. He is young, but efficient."

"Of course he is, sir," I answered hypocritically. "His education is a valuable asset."

"Oh, but it was not his education, in this case. Why, he went down in that stifling smoke, and rescued this little girl, just as she was fainting away; then he went on into the forward cabin, and hauled me out to safety. I honor that young man."

"Yes," said the girl. "I saw him, just as my senses were leaving me. He seemed a demigod, so big, and broad-shouldered, and fearless. I knew I was safe at that moment."

Before I could speak, Fred appeared, and I backed away. I knew that the matter was too trifling of itself to make a point of--to assert that I was the heroic individual that went down into the smoke; yet, when I looked on and listened, while that apology for a seaman responded politely to their thanks for saving their lives, I escaped the scene. I went forward of the house, where I soon met the steward.

"Look here, you animated frankfurter," I said, as I collared him. "Did you tell the skipper that the mate went down the after companion, and pulled him out?"

"Sure," he answered earnestly. "You're a mate, ain'dt it?"

"Get out," I rejoined, pushing him from me. "If it wasn't for the shame of it, I'd hit you. The 'mate' aboard ship is the first mate, always--not the second, or the third."

"But I will tell him, all right, sir," he said.

"Don't trouble yourself," I responded angrily. "Let the matter drop. The mate put the fire out, and that's all that's important."

So the matter dropped. It was my watch below from eight to twelve that night, and I slept well, in spite of my anger and chagrin. It was my watch on deck from twelve to four, and I stood it in the tranquil poise of mind that usually comes to men after a sleep. I forgave the poor, vain weakling, knowing that I was the stronger. But in my watch below, from four to half-past seven in the morning, I fought monsters and fled from the horrible _thing_, and awoke weak, shaken, and nerveless. I had never tasted whiskey in my life, but in my half-conscious condition there seemed to be the thought that I had tasted it--a thought which merged into the mental query as to whether it would not be better to stupefy myself, like drunkards, rather than endure such torture when asleep and helpless. Then came full awakening, and a return to my normal self.

As second mates eat at the second table, I went on deck and relieved Fred. He seemed anxious to avoid direct conversation with me, and after giving me the course and the happenings of the watch, hurried below. When he came up, at eight bells, he was more friendly.

"Stunning fine girl," he said. "Just able to make a pretense at breakfast, but she thinks I'm all right."

I mentally consigned him to the lower regions, and went to my breakfast; but there was no sign of the young lady.

The wind died away that morning, and I made sail. For the first time since sailing, the ship wore royals and skysails, sliding along with a quartering breeze over a sea that was just a little too heavy for seasick folk. Yet, about eleven, the girl came up, escorted by the skipper. And as I looked at the pale, pure, clean-cut little face and big, luminous eyes, I lost what philosophy my last nightmare had left me. I knew that from that moment this girl was to be everything to me. And I cursed the mock hero who had stolen my vantage. She went down soon, and the wind seemed to blow colder.

At seven bells, the sun being in sight, Fred was roused, to take meridian observations; and, as he stood in a patch of sunlight, I noticed that he wabbled unsteadily, and that his eyes were sunken and glassy. But I thought nothing of this until eight bells, when the skipper informed me that, on overhauling the burned-out storeroom, he had found a small keg of whiskey missing. As the men had assisted in putting out the fire, he thought it advisable to have an overhaul of the two forecastles, as whiskey in bulk was an unwise stimulant for sailors at sea. So, while he and Fred were at dinner, I searched the crew's quarters, but found nothing. In fact, remembering those glassy eyes, I did not expect to. I so reported to the skipper, and when I had finished my dinner I made a quick, unofficial, yet thorough, inspection of Fred's room, and found nothing there. But I made no report of this. He had hidden it.

From this on, Fred's condition was apparent to anyone who cared to observe. I so cared, but do not think that the skipper did. He talked with him, counseled him, and tutored him, glad, evidently, to be in a position to aid so promising a young man.

Fred received it all with sodden gravity, too drunk to question, yet sober enough to listen. I would have taken him in hand, bullied and coerced him into giving up that store of whiskey, had I not been maddened by jealousy and the sight of the girl's eyes, never resting upon me, but following Fred about the deck, with the adoring gaze of devotee. He was an exceptionally handsome youngster; and, to her, I suppose, was a demigod, who had heroically saved her life, while I was a person to be tolerated because necessary.

"Well," I said, between my teeth, "let him work out his own salvation--or damnation."

He worked out the latter. In the lower berth in my room, just across the passage from Fred's, was a living, wheezing, half-alive dead man--the disabled second mate, whose place I was filling. At first, he had glared unspeakable hatred at me, but as I had responded with a few kindly acts born of pity, this look left his eyes, and gave way to inquiry and interest. He could not speak, and could barely breathe, but about this time seemed anxious to say something to me. Every day he tried, and at last, somewhat distressed at his painful efforts, I advised him to wait until he could talk, and not bother me like this. So he stopped his efforts, and, as I had not thought to give him paper and pencil, his message was deferred until too late. But in every watch below I saw the _thing_.

We soon picked up the trade wind, and under the influence of mild blue skies, racing white clouds, and warm weather, the young niece of the captain recovered her health and spirits. There was color in her cheeks and light in her eyes that bespoke a happy disposition; but she seldom noticed me--in fact, she spoke to the man at the wheel much oftener, and I could only grit my teeth, keep my clothing as neat as possible, and study navigation in my watch below.

As I progressed, I was surprised to find how easy it was, and soon I felt competent, if need arose, to take chronometer sights, lay out a traverse, and keep the log.

As for Fred, he steadily grew worse. Not even the influence of that beautiful little girl could keep him from tapping his secret store; and soon his condition became such as to attract the skipper's attention.

Fred tumbled down the poop stairs one dog-watch, when all hands were on deck, and in going forward to execute some task, zigzagged back and forth.

"Mr. Winters," said the captain to me, "is that young man drunk?"

"I don't know, sir," I answered, resolved not to have a hand in his undoing.

"My whiskey never was found. Do you think that he has secreted it?"

"Oh, uncle!" said the girl, who had listened. "What are you thinking of? He is a perfect gentleman; he could not be a drunkard."

The captain still looked at me, waiting for my answer. I was half resolved to give it truthfully, when a commotion forward forestalled it. "Git aft where ye b'long, you drunken son of a boardin' master," shouted an Irishman of the crew, "an' sind the second mate, if you want things done shipshape."

He had Fred by the collar, and was marching him ahead at the end of his extended arm. With a final shove, and a kick, he sent Fred from him, and went forward.

Fred fell in a heap; then arose, and, with a solemn scowl on his face, climbed the steps, and joined us at the wheel. The girl looked at him wonderingly, the skipper disdainfully. Fred's eyes were bleary, and his walk unsteady; he had assisted his progress aft by leaning on the rail.

"Go down to your room, sir," said the captain sternly, "and remain there. You are drunk. Get yourself out of sight of my crew."

"Yeth, thir," lisped Fred, stumbling forward along the alley to the steps, down which he floundered.

"I will stand his watch, Mr. Winters," said the captain to me. "Go below, if you like, Josie; go down, and forget your interest in that young wretch. I am disappointed in him, and am through with him."

When I saw the look on the girl's face, I was glad that I had not denounced him. I have seen that look in the face of a mother at the coffin of her child.

I went to my room, and saw through Fred's open door that he had climbed into his berth, and was already asleep. I still had an hour of my watch below, and to steady my mind got out the "Epitome" and a pad of paper, to figure out a few problems in navigation. And now my sick roommate made a sound; his speech was returning, though it was not yet articulate. Yet he made me understand by his grimaces and gestures that he wanted the pad of paper. I understood at last, and gave him both pad and pencil. He wrote, and I read, as follows:

"On the night of the fire he filled the empty fire extinguisher with whiskey from a keg, and has tippled ever since."

I nodded my understanding of his message; and, going over to Fred's room, lifted the fire extinguisher off its hook, and shook it. It was empty. I hung it up, and went back.

"He's used it up," I said, to the dumb brute, who, caught foul in a wrestling trick beyond his comprehension, hated his enemy more than I did. He smiled and closed his eyes. He felt, no doubt, that his revenge was nearly due.

I had the deck during the first watch that night, and heard no sounds from below. No doubt, Fred slept soundly. At midnight, I called the skipper, and went down. Fred was quiet, and my roommate asleep, so I turned in, hoping for a few hours of sleep. But it was denied me. I wakened in an hour, frenzied with fear of the _thing_ that was pursuing me, and as consciousness came to me I heard Fred's mutterings. Then I saw him, through the opened doors, rise from his berth, and approach the empty fire extinguisher. He lifted the empty flask, put the tube to his lips, then hung it up, and crept into his berth. His mutterings became words, his words oaths and maledictions, which soon took on the nature of screams and shrieks. I turned out, and examined him. He was sitting up, waving his hands toward the fire extinguisher, hanging on its hook near the door.

"What ails you?" I demanded. "What do you see now?"

"Oh, Jim, Jim!" he gasped. "Drive it away! See it! There on the bed!"

I grasped an imaginary dragon at his feet, and flung it out.

"There, it's gone," I said soothingly. "All right, now?"

His answer was a scream.

"But that--that--_that_!" he choked. "That thing without legs, or eyes, or mouth. There--there! See it! Take it away!" He was looking at the fire extinguisher.

It was a cylindrical tube about two feet long and six inches in diameter. I looked at it, and suddenly there came to my mind the physical resemblance to the weird and uncanny _thing_ that had tormented me in my dreams. Not knowing that I was right, yet obeying a sympathetic impulse, born of my own dream terrors, I took the innocent cylinder off its hook, and said: "I will throw it overboard, and drown it. It will never come back."

Then I went on deck, and tossed it over. It must have filled before long through its rubber tube, and gone to the bottom. Going back, with a faint hope that I had solved Fred's problem and my own, I found him a raving maniac, screaming and shouting for whiskey.

By this time, the skipper and his niece were aroused, and they appeared in the passage between the rooms. Ignoring them for the moment, I endeavored to soothe the demented creature in his berth. To no avail. Springing out, with twitching features and convulsive movements of arms and legs, he upbraided me for throwing overboard the whiskey. I told him that it was all gone, and that I had simply thrown away the _thing_. He would not accept. Shrieking his maledictions upon me, he bounded through the door, reached the deck, and led us in pursuit up the poop steps to the alley. Along this he raced, gained the taffrail, and before the surprised man at the wheel could make a move to stop him, he had sprung overboard.

We backed the mainyards, lowered a boat, and searched for two hours before giving him up. He had gone to find the demon that had cursed him--the cylindrical thing of two-feet-and-six-inch dimensions.

* * * * *

I am an old man now, old and content in the love and companionship of a sweet-faced little woman, who, thanks to the testimony of the German steward, came to me before the end of the passage.

Since the death of Fred, I have never dreamed of monsters and cylindrical _things_. But in later years I have studied deeply of psychology and the occult. And these problems remain unsolved. Did I, who dreamed of monsters before Fred was born, obsess him and drive him to the drink that killed him?

Or did Fred, after he had begun drinking, obsess me with the dream vision of the _thing_, which found physical manifestation in an innocent fire extinguisher in which he kept the whiskey?

THE VOICES

The new boy sat, quiet, shy, and abashed, in the seat given him that morning by the principal. His seat mate was a stranger to him, and, being well up in front, right under the desk of the principal, there had been no communication between them. During the morning recess he had made no friends, standing close against the fence that divided the boys from the girls, timidly watching the rough games of the others; and at noon he had run to the new home to which his parents had taken him, with boyish disapproval of the school and the pupils. But now, at three o'clock of this Friday afternoon, he was compelled to change his opinion. The weekly exercises had begun, and, as his last school held no such entertainment, he was intensely interested.

A girl of sixteen played a very pretty march on the piano, and moderate applause was permitted. A boy delivered "Bingen on the Rhine," and received no applause whatever; but the next boy won a little compulsory approval, led by the principal, for declaiming the Declaration of Independence. Then followed more recitation, music, and essay reading, lukewarmly received; but when the principal rose and said, "And last, we shall have a song by Zenie Malcolm," a suppressed commotion went through the school, and each boy sat straighter.

The new boy started, and an unknown thrill surged from heart to brain. He seemed to know that name, but could not recall where he had heard it. The girl called to sing approached from the rear of the school, and he was too well versed in school-room etiquette to turn and look; but when she came into view, crossing the space between the front desks and the low stage, he rose half out of his seat, his eyes wide open, and the delicious thrill of recognition again tingling through him. He had known her; but where, and when? He could not remember, and sat down under the principal's disapproving frown, staring hard at the girl at the piano.

She was about his age--eleven--a rather pretty child, with dark blue eyes, and a wealth of golden hair, confined only by a ribbon, and hanging loosely down her back. And she sang, in a sweet, trembling voice, a lullaby the music of which the boy seemed to know--that is, he anticipated the coming notes of the tune before they left her lips--but he could not recall where or when he had heard it. She went to her seat at the end of it, applauded by the whole school, and unaware of the silent worship of the new boy. All his life he had imagined the angels as having hair of this hue; but he had never seen it on a human being. Dark blue eyes he was familiar with; his mother had them--and the angels, too.

That night he hummed the tune to his mother; but she had never heard it, and with motherly intuition advised him not to think of girls at his age, and to attend to his studies. The boy racked his brains for a few days, trying to remember where he had seen this girl and heard this song, then gave it up. Later, with a larger acquaintance among the pupils, he learned that her parents had moved from a neighboring town only a month prior to his advent in the school. Coincidence was a large word to him at his age, and meant nothing; so he remembered his emotions at first seeing her.

But the strenuous life of a healthy schoolboy is such as to preclude investigation of mental phenomena. He made friends and joined the games of the others. From being shy and embarrassed, he grew to be confident and plucky. He had his fights and won his victories; but never at a time when his small goddess could witness--she was always somewhere else, and other girls applauded his prowess. But she must have learned from these other girls; nothing else could explain the shy little smile she gave him as he came into school one day, both eyes blackened and his coat torn almost in half. She had never even looked him in the eyes before, and he went forward at the stern call of the principal with a glorified joy in his soul that carried him triumphantly through the pain of his punishment.

With his enterprise in playground friction came an enterprise in study. He easily distanced the rest, winning prizes and standing near the head in all classes. With his advancement came a change of seat, and he found himself near her; in a position where, by a slight turning of his head, he could catch a glimpse of the pure, clean-cut little face in its gold-hued framing. But she never returned these glances. He never dared hope that she would; so he never tried to make her acquaintance.

After school he would follow her, at a distance of half a block, until she entered her gateway, and then return to the boys. She lived in a large, well appointed house among others equally well appointed, and, satisfied that her parents were very wealthy, he gave her the additional prestige that riches always carry in the minds of children. He worshiped her more while actually seeking her less. Yet he could not bear too long an absence from her vicinity. He would play truant occasionally, with other boys; but invariably he would be dragged by a longing and a hunger to be near her that was irresistible; and against the derision of his fellows--which he would silence when he met them again--he would shamefacedly sneak into school, bear his punishment for being tardy, and cheerfully make up his studies, satisfied with the one glimpse he could get as he passed her on the way to his seat.

There came a severe winter and an epidemic of sickness among the children of the town; but this school escaped except for these two. She was first to succumb, and for two weeks her place was vacant--two weeks of utter wretchedness and misery for the boy, during which he could not study, nor recite, nor even remember on call the lessons he had learned. He could feel and suffer to the utmost; but, unformed, untrained, unschooled in tact, diplomacy, or any of the amenities of adult life, he could not even arouse himself to ask of her, or to take his mother into his confidence and obtain the relief of knowing the worst. It was not that his emotions took the form of anxiety so much as they crystallized into a sense of loss--a sense of something taken from him, that he could neither find nor name. One morning he saw her in her seat, pale and wan and thin, and the sense of loss left him. He was content now that she was near him, and fretted no more, even suppressing a curiosity as to the nature of her sickness.

Then came his turn; two weeks in bed, fevered and delirious at times, thinking of her in lucid moments, talking of her to a puzzled mother when the delirium gripped him, and surviving at last through careful nursing, to return to his seat in school as pale and thin as was the girl. One glance he took, and his content came back. She paid him no attention, not even joining the others in the friendly looks of welcome he received, and he took up his studies at the foot of all the classes--with his divinity just above him.

"It is rather funny," commented one class teacher, with a smile, "that the two best scholars are at the foot. Johnny Bridge went behind when Zenie Malcolm was sick, and Zenie Malcolm went behind when Johnny Bridge was sick. You two must study and catch up."

He felt a curious elation, but did not look at her; so he did not notice that her cheeks were flaming red.

And now there came to him a real, or at least a tangible, sense of loss. A small sister, his pet, whose dolls he had mended and whose tears he had dried, fell heir to the sickness that he had survived, and he followed her little body to the grave. His grief was normal, untortured by boyish remorse, and lasted long enough to serve as buffer to a deeper grief that followed. The mother who had nursed him so lovingly followed the sister. He shed no tears now, only his strained look of dumb and helpless pain indicated that he suffered. He could not analyze his emotions--could not think, much less question the decree of Fate that had robbed him of something he was accustomed to, something he needed. But, as he took his seat at school on the day following the funeral, he found an immediate cessation of pain that he ascribed to her silent sympathy. He knew she sympathized--he had seen her at the crowded doorway of the house when they were taking his mother out--and the cheer and the charm of his daily proximity to her soon wore out the grief, and in another year he was again a lively boy, light-hearted, studious, and combative, following his divinity home each day, and still worshiping at a distance.

But the Fates had not yet presented the whole of his problem. She was not in her seat one morning, and he spent a futile day, wondering and longing, then went near her house after school hours. A boy passed, and said:

"Zenie Malcolm's dead. Come on up to the ball ground!"

He did not go. The sky had grown suddenly darker, and the summer air was cold. He walked nearer her home than he had ever gone before, and there on the doorknob was a black and white drapery, such as they had hung out for his sister.

"Dead!" he said to himself, and repeated the word again and again; but he could not understand. He wandered the streets alone, trying to realize, to accept; but he could not adjust himself to this. Why should she be dead? He knew his mother was dead, and his sister; but this could not be! His consciousness refused it. His mental horizon was close to him, and crowded. This thing could not find entrance.