Part 14

Morton took three, while Sam contented himself with one.

The Englishman tossed a chip into the center of the blanket, the boatman two.

"Er--what should I do now?" inquired the prisoner listlessly.

"Quit, call, or raise--anything you please."

"To call is--er--to equal the amount of your stake?"

"You've got the idea."

Morton added a chip to the pot and laid a pair of eights on the blanket. The boatman displayed tens up and nonchalantly raked four chips toward himself.

"Your deal," he said, tossing the cards across.

Rosalind frowned as she stared at the Englishman.

"I am afraid he is a fool, after all," she thought. "Why didn't he--"

The Englishman was dealing abstractedly. He had to be reminded to look at his own hand.

Sam drew three cards, Morton three. This time three of the Englishman's chips crossed the blanket to the other side. He showed not even a pair.

"It's plain robbery," whispered Rosalind to herself. "The man doesn't know the first thing about poker. Can they really be serious?"

A second look at the boatman's pistol reminded her that they probably were.

For five minutes the game progressed. Twice, by an accident of fate, the Englishman gathered the pot, but for the most part his own pile was receding chip by chip. Even in his winning moments he seemed bored almost to the point of somnolence. The boatman alternately grinned and whistled.

"I'll just tap you for what you've got," Sam said after examining his final draw. "Two checks, I believe."

"This is a deuced stupid game, you know," remarked Morton as he pushed the last of his stack to the center.

"Doesn't strike you quite so favorably as bridge, eh?"

"Rather--not."

"Do you happen to have anything as good as three of a kind?"

Morton looked down at his cards as if he had just discovered them.

"Er--what would you make of them?" he asked, displaying them.

Rosalind gasped. She could see the hand from where she stood. It contained not even a pair!

"I'd make a resolution to quit," advised the boatman as he took the last of the chips. "This freezes you."

"Can't say I think much of your American game," and Morton yawned again prodigiously. "Ah--how much?"

"You've lost ten thousand, my friend."

"Really, now?"

"Honest and truly."

The boatman's hand crept toward his revolver. With a listless shrug Morton began feeling in an inner pocket. Presently he drew forth a wallet.

"The idiot!" fumed Rosalind. "He's been swindled!"

A moment's search within the folds of the leather resulted in the appearance of an oblong slip of paper. Glancing casually at it, Morton handed it to the boatman. The latter examined it closely, then looked up with a smile.

"I--er--think you'll find it good," drawled Morton.

"I'll take a chance," said Sam as he thrust the paper into the pocket of his shirt. "Mighty nice of you to carry this around with you. But let me give you a chunk of advice. Next time you trim a guy at bridge, either keep your mouth shut about it or don't carry the stuff around with you. You are liable to tempt some of us poker kings."

"Ah--thanks, by Jove! Not a bad idea, that. You'll not be wanting me now, I take it?"

"School's out."

The boatman rose to his feet.

The placidity of Morton was undisturbed as he stood and flecked a few patches of dust from his trousers.

"I'll be going, if you don't mind," he remarked. "My boat's at the other end of the island."

Although the affair was none of hers, Rosalind found herself angry. If there was one thing that annoyed her beyond endurance, it was sheer stupidity. She believed she had just witnessed the apotheosis of it.

Yet something struck her oddly as the Englishman turned and walked away. She was quite sure that she heard him chuckle. The boatman must have heard the same thing, for he stared after Morton curiously.

"A bad check, I'll wager," whispered Rosalind to herself. "But where was the sense in the whole affair, anyhow? Never mind; it's not my business. But I want my bracelet."

She stepped from her concealment, and an instant later the boatman turned at the sound of her footsteps.

"Hello!" he said cordially. "You just missed the performance."

"My bracelet, please," was Rosalind's only remark.

"Why, I'd clean forgotten it, ma'am."

"You haven't--lost it?"

"No fear; it's safe."

He turned and entered the cabin, appearing a moment later with the golden circlet lying in his palm. Rosalind seized it with more joy than dignity. The touch of it, as she snapped it about her arm, was exhilarating. Her eyes shone with the light of triumph.

The boatman watched the expressive pantomime with evident approval.

"You're rather lucky to get it, in a way," he said. "I've just been taking a chance at freeze-out, and if I'd lost I guess it would have been up to me to fork over the bracelet as part payment."

Rosalind made no pretense of being startled at the idea. She knew he was capable of no such infamy, no matter what he might be.

"I saw what happened," she remarked.

"Oh, did you?"

"I saw you steal ten thousand dollars."

The boatman studied her quizzically.

"And never made a move to stop me," he commented.

She winced, but decided to ignore the implication.

"I didn't steal it, ma'am," he added. "Poker's a perfectly fair game. I didn't stack the cards; I didn't shove a cold deck at him."

"Fair! When he didn't know the first principles of it?"

"He certainly didn't play as if he did," admitted Sam. "But if he didn't know poker, he had no business to sit in the game."

"Not with a gun at his head?"

"Hum! I'd forgotten the gun. I suppose that did have something to do with it. It wasn't loaded, though."

"It was no better than stealing. It _was_ stealing."

"Funny thing about it," mused the boatman, as if he did not hear her, "but he didn't seem to care much, one way or the other. Why, he yawned in my face, ma'am."

The creature baffled her completely.

"Have you no compunctions whatever about the manner in which you took his money?" she asked curiously.

"Compunctions--about him? I'm afraid not. He stole it in the first place, didn't he?"

"He won it--fairly!" exclaimed Rosalind. "You knew he had it, and you've been plotting and planning to get it for days and days."

"Maybe," he admitted.

"I hope the check he gave you is bad," she added viciously.

"That would be a horse on me; wouldn't it, ma'am? But that's a chance that folks like you and me have to run. Still, I heard he stole it, or what amounts to the same thing."

"I tell you he didn't!"

"You seem mighty sure about that. How do you know, ma'am?"

"Because Mr. Kellogg told me so."

"Kellogg?"

"Yes; he's here."

The boatman eyed her for several seconds.

"He is staying at Mr. Witherbee's," she added.

Of course, Rosalind knew that this was a fib; but somebody who called himself Kellogg was staying there, at any rate, and she saw no need of explaining to Sam.

"So Kellogg's here, is he?" he remarked. "I suppose he came back to have another try at the Englishman. That'll be hard luck for Kellogg, because I think his lordship is about cleaned, ma'am."

"He came for no such purpose," declared Rosalind, half wondering why she was hastening to the defense of an impostor. "Mr. Kellogg has--reformed."

"Reformed? Was he-- Hum! Well--was he one of us?"

Rosalind's cheeks flamed.

"He was a good-for-nothing idle gambler!" she explained.

"Oh!" said the boatman in a relieved tone. "He's turned over a new leaf, eh?"

"He's very much engrossed in his new work.

"What's he doing here, then?"

"His uncle sent for him."

Again the boatman appeared to reflect.

"What for?" he asked.

"To look after his island while he is away. Mr. Davidson has gone to Denver. And Mr. Kellogg is going to try to put an end to all these burglaries. So there's a warning for you."

He pondered the warning and wrinkled his forehead.

"Customs officers still hanging around?" he asked.

"I am told they are."

"And that Canadian spy-chaser--is he still on the job?"

"I saw the launch again yesterday."

"Is Davidson's police patrol cruising, too?"

"Of course. And they've put on another boat."

Rosalind noted with satisfaction that he was showing traces of worriment.

"I expect that's going to make things pretty warm," he observed.

"Dangerous!" she supplemented.

"You'd advise flitting, then, ma'am?"

"Beyond all question. And--well, it's only because of the bracelet that I give you this warning."

"It's certainly kind of you--mighty kind."

Rosalind felt that the sword no longer dangled over her head by a single hair.

"You're a good, square pal to tip me off," he went on. "I guess you're dead right about it. The jig's up for us.

"Yes, ma'am. We'd better blow."

"_We!_"

"We'll be starting in a few minutes. It never pays to stick around after the last hand's played."

Rosalind was tongue-tied with astonishment.

*CHAPTER XX*

*"GOOD WORK, PAL!"*

"You see," Sam went on, seemingly unaware of her consternation, "it's foolish to take any more chances than are absolutely necessary. Now that we've got a fairly good stake, it would be silly to wait. We'll run over to the American side somewhere, and once we get ashore there's small chance of getting pinched."

"Are you utterly mad?" asked Rosalind, abruptly finding her voice.

"Mad? I should say not, ma'am. Just cautious--that's all. I'd be mad if I stayed."

"But you are saying that I--"

"That you are going with me. Certainly. Why not?"

Rosalind was not frightened, yet something in his tone chilled her. She examined his face with searching eyes. He seemed to be quite composed; there was no trace of wildness in his eyes, no betrayal of mental agitation in his speech. Were it not for his astounding words, she would have considered him entirely normal. She decided to laugh, but the attempt was poor. His was infinitely more successful.

"It may be a little sudden, ma'am," he admitted; "but it seems a case for quick action. I'm sorry we won't even be able to stop at Witherbee's for your trunks."

She decided to try a reasonable tone.

"Think what you are saying," she advised, controlling her voice. "It is quite impossible--this thing you propose. But, of course, you're not serious."

"Never more serious in my life."

The look in his eyes gave her a twinge of alarm.

"But don't you see--Sam--"

"That's the first time you've called me by name," he interrupted with a bow. "Thanks, partner."

"But don't you see there is no reason whatever for me to go."

Rosalind was trying to talk to him as if he were a petulant child to be placated, or a lunatic to be argued with until help arrived.

"There's every reason," he answered. "Pals should stick together."

"But you know--seriously--that I am not your--pal!"

The vulgar word passed her lips reluctantly.

"But you are, ma'am; the best I ever had. I guess I could name a dozen instances of it. Want me to go over them? First, there's--"

"You need not. It's too absurd. I shall go at once."

"Not till I go," he told her firmly. "As I was going to say when you interrupted me, ma'am, we'll make a break for the American shore, and as soon as we can get a license and a justice of the peace or minister, why--"

"Stop!"

"We'll get married."

Rosalind turned pale. Truly she was dealing with a madman on this lonely little island!

"Married!"

"Why, certainly! What else? You don't suppose I'm going to lose a pal like you?"

The boatman was so calm that his manner utterly disconcerted her. A rational exterior, she reflected, often cloaked the most dangerous forms of insanity.

"But I have no intention of marrying--anybody."

"That's been the trouble all along," he assured her. "You've had so many offers that you don't take them seriously any longer. But this is different. This isn't an offer, ma'am; it's just a plain announcement of what's going to happen. We're going to be married."

She glanced swiftly through the trees in the direction of the river. There was not a boat within hailing distance.

"It's this way," he went on easily. "You've helped me out of a few tight places. I've helped you once, at least. We're a great team, and there's nothing like teamwork in our business. I don't mind saying I'm strong for you. You have got good nerve; when you make up your mind to anything, you're apt to get it.

"You and I can go a long way together. I'll admit we may quarrel some, but that'll be your fault. You've got a hair-trigger tongue, ma'am. But I won't mind that; I'm getting used to it. The point is, when we get working together we're able to deliver the goods.

"You wouldn't expect me to lose a good pal, would you? Of course not. And I can't see myself doing it, either. It's true that the jig is up here. But it's a wide, wide world, pal. Shall we be going?"

"Do you suppose for one instant," said Rosalind, trying to hide the real terror in her voice, "that I am going to marry--_you_?"

"I'm sure of it," he said confidently. "Why not, ma'am? We won't starve--and I say that without the least idea of tapping your bank-roll. You can keep it soaked away, if you want to. I've got a nice little stake now." He touched the pocket where Morton's check reposed.

"That'll last us a good while," he continued, "and it's a sure thing we'll turn off some kind of a job before that's gone. Why, just think! With my experience and your social drag--"

"Stop!"

There was absolute desperation in her voice.

"Not much time to lose," he advised, glancing at a nickeled watch. "No telling but that Englishman'll be stirring up some sort of trouble for us."

Wrath triumphed at last despite Rosalind's efforts to be self-contained.

"You common thief!" she cried, stamping her foot and glaring. "How dare you insult me so? You burglar! You blackmailer! You--"

"Spy and smuggler," he supplied. "May as well get the whole list out of your system, ma'am. I don't mind; I keep my temper better than you do.

"But don't forget that I'm talking facts, while you're just barking at the moon. I hate to disappoint you, in one way; but your scalping days are over, ma'am. You've had your last proposal. I don't doubt you've turned down a lot of pretty good scouts, but you won't turn down any more. That's a cinch, as far as I can see now.

"You had your last proposal--unless there's been one since--when the Englishman got so enthusiastic over you. I heard it, you know. You threw him rather hard. You did the same for Reggy, less than half an hour before. And I understand there's been a long string of them. Well, you're at the end of the string."

He grinned complacently.

"You needn't shout," he added. "You're not getting a chance to turn me down. This is no proposal, ma'am. This is what you might call an order, if I have to speak plain. It don't require any answer. It's not up to you to say yes or no; all you have to do is to come along like a good pal."

Rosalind shrank backward a step. At last she was genuinely frightened, for Sam possessed all the calm of a terrible madness.

"What a fool I'd be to let you go!" he added reflectively. "And--not to flatter myself--what a fool you'd be to miss a chance like this! We've just got to know each other's ways; we're like wheels in the same clock. I need you; you need me.

"I'll admit you don't have to earn your living. But think of the fun you miss when you don't! It gets mighty tiresome, standing on the outside and looking in. What you and I need, ma'am, is excitement--plenty of action--something to keep us on edge.

"You're what I call an emergency pal. You don't really begin to get good until you're in a scrape. It takes trouble to start you going. But when you do get started--if you don't mind my saying it, ma'am--you go to it like the cat to the canary."

She scarcely heard his last words; her mind was intent on seeking some avenue of escape. Tentatively, she edged toward the path that led to the boat-landing. But the boatman understood and shook his head.

"When we go, we go together," he assured her. "That dress you're wearing looks all right. Whatever you need in the line of clothes we can get when we hit the mainland.

"As far as I'm concerned, all I have to do is to put on my hat. And that's down in the boat, I think; if it isn't, it doesn't matter. We'll start, I guess."

He turned toward the path and beckoned.

"I refuse to stir a foot!" exclaimed Rosalind.

She compressed her lips.

"That means carrying you, then, ma'am."

"You dare not touch me!"

"I hate to, but I'll have to, if you're not willing to walk."

"I will not go! It's--it's insanity!"

The boatman shrugged and advanced toward her.

She retreated a pace.

"If you dare--"

"Will you walk, then?"

"I'll find someway--"

"Once and for all, will you walk?"

She searched his eyes for some trace of insincerity or weakness, but found none. A shudder of fear shook her. Then she rallied herself angrily.

"I shall walk," she said coldly.

He nodded contentedly and led the way toward the landing. Rosalind followed mechanically, but her brain was afire with activity. Beyond doubt, the boatman had become insane; if, indeed, he had not been so from the first.

But she realized that at times it was needful to humor an unbalanced mind. For the present, she would accompany him; but surely there would be an opportunity to escape. If she could obtain no aid from a passing boat, at least there would be ample help when they reached the mainland.

"We'll take the old _Fifty-Fifty_," he remarked as he loosed the painter. "It's better than rowing. And if anything goes wrong, why, you're here to fix it. By the way, what do you want me to call you, ma'am, Rosie?"

She glared at him.

"No? Rosalind, maybe? It's a little long; but it'll do, I suppose. It's shorter than saying Miss Chalmers, anyhow. But it's not as short as pal. I rather like that, myself. But you seem to be touchy about it."

Rosalind stepped aboard the launch without answering.

She prayed that the engine might not start; but the prayer was unanswered, for it purred happily at the first turn of the fly-wheel. The launch backed out into the stream. An instant later it described a half-circle, then started eastward.

"We'll hit the trail for Ogdensburg," said the boatman. "Plenty of preachers there."

"Are you aware of the fact," remarked Rosalind, with a sudden smile of triumph, "that before you drag me to a preacher you must drag me to some town clerk or other person and obtain a license?"

To her annoyance, he appeared neither surprised nor dismayed.

"It's just another step in the journey," he said carelessly. "I'll admit that this license game is sometimes a spoil-sport on romance. But you haven't got me there. You'll agree! You'll step right up to the captain's office and take your little oath without saying a word. A good pal never welches."

"I shall most certainly turn you over to the police at the first opportunity."

"No," he said confidently, with a shake of his head; "you won't do anything of the kind. Why, ma'am, you're the pal who keeps me out of the hands of the police! You're an expert at it. I'm proud of you.

"You see, if one of us got pinched, the other would have to go along, too; I'm strong for sticking together. You understand--for better or for worse, ma'am. I think that's the way they say it.

"And if they should happen to pinch you, it would be real embarrassing, I expect. They'd start finding things out, maybe; all about lots of things that have happened to you and me. My, but that would be a piece for the papers! Head-lines and pictures and artists drawing little sketches of Rosalind, the 'Regal Lady,' sitting in a tree and burgling a house and bossing a gas-engine and--"

"Stop!"

"Oh, all right; I'll stop! I expected you to get the idea. You're not much of a hand for getting laughed at, I notice. And folks might laugh if they read the papers. You've got a kind of a long name for a big-type head-line, too; some printer-chap might chop it down to Rosie in order to make it fit."

The boatman grinned and reached over to advance the spark.

Rosalind turned her back upon him--this One-Cylinder Sam who meant to marry her--and gazed despairingly across the water. By sheer perversity of fate, there was not a boat within half a mile. Ogdensburg meant a run of several hours, even at the best gait of the _Fifty-Fifty_. It might be dark when they arrived. She imagined the panic on Witherbee's Island when nightfall came without her.

Sam lighted his pipe and sat hunched over the tiller, smoking thoughtfully. For a quarter of an hour he appeared to pay no attention to anything save the back of Rosalind's head. Then something caused him to glance upward at the sky, then at the horizon that lay behind them. He wrinkled his forehead and put aside his pipe.

It was scarcely mid-afternoon, but daylight was failing rapidly. Rosalind herself, although wholly concerned with her absurd and perhaps dangerous plight, presently noticed the change in the sky. A swift survey of a great bank of black and lead-colored clouds ended with a glance at the boatman.

"Squall coming," he admitted, with a nod.

She experienced a feeling of elation. A squall might mean anything but a license and a parson. It was a storm that saved Britain from the Armada.

Sam, however, made no alteration in his course. Frequently he glanced over his shoulder, but soon this maneuver became unnecessary, for the battle-front of the squall had advanced with such appalling rapidity that it now overhung them, like some monster destroyer of the air. As yet, however, there was no breath of wind.

"You'll make an island?" Rosalind suggested.

"She'll ride it out," he said confidently. "I've been out in 'em before."

Rosalind measured the low free-board of the launch with a doubtful eye. She was still triumphant in what she felt would abruptly shatter the mad plans of the boatman, yet she was sensibly uneasy at the fairly ferocious aspect of the storm.

"Better make a landing," she warned.

"Afraid?"

She turned her back upon him.

Half a mile astern a long, white line extended itself across the river. Beyond it the boatman could not see, for all was murk and grayness and ominous opacity. Then the white line seemed to leap forward at a furious pace. The speed of the launch was as nothing to it.

Suddenly the steersman seemed to awake. He chewed his under lip anxiously as he watched the onrush of the line of foam.

"Worse than I thought," he muttered. "I'm a fool."

A quarter of a mile to his left lay an island, but he knew there was not a chance in a thousand of making the lee of it. Besides, to alter the course meant taking the squall abeam, with a swift ending of the voyage in mid-river.

"Come aft here!" he commanded.

Rosalind turned and studied the white line. It was not more than a hundred yards distant. Without a word she obeyed him.

He motioned her to a seat beside him, and as she sat down passed an arm around her shoulders.

"Sit tight, pal," he said. "And if it gets too bad, there's a life-preserver under your feet."

The change is his tone impressed her for the moment far more than threatened perils. All the banter and sarcasm had vanished from his voice. He spoke gravely, almost grimly.

"I shall not need it," she answered. "I swim."

"We may be in a bad fix," he said, his lips close to her ear. "If it was anybody but you I wouldn't admit it. But you're game. It'll blow hard and get rough. I'm sorry--"

The remainder of the sentence she could not near, for the white line had overtaken them. The storm-front delivered a blow like a battering-ram, a blow in which wind, hail, sea, and a stifling smother of froth seemed welded into one sinister and mighty weapon. The launch staggered, then leaped forward.