Part 8

Mrs. Witherbee, her hands clasped to her bosom, regarded him with horror.

"Won't you--please--take a chair?" she whispered timidly.

"Chair? Why, thanks--if you'll stick it in front of a table. I haven't had a mouthful since noon, and I don't mind saying I can eat anything and everything you've got in the house. Here, Tom! Don't fuss with that trunk; I'll take care of that later."

Mr. Witherbee cautiously pushed a porch rocker against Reginald's legs.

"We'll get you some grub," he said anxiously. "Only sit down first. Rest yourself, old man."

"Rest! That's all I've done all day in a train that didn't have ambition enough to keep within two hours of her schedule. I could have pushed the blamed thing faster than it went."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Witherbee, his brow furrowed in anxiety. "But just sit down a bit. Enjoy the air--it's great up here. See that view--isn't it amazing? Everything so quiet so, peaceful Oh, it just puts ten years on a man's life to spend a little while up here! No worry, no cares, no excitement."

Reginald sat reluctantly.

"No excitement!" he exclaimed. "Then, by George, we'll make some! How do you live without it? I can't. I'm going to start something, sure as you live. But I'd like to eat first."

The Witherbee family ventured inquiring glances at Rosalind. That lady's face bore a curious expression of doubt and dismay. But she did not lose her self-control. Stepping behind Reginald's chair, she raised a finger to her lips and shook her head warningly.

"I'll get you some toast directly," said Mrs. Witherbee. "And how do you like your tea?"

Reginald guffawed, then apologized:

"Excuse me; didn't mean to be rude. But if you've got any cold ham in the house and some bread and butter, and a scuttle of hot coffee you needn't bother about the toast and tea. And you needn't fetch it out here; lead me to it."

The Winter girls exchanged apprehensive glances. Mr. Witherbee made a sign to his wife, who disappeared into the house. Rosalind followed her. The two ladies met in the pantry.

"I--I'm frightened to death," whispered Mrs. Witherbee. "Is he always that way?"

"Nearly always," sighed Rosalind. "That's what makes it so sad."

"I hadn't thought of it as being sad, my dear. It--it just seems sort of terrible. Doesn't he know?"

"Ssh! Of course not. He doesn't even suspect."

"The poor man!" said Mrs. Witherbee softly. "Then it is sad, isn't it? Isn't there any way to--control him?"

"It's very difficult," admitted Rosalind. "He's headstrong. And of course, not knowing, you can't expect him to restrain himself. He's always been accustomed to leading an active life."

"Active, my dear! Why, he's violent. My knuckles are still aching. Do you really think we ought to let him have ham--and coffee?"

"We might as well," said Rosalind in a hopeless voice. "He'd probably make a scene over toast and tea."

"And he seems so healthy, poor fellow! And so strong!"

"He's deceptive," Rosalind observed hastily.

There was a heavy tramping of feet overhead, then a crash that rattled the dishes in the pantry. Mrs. Witherbee rushed into the hall, stifling a scream. Rosalind bit her lip.

When the mistress of the island returned her eyes were wide with terror.

"He--he carried his trunk up-stairs!" she gasped. "He wouldn't let Stephen or Tom touch it."

"He does those things," said Rosalind unhappily. "He doesn't realize, you know. We can't restrain him by force, but we must do all we can."

"Does he have--attacks?"

"Oh, often. Terrible ones."

Mrs. Witherbee clasped her hands.

"And it's a two-mile sail to the nearest doctor!" she moaned.

"Never suggest a doctor to him," warned Rosalind. "He wouldn't understand and you can't tell what he might do. Don't think of such a thing!

"But if anything should happen--"

"We must run the risk. We must make the best of it somehow. I'd cut more ham than that, I think; he'll only be out after more if you don't. I'll get the bread; no need to call the servants. I imagine we'd better bring it to him on the porch."

An awed household watched Reginald Williams eat. It was a rapid and extensive proceeding.

"Sorry to have put you out," he roared genially as he emptied the coffee-pot. "But a man has to have a bite now and then to keep his body and soul in close relation."

"Of course," assented Mrs. Witherbee gently. "Good food, rest, and plenty of sleep."

"Oh, I'm not sleepy! I'm good for all night if there's anything doing."

"We live very quietly here, Mr. Williams."

"Oh, well, we'll manage to start something. Won't we, Tom?"

Tom Witherbee mumbled an unintelligible reply and glanced at Rosalind. She shook her head severely.

Suddenly Reginald missed the master of the house.

"Where's Mr. Witherbee?" he demanded.

"He--he went out in the launch," faltered Mrs. Witherbee.

"Why the dickens didn't he invite somebody? Nothing I'd like better on a night like this."

"He just went over to Mr. Davidson's island," explained Gertrude in a soothing tone. "He didn't think anybody would want to go."

At this point Fortescue Jones, who had been regarding Reginald with amazed eyes, entered the conversation. Said he:

"He went over to see about bur--"

The elbow of Tom Witherbee put an abrupt end to the sentence.

"To see about what?" demanded Reginald.

Mrs. Witherbee rolled her eyes helplessly. Her husband had gone to the burglar meeting.

"To see about burlap," said Rosalind hastily.

"Burlap?"

"Certainly--burlap. He wants it to wrap things in."

"Must want it pretty badly," commented Reginald, "if he has to make a special voyage to get it. Oh, well, if we can't go sailing let's start something. Let's dance!"

Rosalind leaned weakly against a pillar of the porch.

"We--we don't dance," said Gertrude.

"Don't dance!"

The eyes of Reginald Williams successively met those of the two Winter girls, Polly Dawson, Gertrude, and Rosalind.

"You haven't all sprained your ankles, have you?" he asked.

"I mean we haven't been doing any dancing here," explained Gertrude desperately. "We--Mother doesn't like it."

This statement astonished Mrs. Witherbee to such an extent that she opened her mouth and held it that way for several seconds. Then she nodded.

The next half-hour on the Witherbee porch was crowded with the efforts of ten persons to curb the restless spirit of a young man who wanted to do something.

They spoke softly and upon soft topics, such as gardening and clothes and fresh air. They argued nothing, but agreed upon everything. They urged Reginald to sit down. They tried to make him wear Mr. Witherbee's top coat. They watched with sickening dread as he smoked. They scarcely breathed when he proposed to take a moonlight swim.

Then one by one they went off to bed, yawning prodigiously and declaring that it was getting very late. Reginald and Rosalind found themselves alone.

He waited to make sure that the last of the company had disappeared, then turned to her with a bewildered look.

"What on earth is the matter with this crowd?" he demanded.

"What seems to be the matter?" asked Rosalind.

"Matter! They all act as if they were afraid to make a noise or turn around. They even whisper. Nothing's gone wrong here, has it?"

"No, indeed!" hastily.

"Well, it's about as cheerful as a shipwreck. Has it been going on like this very long? I don't see how you and the rest of the younger folk stand it."

"It's rather pleasant to be quiet for a change, Reggie."

"Quiet! I don't call that being quiet--it's sepulchral. I came up here to have a good time. I'm going to shake this crowd up to-morrow."

"You mustn't!"

Rosalind's voice was anxious. Something more would have to be done, she was certain. Reginald was capable of executing his threat.

"I'll tell you," she said in a low tone. "But you must not mention the fact to any person that I did tell you. It's on account of Mr. Morton."

"The Englishman? What's the matter with him?"

Rosalind hesitated. What was the matter with Mr. Morton? She felt that she was rapidly becoming mired.

"Well, you see, Mr. Morton is just recovering from a breakdown," she ventured.

"What kind of a breakdown?"

"Mental."

"Loose in the bean, eh?"

"Reginald! You know I hate slang. No; he's not--that. Not nearly so bad. But he had a breakdown--mostly nervous, I think. It came from overwork, I believe. He must have absolute quiet--no excitement, nothing to irritate him.

"But you must not mention it to a soul, Reggie; and particularly you must not let him see that you notice anything peculiar. He's very sensitive."

Reginald grumbled.

"So that's why we all have to keep very quiet," said Rosalind with finality.

"He ought to be shipped off to a nut college," declared Reginald. "Anybody like that is liable to break loose at any time. I didn't come up here to be a keeper."

"Well, you are not compelled to remain."

Rosalind's voice was cool.

"Oh, but I am I You know very well I couldn't stay away. Why, I practically invited myself."

He tried to capture one of Rosalind's hands, but she, alert, easily evaded his clumsy caress.

"Please don't begin that again," she said in annoyance. "If you do I'll go home to-morrow."

"But, Rosalind, you know very well--"

"Will you stop?"

"Oh, very well! But I give you fair warning that I haven't stopped for good."

She sighed and frowned.

"I thought I'd struck the limit of unsociability on the way down here," observed Reginald. "The fellow that brought me was deaf and dumb."

"Really?"

"Couldn't speak a word. Couldn't hear, either. I had to write on a piece of paper where I wanted to go."

"A boatman, was he?"

"Yes. And the worst of it was, his boat broke down a couple of times on the way, and he didn't seem to know much about fixing it. I couldn't help him, and he didn't even have the satisfaction of being able to swear."

Rosalind found herself listening with breathless attention.

"What sort of a boat was it?" she asked.

"Not much to look at. Rather dirty, too."

She had more than a suspicion.

"What did the man look like?" carelessly.

"A chap with a beard. Long, thin person. Why?"

"Oh, nothing! I think I've seen him around. You say he is a deaf-mute?"

"Absolutely. I met him on the wharf up at Clayton, and when I asked him a question about the boats he made signs at me. Then I felt sort of sorry for him, and thought I'd give him a job."

Rosalind's brain was in a whirl. Sam, the boatman, playing the deaf-mute! She could not even begin to guess a reason.

"He knew where the place was, all right; I'll say that for him," added Reginald. "But it's not particularly entertaining to be cooped up with a dummy in a bum boat for a couple of hours."

"I should imagine not," she murmured.

"But I did the swearing for him, anyhow. And--funny about that, too--he must have understood what I was doing, for he grinned from ear to ear and nodded his head. It must be tough not to be able to do your own cussing."

"I don't suppose it does afford much relief to do it with your fingers," Rosalind agreed. "That is," she supplemented righteously, "if it ever does give one any relief. It's a miserable habit."

"It's not a habit," said Reginald. "It's a vocation, if you do it right. Who's this coming?"

Heavy, deliberate footfalls announced the return of Mr. Witherbee from the meeting of the vigilants.

"Get your burlap?" inquired Reginald pleasantly.

"Burlap?" echoed Mr. Witherbee.

Rosalind interposed hastily.

"You must have forgotten your errand," she said, laughing. "You know perfectly well you started out to get some burlap."

"Burlap?"

Mr. Witherbee repeated the word with a rising inflection.

Rosalind had slipped behind Reginald and was making a frantic pantomime. The master of the island stared at her for a few seconds, wrinkling his forehead.

"Why, certainly," she said. "Don't you remember saying you were going to see if Mr. Davidson had some?"

"Oh, yes," answered Mr. Witherbee slowly. "Come to think of it, I did start out to get some. And just as you say, I forgot all about it. By the way, sit down, Williams. Take it easy. You must be tired after a long day's journey."

"Everybody seems to think I'm tired," sighed Reginald. "I guess in order not to disappoint them I'd better go to bed. Good night."

He stamped noisily inside and up the staircase.

"Is--is he all right?" asked Mr. Witherbee in a hoarse whisper.

"Oh, perfectly. We've kept him just as quiet as possible."

"That's right; that's right. Poor chap. And he's so healthy to look at, too! By the way, what's this burlap game?"

Rosalind laughed.

"It's all on account of that stupid Jones boy," she explained. "He started to blurt something about why you had gone to Mr. Davidson's, and he had half of 'burglar' out when Tom bumped him with his elbow. Then I had to finish it somehow, and all I could think of was burlap. You see, it had to be something that couldn't possibly excite Reggy."

"I get you," grinned Mr. Witherbee. "Burlap, eh? I'll have to remember to get some now."

Suddenly his expression changed and he became grave.

"We've organized," he said in guarded tones. "There were seven islands represented. We're going to hire a patrol. Some of them are going to get watchmen, too. And it's high time, Rosalind."

He stepped closer and looked about him cautiously.

"Somebody's been on the island again," he whispered. "But don't say anything yet!"

"Again!"

"To-night, I think. Somebody's stolen the dog!"

"You are sure?"

"Positive. I tied the beast up near the dock when I went out in the boat. And he's gone!"

Rosalind could only blink at this intelligence.

"But I don't want to worry Mrs. Witherbee about it," added that lady's husband. "And of course we've got to keep it from Williams. So don't say anything. Good night. Grand watchdog, that; I guess he needed stealing."

*CHAPTER XI*

*TREED!*

It was early afternoon when Sam nursed the _Fifty-Fifty_ into the rock-bound cove that formed his island harbor, made her fast, and stepped ashore. He advanced up the winding path to his cabin. Midway in its length he paused and listened.

A dog barked.

The boatman resumed his advance at a quicker pace. He caught sight of the cabin, then of an agitated red setter that ran to and fro beneath a tree whose branches brushed the roof of the dwelling. The animal was yelping nervously.

Next the boatman saw a pair of feet, shod in snowy white and outlined sharp and clear against the dark-green foliage. The feet were attached to a pair of ankles, also in white--ankles that were slim, aristocratic, even haughty.

Then as he stepped forward the rim of a white skirt came into view. A second later his advance brought him to a point from which he obtained a full view of Rosalind Chalmers, sitting on the branch of a tree.

"Call off your dog!" she commanded.

Sam removed his gaze from the vision in the tree and studied the animal thoughtfully. The setter, having sighted the boatman, ceased baying and sat down with an alert eye upon the quarry.

"The dog, I said!" said Rosalind harshly. "Call him off!"

Sam's glance returned to the lady on the branch.

"Good afternoon," he said pleasantly.

Rosalind returned the inspection through angry eyes.

"Are you going to call off the dog?" she demanded.

"Why, I was just thinking about it," drawled Sam. "I don't know that I ought to discourage him."

The lady in the tree uttered an exclamation.

"You see," added the boatman, "the dog is only doing his duty. His job is to protect my property. He looks out for it when I'm away."

She observed that the boatman was staring intently, not at her eyes--where it is customary to look at a person--but at her ankles, where it is not always polite to stare. She knew they were conspicuous, but she also realized the futility of flinching. Sitting on a limb, there was absolutely no way to make her skirt cover them.

"This--this is an outrage!" she stormed.

"Why, perhaps--ma'am. But whose fault?"

"The beast--he--chased me!"

"I told him to."

"You told him to?"

"That is, I told him to chase anybody. I hardly expected he'd tree you. Did I, old sport?"

The dog relaxed his vigil long enough to turn his head, wag his tail furiously, and give throat to a joyous bark.

"You see, this is where I live," added Sam with a nod at the cabin. "He's in charge when I'm not here."

"In charge since--"

"Yesterday."

"You stole him!"

The boatman seemed indifferent to the charge.

"That dog belongs to Mr. Witherbee," declared Rosalind. "You know perfectly well you stole him. And--will you call him off?"

"Perhaps--by and by," answered the boatman.

He seated himself on the ground ten feet below her and began fumbling for tobacco. Rosalind was pink with rage.

"I'm coming down!" she declared.

Sam did not appear to hear the announcement.

She slid cautiously along the limb for a few inches, steadying herself by a tight grip on another branch. The dog sprang to his feet and yelped furiously. Rosalind became rigid again.

"Will you call him off?"

Sam studied her ankles, then resumed the methodical filling of his pipe.

"What brought you here?" he asked after a pause.

"I came in a rowboat."

"Alone?"

"Certainly."

"I didn't see the boat."

"It drifted away--I wouldn't be here except for that."

"What did you come for?"

Rosalind gritted her teeth and wondered if the dog would really bite.

"I was merely rowing," she said, trying to calm her voice. "I--I thought the island was unoccupied."

"You didn't happen to be looking for a smugglers' cave, did you?"

"No!"

"Or a burglars' den?"

"_No!_"

"Or an international spy?"

She remained furious and silent.

"It's rather important for me to know," he explained as he scratched a match. "There's so much hunting going on that it isn't safe to ignore it. You don't happen to be a member of a posse, do you?"

"Will you let me down?"

"That's his affair," answered the boatman, nodding in the direction of the dog. "He seems to like you where you are. I don't know that I ought to interfere. It might discourage him and make him careless in the future. Did you visit my cabin?"

Rosalind remained silent.

The boatman whispered something to the dog, then arose lazily and walked over to the shack. Rosalind saw him disappear within the door. She made a second tentative move toward descent. The dog, which lay watching her with his nose between his paws, sprang up and snarled.

A moment afterward Sam emerged from the cabin, staring ruefully at the sheet of paper that was in his hand.

"You tore down my picture-gallery," he said reproachfully. "Why did you do that?"

Rosalind flushed and compressed her lips.

"I thought quite a lot of that picture," he mused, seating himself again. "It seemed like such a good likeness."

"You beast!"

"That's not the way to make friends with him," cautioned the boatman.

"I mean you!"

"Oh! Well, that's not the way to make friends with me, either. Didn't you like my portrait of a lady?"

"I'm coming down!" she warned desperately.

"I wouldn't--yet. He can really bite, ma'am. Have you been there long?"

"An hour."

"Is it comfortable up there?"

She remained grimly silent. It was not comfortable. The limb was very hard and its diameter was meager. Her feet were asleep.

The boatman returned to a study of the "portrait." He even began to read aloud from it, when Rosalind stopped him with an imploring exclamation.

"Please--please!" she cried.

"But it's such a good portrait," he protested, looking up at her mildly. "It's a new kind of art. It's got the cubists beaten a mile. Statist, I suppose you'd call it. It gives all the dope--just draws a picture in facts and figures. I'm strong for it.

"Listen. Here's where it says you--"

"Stop!"

"You are the daughter of--"

"Oh, _will_ you stop?"

He paused in his reading and observed her attentively. What he saw appeared to please him. Rosalind was never more charming. She was a goddess, all in white save for the fiery tint in her cheeks and the dangerous glint in her blue eyes.

"Say," he said with sudden interest, "how'd you get up there, anyhow? It's some climb."

"I--I had to climb."

"Meaning he pushed you pretty hard," nodding at the dog.

"Of course!"

"I'd have given a lot to have seen you make it," he mused. "If I call him off will you do it again?"

She flushed hotly and shot him a look of stinging contempt. He never winced.

"You see," he explained, "there's no branch below the one you're sitting on. And that's a good ten feet up. You must have jumped for it and swung yourself up, or else you shinned the tree. In either case it was a stunt that's a credit to you. I'm certainly sorry I missed it--ma'am."

He drawled the last word with maddening emphasis.

Rosalind was in despair. It was not fear of the dog--now. She knew that Sam would not dare to let the animal attack, even if she descended from her refuge. It was fear of the boatman's mocking eyes. He was smiling. What would he do when she, Rosalind, the dignified, began the scramble that must precede her arrival at _terra firma_?

Dignity scarcely sat with her on the limb, even now; it would be a thousand miles away when she made the first decisive move. It was a sense of dignity wholly that restrained Rosalind. She did not care particularly about her ankles; she was not ashamed of them and had no reason to be. But she was bitterly resolved that she would cling to the very end to whatever shred of haughty poise remained to her.

Temper loosed her tongue again.

"Thief! Smuggler!" she exclaimed. "They'll make short work of you when I'm free from this."

"Well, we're all little pals together," he observed serenely.

"Spy!"

"Say, that was a funny one, wasn't it?" he said, brightening. "Me _und_ Schmidt--spies! That was one you never even thought of, ma'am."

"Will you stop calling me 'ma'am'?"

"Excuse me. I was only trying to be respectful. What do you want me to call you--Rosie?"

Rosalind almost lost her balance. She recovered herself with a desperate grab at a branch and made a choking noise in her throat. It shamed her to know that tears were in her eyes, but she could not force them back.

"About that spy business," he went on. "Did you believe that?"

"I see no reason to doubt it."

He mused over that for a while.

"It's hanging if it's true," he remarked presently.

"I hope so!"

"Hanging for me _und_ Schmidt. I hate to think about it."

Rosalind could contemplate it with pleasure.

"Poor old Schmidt! Fat old Schmidt--who never did anything worse than buy and sell wheat on the Chicago Board of Trade! Think of hanging Schmidt as a spy!"

Rosalind paid little attention to the uttered thoughts of the boatman. She was trying to concentrate on her own case. Thus far conversation had been futile while the dog and the man remained inexorable.

She blamed herself bitterly for the panic that had driven her to an arboreal refuge. If only she had stopped and faced the beast all might have been saved! As she looked down upon him now she did not believe he would bite. But he had come upon her so suddenly, so clamorously, that self-possession fled from her in a flash.

And now, even though she lacked faith in his ferocity and remembered how insinuatingly he had nosed his muzzle into her hand back on the Witherbee place, there were other reasons. Chief of course was the sardonic boatman.

Yet she was frantically anxious to descend from her tree. To gain that she was almost willing to sacrifice everything save dignity. She was even content to sue for peace--to make terms, if need be to humiliate herself before this common creature who calmly smoked and watched her discomfiture.

"May I come down now?" she asked so sweetly that the alteration in her voice startled him.

He stared at her and whistled.

"Please!"

Rosalind's tone was liquid in its smoothness. And--she smiled! The boatman dropped his pipe.