Part 9

"Do it again," he said incredulously.

"What?"

"Smile!"

She did it again, this time with less obvious effort. His complete astonishment helped to lighten the task.

"Great heavens, you can do it!"

"And now may I come down?"

She suited a movement to the question, but the dog growled again. The boatman recovered his composure.

"Well, I don't know about that," he said. "It depends. You see, you've invaded my island and you've been prospecting around my cabin, and maybe you're fixing to get me into trouble."

"I promise!" she exclaimed hastily.

"But you've got me for a thief, a smuggler, and a spy, and that's a whole lot to have on anybody."

"I'm willing to ignore the matter, then. It's none of my business."

"Hum! That's sounds fair enough, of course. But how can I tell they won't wheedle it out of you?"

"Do you think I'm a child?"

"I should say not!"

She did not relish the emphasis nor see the need for it.

"Well, am I to be released?" she asked after a pause.

"I'm thinking about it. Why did you tear down my picture-gallery?"

"It was an insult!"

"Not a bit, ma'am. It was just a portrait--a bully one. Anyhow, why shouldn't I have one? Thousands of 'em have been printed."

Rosalind bit her lip.

"They're in common circulation, all over. Anybody with three dollars can buy one."

"You stole it."

"That's a compliment to you, ma'am. See the risk I ran--for a picture."

"They--they are not for common people," she said frigidly.

Sam surveyed her leisurely.

"I suppose that means me," he remarked.

She answered with a gesture.

"And of course you're something better than common clay," he mused.

She did not stoop to answer him.

"Say!" he broke out suddenly. "Far be it from me to be impolite to a lady, particularly a lady with her portrait written in a three-dollar society book. But do you know that you make me good and tired?"

The lady in the tree gasped.

"Yes; dead weary. I've heard about you. I read the papers sometimes. You're one of the exclusive bunch; you're in the 'it' class. Everybody outside of it is plain common dirt--to you. You've got the coin and the pedigree, which is supposed to make you something extra special. You're supposed to be a shade higher up than human. They tell me you're a heart-breaker, too."

Rosalind turned white.

"Just why you should be such a heart-breaker," he continued, examining her with a critical eye, "is something I don't quite get. You're a good-enough looker, so far as that goes, but--shucks! There are lots of those. Never saw a man yet that was fit to marry you, I understand. A sort of a man-hater, maybe.

"Yet you never try to head a man off if you see he's in a fair way to get his heart cracked. That's your favorite sport, according to the dope I get. You just take it as something that is naturally coming to you. If it didn't happen you'd feel insulted. Oh, yes! I've heard about you."

She was rigid as marble and almost as breathless.

"Let me tell you something--Rosie. You can't put that stuff over on me. You can swing it across on some society guy, but it doesn't go here. Why, I can tell things about your doings in the last forty-eight hours that'll knock you clean out of the Blue Book.

"As I said before, I don't want to be rude to a lady, ma'am, and I don't intend to say anything that would hurt her feelings--not for anything. But you make me plain and plumb tired."

Rosalind was crying in sheer helpless rage. The boatman watched the tears stonily. After a short pause he arose from his seat on the ground and whistled to the dog.

"You can come down if you like," he informed her.

Torn with a storm of sobs and mortification, Rosalind made no move to descend. He watched her for a minute, then went into the cabin and returned, dragging the table. This he placed beneath the limb where she still clung, quivering.

Mounting the table, he reached up and in a most impersonal way grasped her about the waist and swung her clear of the tree. For an instant Rosalind found herself poised in the air. Then she was deposited on the ground. She walked a few steps and leaned weakly against the tree. The dog barked in delight.

"Well, you've got to get home, I suppose," said Sam. "And your boat's gone. It's up to me to take you. I don't mind earning a little money.

"You may as well quit crying, too. You're not hurt and you're not down-hearted. You're just good and mad; that's all."

He turned to lead the way down the path, then stopped and stared through an opening in the trees.

"Another visitor," he observed with a grin.

Rosalind followed the direction of his glance. Reginald Williams in a motor-launch was just making the shore of the island. He glimpsed her white-clad figure and waved his hand.

"Oh!" she gasped.

"Trouble?" inquired Sam.

"You mustn't tell him! How shall I explain? What shall I do? I can't ever, ever--"

Her tears began to flow afresh.

"Needn't worry about me telling him anything, ma'am. I'm deaf and dumb--to him."

"But--but--"

Rosalind Chalmers was deserted by her cloak of calm disdain. She was in a panic.

A sudden change came over the boatman.

"Come on, buck up!" he said, cheerfully. "I'm sorry I made you cry. I take it all back--honest. Just forget it. We'll get out of this easy. Get your nerve now--quick! He'll be here in a couple of minutes. Be a sport, Miss Chalmers! Be a pal; just make believe you're the master mechanic again. Think hard now. We've got to hand him something."

"But he'll think that I--"

"No, he won't," declared Sam soothingly. "He won't have time to think anything. That's it; brace hard, now. I knew you were game."

He actually patted her on the shoulder. Somehow Rosalind neglected to resent the vulgar familiarity.

"Here! I've got the scheme!" he exclaimed. "Only _you'll_ have to spiel it at him because I'm a dummy. Now, listen!"

*CHAPTER XII*

*TURNING THE TABLES*

Sam talked rapidly and with many gestures, the latter for the benefit of Reggy Williams in case Reggy might be looking up from the landing-place, where he was now making fast his boat.

"You went out rowing," explained Sam hurriedly. "You rowed up close to my island."

"By why did I go rowing? I've got to know that. I told Mr. Williams I was going up-stairs to take a nap."

"Oh, you changed your mind about napping, or you went rowing in your sleep. Anything will do; what's the difference about why you went? The point is, you went rowing. You're old enough. While you were close to my island you were upset in a sudden squall."

"There hasn't been a breath of wind to-day!"

"Well, cut out the squall, then. You rocked the boat, or did something silly, and fell overboard. You screamed and I--"

"You're deaf and dumb? How could you hear me scream?"

"That's right. Cut out the scream. I saw you; that'll do. I'm not supposed to be blind. I rushed down, got into my boat, went out and rescued you. Then I brought you to the island to recover. How's that?"

Rosalind looked doubtful.

"He'll be here in a minute," warned Sam. "Either take that or invent a better one."

"But it makes me sound so foolish--so helpless!" she protested. "And he knows I can swim."

"Tell him you forgot how--your skirts tangled you up--anything!"

Rosalind nodded her head reluctantly.

"All--right."

Reggy Williams was now hidden from view at a bend in the path, which he was already ascending. Rosalind gasped abruptly.

"My clothes!" she exclaimed. "I fell overboard and--and I'm not even wet!"

"Ouch!" cried the boatman. "I forgot. But wait!"

He dashed into the cabin, then reappeared carrying a large galvanized-iron pail. It seemed to be heavy.

A second later and the contents of it--cold, pure water from the great St. Lawrence--descended upon Rosalind like a cloud-burst.

"Now you're O.K. for the part," grinned the boatman as he tossed the pail aside.

"You--you--"

"S-sh! It's a grand make-up. Had to be done, you know."

Rosalind, a beautiful, dripping statue of white, shot him a glance of fury and hate. Her drenched costume clung clammily. Wet strands of hair plastered her cheeks, while her eyes blinked painfully from the effects of the deluge.

"Here he is," whispered the boatman as Williams entered the scene. "Remember--I'm a dummy! Talk up now like a rescued lady."

Reginald Williams, momentarily halted by the spectacle of a moist and miserable lady, sprang forward with an anxious cry.

"Rosalind!"

She waved him back and made a wild effort to smooth her hair.

"You're hurt!" cried Reginald. "What's happened?"

"I'm--I'm not hurt," she answered. "Don't be silly. I'm merely wet."

"Wet! You're saturated, child!"

"I'm not a child. Please don't get hysterical, Reggy."

"But how--why--"

"Naturally I've got to explain," she sighed.

The boatman, standing behind Reginald, winked enthusiastically and waved his hand.

"You see, I didn't take a nap," said Rosalind. "I changed my mind about that. I went out for a row. Why didn't I tell you? Why should I, Reggy?"

"But you nearly drowned yourself!" blurted Reginald in a dismayed tone.

"On the contrary I did nothing of the kind. This--this fellow here is the cause of everything."

Reginald whirled swiftly upon the boatman, who stood open-mouthed, staring at Rosalind.

"What have you done?" roared Reginald, his great figure advancing threateningly.

With a swift look of pained surprise at the dripping one, Sam made a gesture of incomprehension and backed away a step.

"He is deaf and dumb, remember," interposed Rosalind. "Don't hurt him, Reggy. Of course he didn't do it intentionally. But he is such a clumsy fool!"

The boatman's mouth was still open. He seemed to be holding his breath.

"I don't care if he is deaf and dumb," declared Reginald savagely. "If he's done anything to you, I'll break his neck. Tell me, Rosalind--hurry!"

She smiled very faintly, and bestowed a sweeping and deliberate look of malice upon Sam. As Reginald removed his glance from the object of his threat the boatman shook a fist at Rosalind and went through a frantic pantomime. It had no effect upon her.

"Why, you see, Reggy, as I said before, I went rowing. After a while I came to this island. I was tired of rowing and I came ashore for a rest."

Sam was glaring and shaking his head. He even pointed at the tree, then at the dog. Reginald, who caught the gesture, was puzzled.

"What's the matter with him?" he demanded.

"Don't pay any attention to him," advised Rosalind. "He's a little unbalanced, I think."

"I'll tie him up if you say."

"No, indeed; he's quite harmless."

The boatman, making sure again that Reginald was not looking, shook his fist and pointed to the pail that had so recently played its part. Rosalind ignored the implied exposure.

"Where was I?" she mused. "Oh, yes; I came ashore. While I was sitting on the rocks, resting, I saw this man approaching in his launch. He had the engine stopped and was leaning over the side of the boat, which was drifting along slowly. He seemed to be engaged with something that was in the water. It--it was a fish-net, I think."

"Against the law," observed Reginald, nodding.

"Of course. And then, while I watched him he fell overboard."

Sam, who had been listening with steadily widening eyes, broke into a furious pantomime. He shook his head violently and pointed at his clothing. Rosalind bit her lip and remembered. The boatman's clothes were dry.

For an instant she paused, dismayed. The web of her fiction was becoming tangled. From sheer stubbornness, hardened with a desire for revenge, she had embarked upon a tale of her own. If there was lying to be done Rosalind was resolved to be the architect of her own falsehoods. She would not become a parrot for the lies of another.

Nor had she a mind to play the weak and conventional part of a maiden in distress, rescued by masculine courage and brawn. Even though wet and undignified she proposed to preserve some shred of superiority to the sex that scattered hearts at her feet.

"As I said," she resumed suddenly with a swift flash of her eyes in the direction of Sam, "the creature fell overboard. He began floundering about in the water quite helplessly, and it was evident he could scarcely swim a stroke. I couldn't see him drown, so I had to go to the rescue."

"And you rowed out--"

"That was the trouble," continued Rosalind. "My boat had drifted loose and had disappeared. So there was nothing else to do but swim--unless I wanted to see him drown."

"Rosalind!"

Reginald's eyes were blazing with admiration.

"Oh, it wasn't much of a swim," she said carelessly. "Not over a hundred yards, I should say."

"But you risked your life, child!"

"Not at all. I can really swim, Reggy; you know that. Well, I got to him after a while, at any rate, and I found him in such a panic of fear that it was difficult to do anything for him."

She paused long enough to allow her glance to wander again toward the boatman. His symptoms were those of hysteria.

"Finally I managed to get him by the collar from behind," continued Rosalind calmly. "I had to choke him a little, I think. It wasn't very easy to get him to the launch, which had begun to drift, but we made it after a while. Then--"

Another inspection of Sam seemed to afford her satisfaction, for she smiled.

"Then it was a question of getting him aboard. He was in a complete funk; did nothing but cling to the boat and roll his eyes. I had to climb in myself and then drag him after me. And then--think of it, Reggy--he began to weep. That great, grown man shed tears like a child!"

Reginald surveyed the great, grown man with pity and contempt.

"That's all of it," added Rosalind. "It was just a question of running the boat to the island."

The suitor from the city gazed upon Rosalind Chalmers in adoration.

"You wonder!" he exclaimed.

She made a careless gesture and turned a pair of triumphant eyes in the direction of the boatman. He had ceased his pantomime and was regarding her with an expression even more rapt than that of Reginald.

"Wait till they hear of this at the Witherbees'!" exclaimed Reginald.

"They mustn't!" she said hastily. "Not for anything!"

"But my dear girl, it's so--"

"Remember Mr. Morton!"

Reginald frowned. The boatman's manner became suddenly alert. The name of Morton had a galvanizing effect. Then he remembered his role and relapsed into vacant passivity.

"Hang Morton!" blurted Reginald. "If the man's insane, as you say he is, I don't see why he isn't sent away. He's got everybody walking around on tiptoe and whispering. They've got the habit so bad that they even do it to me."

Sam's brow was furrowed, and the look he devoted to Rosalind contained a perplexed inquiry. She did not meet his eyes for long.

"At any rate I don't care to have you mention the matter," she said firmly. "It's nothing."

"Well, I think when a girl does a fine, brave thing like that she's entitled to all the credit for it," Reginald grumbled. "And to think of it being wasted on that boob, too!"

Once more he inspected the boatman. Then, as he studied the loose-jointed figure, surprise came into Reginald's eyes. He looked back to Rosalind.

"That's funny."

"What?"

"Why, his clothes are dry!"

The boatman was having a convulsion of some kind. His body twitched violently and bent almost double.

"Oh, yes," said Rosalind. "You see, he was chattering so with cold or fright, probably both, that I told him he'd better put on some dry clothes. He had some in the cabin."

Sam managed to straighten himself.

"You told him?" repeated Reginald wonderingly.

"Yes; he seems to have no initiative whatever."

"You don't mean to say he heard you?"

Again the boatman had a seizure.

"Of course not," answered Rosalind easily. "I had to write it on a piece of paper."

Sam turned abruptly and walked to the cabin. His shoulders were shaking.

"He isn't over it yet," commented Reginald.

"I don't imagine he will be over it for a good while," said Rosalind a little savagely. "I think you may take me home now, Reggy."

The boatman stood in the doorway of his cabin, watching them descend the path. He was grinning broadly.

Rosalind felt that she had in some measure achieved revenge for the indignity of her bath. It was no more of a falsehood than the story Sam had attempted to put into her mouth; certainly it was better to be a heroine than a clinging creature.

And by all odds it was an improvement on the preposterous and humiliating truth!

She and Reginald heard a clatter of footsteps behind them as they stepped into the Witherbee launch and turned to see the boatman running down the path. He was making gestures that were clearly intended to delay their departure, so they waited.

As he reached the rock from which they embarked he dropped to his knees, stretched his arms wide and looked up at Rosalind with eyes that conveyed to her an expression of doglike devotion. If there was a hint of something else in them, it was not Sam's fault. As an actor he was but an amateur.

Before the lady in the wet gown could divine his purpose he seized her hands in his own, bent his head over them and began kissing them. Rosalind uttered a cry of disgust. His beard tickled! Also she detested sentimentality.

"The poor fellow is trying to tell you how grateful he is," said Reginald.

Rosalind struggled to release her hands, but the boatman clung to them.

"Reggy! Make him let go!" she called sharply.

Reginald laid a rough hand on the boatman's shoulder and shook him. The man lifted his head and stared reproachfully. Then he dropped Rosalind's hands and sighed deeply.

She found as she drew back with a little shudder of annoyance that in the palm of one hand there was a folded bit of paper. Instinctively, her fingers closed over it; there was no need of explaining more things to Reginald.

Not until some time later, when the launch was far on the way to Witherbee's Island, did Rosalind find an opportunity to examine it. Then, her back turned to Reginald, she unfolded the crumpled sheet, and read:

"PAL ROSIE:

"You put one over on me that time--but just wait."

*CHAPTER XIII*

*RINGING IN*

Why the fat Mr. Schmidt from Chicago wanted to go to a dance was a problem that Sam made no serious effort to solve, for in a modern day when neither fat nor age nor bodily infirmity checks the universal human impulse it was of little avail to seek the motive in a given case. You simply go and dance--or think you do--and that's an end of it, with no questions asked.

The dancing-desires of the fat grain-broker from Chicago had taken him from the American mainland to Wellesley Island, a passage safely accomplished aboard the _Fifty-Fifty_. And when Schmidt had been set ashore at the wharf-entrance to a hotel-property that blazed with light Sam backed a little way into the river and made fast to a handy mooring.

Boats by the dozen, churning in from all directions passed close to the dingy launch. They were freighted with people, much dressed and wholly abandoned to laughter and chatter.

The boatman watched the procession with close attention. It had a cheering effect upon his loneliness.

"No sense to it--but why should there be?" he reflected. "If it's not dancing it's something else just as crazy. I don't blame 'em. I say, go to it; yes, even Schmidt."

"Doll up and walk like a duck while the band plays. It's easy and foolish, and if you do it wrong everybody tries to imitate the new step. Far be it from me to complain. On with the dance!"

Besides, Schmidt paid in cash and paid well--and Sam was not a boatman for his health.

A sharp, incisive voice, clear as a bell across the water, reached his quick ears. He turned in the direction of the sound. Out of the gloom came the shape of a large, white launch, passing close, and inbound for the festivities.

"Of course," said the voice in a tone of bored protest, "it will not be necessary to meet--persons in general."

"Not unless you wish to," the voice was answered by another. "We have our own crowd."

"That's something, of course. I hope we shall be able to keep together; I hate a mixture."

Sam smiled and wrinkled his nose.

"Same old master mechanic," he murmured. "Royalty going to watch the peasants frolic."

He watched the Witherbee yacht make the landing, and saw, by the glow of the colored lanterns that bespangled the wharf, a tall, slender figure in white that was not unfamiliar. An instant later it was lost in the crowd.

From the shore came the sounds of a band. The lips of the boatman pursed; he whistled softly. Presently his feet were tapping on the floor of the cock-pit. His shoulders swayed rhythmically to the beat of the music.

"And Reggy--she calls him Reggy--is there," he murmured as the tune faded away. "And the English gink, too. And the child with the fishing-rod. And they'll all be dancing with the master mechanic. Huh! Maybe even Schmidt will horn in, too."

By the feeble light of the lantern that stood on a seat he surveyed his costume and frowned.

"Who said clothes don't make the man?" he demanded aloud. "They make him dance at any rate. It's against the rules of the game to do it in rags."

Through the trees he had brilliantly lighted vistas of a broad hotel-porch, whereon a crowd surged ceaselessly in all directions with but one common impulse--to keep in step with the band. Again Sam's feet rattled on the flooring, and again his body rocked from side to side.

Then, abruptly, without waiting for the end of the music, he became rigid.

"Why not?" he demanded.

There was nobody to explain.

"Once more, why not? Now is the time for any grain of sense that may happen to be in my nut to speak up, or forever after do the oyster act. I wait--I still wait. I hear no answer. Therefore I have no sense. Therefore--why not?"

He went forward quickly, cast loose from the mooring-buoy, scrambled aft to the engine, cranked it with a nervous jerk at the fly-wheel, and headed out into the river.

For half an hour the launch ran down-stream, passing numerous craft that were obviously bound for the place of the whirling feet.

Sam maintained a close watch upon the procession. He was looking for a particular vessel, and eventually he believed he sighted it, for with a nod of satisfaction he altered his course and bore in toward the cluster of islands that included those of Mr. Witherbee, Mr. Davidson, and their neighbor vigilantes.

Now he extinguished his lantern--he never bothered with port and starboard lamps--and proceeded cautiously into the little archipelago that stood aloof from the other islands in its exclusiveness. Somewhere, probably in a dark shadow near a shore, lurked a patrol-boat.

It was nearly an hour later when the dimly marked hull of the boatman's launch, still devoid of any light, made its reappearance in midstream and laid a return course for the blaze of lights that beckoned hospitably to the islanders of the St. Lawrence. Opposite the hotel, Sam chose a new anchorage, farther from the shore and comfortably remote from that occupied by any other craft.

He relighted his lantern and chuckled as his glance fell upon a roughly wrapped bundle in the bottom of the boat. Seating himself beside it, he ripped off the paper and brought to view a series of articles that caused him fresh mirth.

First came a tiny mirror not much larger than a pocket-glass. This he propped beside the lantern. Then came a brush and comb, and after them a collar and a soft-bosomed, spotless white shirt. He handled the linen gently with grimy fingers.

Next he produced those three unmistakable garments so persistently demanded in the lower left-hand corner of certain cards of invitation--"evening dress." And then a pair of shining pumps.

For a minute he studied his bearded visage in the mirror, a scrutiny that ended in a grimace.