Brandon of the Engineers
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Title: Brandon of the Engineers
Author: Harold Bindloss
Release date: June 28, 2008 [eBook #25923]
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Language: English
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BRANDON OF THE ENGINEERS
* * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Alton of Somasco
Lorimer of the Northwest
Thurston of Orchard Valley
Winston of the Prairie
The Gold Trail
Sydney Carteret, Rancher
A Prairie Courtship
Vane of the Timberlands
The Long Portage
Ranching for Sylvia
Prescott of Saskatchewan
The Dust of Conflict
The Greater Power
Masters of the Wheatlands
Delilah of the Snows
By Right of Purchase
The Cattle Baron's Daughter
Thrice Armed
For Jacinta
The Intriguers
The League of the Leopard
For the Allison Honor
The Secret of the Reef
Harding of Allenwood
The Coast of Adventure
Johnstons of the Border
Brandon of the Engineers
* * * * *
BRANDON OF THE ENGINEERS
by
HAROLD BINDLOSS
Author of "Johnstone of the Border," "Prescott
of Saskatchewan," "Winston of the Prairie," etc.
[Illustration: "'YOU MUST COME. I CAN'T LET YOU LIVE AMONG THOSE
PLOTTERS AND GAMBLERS.'"--Page 224.]
New York
Frederick A. Stokes Company
Publishers
Copyright, 1916, by Frederick A. Stokes Company
Published in England under the Title "His One Talent"
All Rights Reserved
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A Promising Officer 1
II Dick's Troubles Begin 11
III The Punishment 22
IV Adversity 34
V The Concrete Truck 44
VI A Step Up 54
VII Dick Undertakes a Responsibility 65
VIII An Informal Court 75
IX Jake Fuller 85
X La Mignonne 97
XI Clare Gets a Shock 107
XII Dick Keeps His Promise 118
XIII The Return from the Fiesta 129
XIV Complications 140
XV The Missing Coal 151
XVI Jake Gets into Difficulties 161
XVII The Black-Funnel Boat 172
XVIII Dick Gets a Warning 184
XIX Jake Explains Matters 194
XX Don Sebastian 205
XXI Dick Makes a Bold Venture 215
XXII The Official Mind 225
XXIII The Clamp 237
XXIV The Altered Sailing List 247
XXV The Water-Pipe 259
XXVI The Liner's Fate 270
XXVII The Silver Clasp 282
XXVIII Rough Water 294
XXIX Kenwardine Takes a Risk 304
XXX The Last Encounter 314
XXXI Richter's Message 326
XXXII Ida Interferes 336
BRANDON OF THE ENGINEERS
CHAPTER I
A PROMISING OFFICER
The lengthening shadows lay blue and cool beneath the alders by the
waterside, though the cornfields that rolled back up the hill glowed a
coppery yellow in the light of the setting sun. It was hot and, for the
most part, strangely quiet in the bottom of the valley since the hammers
had stopped, but now and then an order was followed by a tramp of feet
and the rattle of chain-tackle. Along one bank of the river the
reflections of the trees quivered in dark-green masses; the rest of the
water was dazzlingly bright.
A pontoon bridge, dotted with figures in khaki, crossed a deep pool. At
its head, where a white road ran down the hill, a detachment of engineers
lounged in the shade. Their faces were grimed with sweat and dust, and
some, with coats unbuttoned, sprawled in the grass. They had toiled hard
through the heat of the day, and now were enjoying an "easy," until they
should be called to attention when their work was put to the test.
As Lieutenant Richard Brandon stood where the curve was boldest at the
middle of the bridge, he had no misgivings about the result so far as the
section for which he was responsible was concerned. He was young, but
there was some ground for his confidence; for he not only had studied all
that text-books could teach him but he had the constructor's eye, which
sees half-instinctively where strength or weakness lies. Brandon began
his military career as a prize cadet and after getting his commission he
was quickly promoted from subaltern rank. His advancement, however,
caused no jealousy, for Dick Brandon was liked. He was, perhaps, a trifle
priggish about his work--cock-sure, his comrades called it--but about
other matters he was naïvely ingenuous. Indeed, acquaintances who knew
him only when he was off duty thought him something of a boy.
In person, he was tall and strongly made, with a frank, sunburned face.
His jaw was square and when he was thoughtful his lips set firmly; his
light-gray eyes were clear and steady. He was genial with his comrades,
but usually diffident in the company of women and older men.
Presently the Adjutant came up and, stopping near, glanced along the
rippling line that marked the curve of the bridge.
"These center pontoons look rather prominent, as if they'd been pushed
upstream a foot or two," he remarked. "Was that done by Captain
Maitland's order?"
"No, sir," Dick answered with some awkwardness. "For one thing, I found
they'd lie steadier out of the eddy."
"They do, but I don't know that it's much of an advantage. Had you any
other reason for modifying the construction plans?"
Dick felt embarrassed. He gave the Adjutant a quick glance; but the man's
face was inscrutable. Captain Hallam was a disciplinarian where
discipline was needed, but he knew the value of what he called
initiative.
"Well," Dick tried to explain, "if you notice how the wash of the
head-rapid sweeps down the middle of the pool----"
"I have noticed it," said the Adjutant dryly. "That's why the bridge
makes a slight sweep. But go on."
"We found a heavy drag on the center that flattened the curve. Of course,
if we could have pushed it up farther, we'd have got a stronger form."
"Why?"
"It's obvious, sir. If we disregard the moorings, a straight bridge would
tend to curve downstream and open out under a shearing strain. As we get
nearer the arch form it naturally gets stiffer, because the strain
becomes compressive. After making the bridge strong enough for traffic,
the problem is to resist the pressure of the current."
"True," the Adjutant agreed with a smile. "Well, we'll let the pontoons
stand. The traditions of the British Army are changing fast, but while we
don't demand the old mechanical obedience, it might be better not to
introduce too marked innovations. Anyhow, it's not desirable that they
should, so to speak, strike a commanding officer in the eye. Some
officers are conservative and don't like that kind of thing."
He moved on and Dick wondered whether he had said too much. He was apt to
forget his rank and comparative unimportance when technical matters were
discussed. In fact, it was sometimes difficult not to appear
presumptuous; but when one knew that one was right----
In the meantime, the Adjutant met the Colonel, and they stopped together
at the bridge-head.
"I think we have made a good job, but the brigade's transport is pretty
heavy," the Colonel remarked.
"I'm satisfied with the bridge, sir; very creditable work for beginners.
If the other branches of the new armies are as good----"
"The men are in earnest. Things, of course, are changing, and I suppose
old-fashioned prejudices must go overboard. Personally, I liked the type
we had before the war, but we'll let that go. Young Brandon strikes me as
particularly keen."
"Keen as mustard," the Adjutant agreed. "In other ways, perhaps, he's
more of the kind you have been used to."
"Now I wonder what you mean by that! You're something of what they're
pleased to call a progressive, aren't you? However, I like the lad. His
work is good."
"He _knows_, sir."
"Ah," said the Colonel, "I think I understand. But what about the
drawings of the new pontoons? They must be sent to-night."
"They're ready. To tell the truth, I showed them to Brandon and he made a
good suggestion about the rounding of the waterline."
The Colonel looked thoughtful.
"Well, the idea of a combined pontoon and light boat that would carry
troops is by no means new; but these are rather an unusual type and if it
were known that we were building them, it might give the enemy a hint. I
suppose you told Brandon the thing's to be kept quiet."
"Yes; I made it plain," the Adjutant said, and they walked on.
Dick had been sitting on the bridge, but he jumped up as a rhythmic tramp
of feet came down the hillside. Dust rose among the cornfields and hung
in a white streak along the edge of a wood, and then with a twinkling
flash of steel, small, ocher-colored figures swung out of the shadow.
They came on in loose fours, in an unending line that wound down the
steep slopes and reached the bridge-head. Then orders rolled across the
stream, the line narrowed, and the measured tramp changed to a sharp
uneven patter. The leading platoon were breaking step as they crossed the
bridge. Dick frowned impatiently. This was a needless precaution. The
engineers' work was good; it would stand the percussive shock of marching
feet.
He stood at attention, with a sparkle in his eyes, as the hot and dusty
men went by. They were, for the most part, young men, newly raised
infantry, now being hardened and tempered until they were fit to be used
as the army's spear-head in some desperate thrust for which engineers and
artillery had cleared the way. It was some time before the first
battalion crossed, but the long yellow line still ran back up the
hillside to the spot at which it emerged from the deepening shade, and
the next platoon took the bridge with unbroken step. It swayed and shook
with a curious regular tremble as the feet came down; but there was no
giving way of tie and stringer-beam, and Dick forgot the men who were
passing, and thought of fastenings and stressed material.
He was young and the pomp of war had its effect on him, but the human
element began to take second place. Although an officer of the new army,
he was first of all an engineer; his business was to handle wood and iron
rather than men. The throb of the planks and the swing of the pontoons as
the load passed over them fascinated him; and his interest deepened when
the transport began to cross. Sweating, spume-flecked horses trod the
quivering timber with iron-shod hoofs; grinding wheels jarred the
structure as the wagons passed. He could feel it yield and bend, but it
stood, and Dick was conscious of a strange, emotional thrill. This, in a
sense, was his triumph; the first big task in which he had taken a man's
part; and his work had passed the test. Taste, inclination, and interest
had suddenly deepened into an absorbing love for his profession.
After a time, the Adjutant sent for him and held out a large, sealed
envelope.
"These are the plans I showed you," he said. "Colonel Farquhar is driving
to Newcastle, and will stop at Storeton Grange for supper at midnight.
The plans must be delivered to him there. You have a motorcycle, I
think?"
"Yes."
"Very well; it is not a long ride, but I'll release you from duty now.
Don't be late at Storeton, take care of the papers, and get Colonel
Farquhar's receipt."
There was a manufacturing town not far off, and Dick decided to go there
and spend the evening with a cousin of his. They might go to a theater,
or if not, Lance would find some means of amusing him. As a rule, Dick
did not need amusing, but he felt that he must celebrate the building of
the bridge.
Lance Brandon was becoming known as an architect, and he had a good deal
of constructive talent. The physical likeness between him and Dick was
rather marked, but he was older and they differed in other respects.
Lance knew how to handle men as well as material, and perhaps he owed as
much to this as to his artistic skill. His plans for a new church and the
remodeling of some public buildings had gained him recognition; but he
already was popular at country houses in the neighborhood and was courted
by the leading inhabitants of the town.
Dick and he dined at the best hotel and Lance listened sympathetically to
the description of the bridge. He was not robust enough for the army, but
he hinted that he envied Dick; and Dick felt flattered. He sometimes
bantered Lance about his social gifts and ambitions, but he had never
resented the favors his father had shown his cousin. Lance had been left
an orphan at an early age and the elder Brandon--a man of means and
standing--had brought him up with his son. They had been good friends and
Dick was pleased when his father undertook to give Lance a fair start at
the profession he chose. He imagined that now Lance was beginning to make
his mark, his allowance had stopped, but this was not his business. Lance
was a very good sort, although he was clever in ways that Dick was not
and indeed rather despised.
"What shall we do next?" Dick asked when they had lounged for a time in
the smoking-room.
Lance made a gesture of resignation as he stretched himself in a big
chair. He was dressed with quiet taste, his face was handsome but rather
colorless, and his movements were languid.
"You're such an energetic beggar," he complained. "The only theater where
they put on plays worth seeing is closed just now, but there's a new
dancer at the nearest hall and we might look in. I hope my churchwarden
patrons won't disapprove if they hear of it, because they talk about
building an ornamental mission room."
Dick laughed.
"They wouldn't find fault with you. Somehow, nobody does."
"There's some truth in that; the secret is that I know when to stop. One
can enjoy life without making the pace too hot. People aren't really
censorious, and even the narrow-minded sort allow you certain limits; in
fact, I imagine they rather admire you if you can play with fire and not
get singed. Women do, anyhow; and, in a sense, their judgment's logical.
The thing that doesn't hurt you can't be injurious, and it shows
moderation and self-control if you don't pass the danger line."
"How do you know when you have come to the line?"
"Well," smiled Lance, "experience helps; but I think it's an instinct. Of
course, if you do show signs of damage, you're done for, because then the
people who envied you throw the biggest stones."
"Let's start," said Dick. "I'm not much of a philosopher. Building
bridges and digging saps is good enough for me."
"They're healthy occupations, so long as you don't get shot; but,
considering everything, it's strange that they still monopolize your
interest."
Dick colored. He knew what his cousin meant. He had been attracted by a
girl of whom his father approved and who was well-bred, pretty, and rich.
Dick imagined that his father's views were agreeable to Helen's relatives
and that she was not ignorant of this. Still, nothing had been actually
arranged, and although he admired Helen, it would be time enough to think
of marriage when he was a captain, for instance.
"Pontoons and excavations have their charm for men with constructive
tastes," Lance went on; "but you may find later that they don't satisfy
all your needs."
"Get your hat!" Dick returned with a smile, jumping up as he spoke.
The music-hall was badly filled. The audience seemed listless and the
performance dragged. Even the much-praised dancer was disappointing, and
there was an unusual number of shabby loungers in the bar. Dick had come
prepared to enjoy himself after a day of arduous work, and by way of
doing so, he ordered a drink or two that he did not really want. As a
rule, he was abstemious, but the hall was very hot. It struck him as
glaring and tawdry after the quiet dale where the water sparkled among
the stones; and the pallid loungers with their stamp of indulgence
differed unpleasantly from the hard, brown-faced men he led.
"Let's clear out," he said at last. "Is there anywhere else to go?"
"My rooms," Lance suggested.
"Oh, I want something fresh to-night," Dick replied with a smile.
Lance pondered.
"Well, I can show you some keen card-play and perhaps a clever game of
billiards, besides a girl who's a great deal prettier than the dancer.
But it's four miles out of town."
Dick glanced at his watch.
"I can take you on the carrier," he said. "I've plenty of time yet."
They set off, and presently stopped at a tall iron gate on the edge of a
firwood. A glimmer of lights indicated that a house stood at the end of
the drive.
"Kenwardine will be glad to receive you as a friend of mine," Lance said;
"and you needn't play unless you like. He's fond of company and generally
has a number of young men about the place."
"A private gambling club?"
"Oh, no. You're very far from the mark. Kenwardine certainly likes a bet
and sometimes runs a bank, but all he wins wouldn't do much to keep up a
place like this. However, you can see for yourself."
Dick was not a gambler and did not play many games, but he wanted a
little excitement, and he looked forward to it as he followed his cousin
up the drive.
CHAPTER II
DICK'S TROUBLES BEGIN
It was with mixed feelings that Clare Kenwardine got down from the
stopping train at a quiet station and waited for the trap to take her
home. The trap was not in sight, but this did not surprise her, for
nobody in her father's household was punctual. Clare sometimes wondered
why the elderly groom-gardener, whose wages were very irregularly paid,
stayed on, unless it was because his weakness for liquor prevented his
getting a better post; but the servants liked her father, for he seldom
found fault with them. Kenwardine had a curious charm, which his daughter
felt as strongly as anybody else, though she was beginning to see his
failings and had, indeed, been somewhat shocked when she came home to
live with him not long before.
Now she knitted her level brows as she sat down and looked up the
straight, white road. It ran through pastures, and yellow cornfields
where harvesters were at work, to a moor on which the ling glowed red in
the fading light. Near the station a dark firwood stretched back among
the fields and a row of beeches rose in dense masses of foliage beside
the road. There was no sound except the soft splash of a stream.
Everything was peaceful; but Clare was young, and tranquillity was not
what she desired. She had, indeed, had too much of it in the sleepy
cathedral town she had left.
Her difficulty was that she felt drawn in two different ways; for she had
inherited something of her father's recklessness and love of pleasure,
though her mother, who died when Clare was young, had been a shy Puritan.
Clare was kept at school much longer than usual; and when she insisted on
coming home she found herself puzzled by her father's way of living.
Young men, and particularly army officers, frequented the house; stylish
women came down from town, often without their husbands; and there was
generally some exciting amusement going on. This had its attraction for
Clare; but her delicate refinement was sometimes offended, and once she
was even alarmed. One of the young men had shown his admiration for her
in a way that jarred, and soon afterward there had been a brawl over a
game of cards.
Kenwardine had then suggested that she make a long visit to her aunts, in
the cathedral town. They had received her gladly but she soon found her
stay there irksome. The aunts were austere, religious women, who moved in
a narrow groove and ordered all their doings by a worn-out social code.
Still, they were kind and gave Clare to understand that she was to stay
with them always and have no more to do with Kenwardine than duty
demanded. The girl rebelled. She shrank with innate dislike from license
and dissipation, but the life her aunts led was dreary, and she could not
give up her father. Though inexperienced, she was intelligent and she saw
that her path would not be altogether smooth now that she was going home
for good. While she thought about it, the trap arrived and the shabby
groom drove her up the hill with confused apologies.
An hour or two after Clare reached home, Lance and Dick Brandon entered
the house and were met by Kenwardine in the hall. He wore a velvet jacket
over his evening clothes and Dick noticed a wine-stain on the breast. He
was thin, but his figure was athletic, although his hair was turning gray
and there were wrinkles about his eyes.
"Very glad to see your cousin," he said to Lance, and turned to Dick with
a smile. "Soldiers have a particular claim on our hospitality, but my
house is open to anybody of cheerful frame of mind. One must relax now
and then in times like these."
"That's why I brought Dick," Lance replied. "He believes in tension. But
I wonder whether your notion of relaxing is getting lax?"
"There's a difference, though it's sometimes rather fine," Kenwardine
answered with a twinkle. "But come in and amuse yourselves as you like.
If you want a drink, you know where to find it."
They played a game of billiards and then went into another room, where
Dick lost a sovereign to Kenwardine. After that, he sat in a corner,
smoking and languidly looking about, for he had been hard at work since
early morning. Two or three subaltern officers from a neighboring camp
stood by the table, besides several other men whose sunburned faces
indicated a country life. The carpets and furniture were getting shabby,
but the room was large and handsome, with well-molded cornices and
paneled ceiling. The play was not high and the men were quiet, but the
room was filled with cigar smoke and there was a smell of liquor. Dick
did not object to drink and gambling in moderation, though it was seldom
that he indulged in either. He found no satisfaction in that sort of
thing, and he now felt that some of Kenwardine's friends would do better
to join the new armies than to waste their time as they were doing.
At last Kenwardine threw down the cards.
"I think we have had enough for a time," he said. "Shall we go into the
music-room, for a change?"
Dick followed the others, and looked up with surprise when Clare came in.
Lance had spoken of a pretty girl, but she was not the type Dick had
expected. She wore a very plain white dress, with touches of blue that
emphasized her delicate coloring. Her hair was a warm yellow with deeper
tones, her features were regular and well-defined, and Dick liked the
level glance of her clear, blue eyes. He thought they rested on him
curiously for a moment. She had Kenwardine's slender, well-balanced
figure, and her movements were graceful, but Dick's strongest impression
was that she was out of place. Though perfectly at ease, she did not fit
into her environment: she had a freshness that did not harmonize with
cigar smoke and the smell of drink.
Clare gave him a pleasant smile when he was presented, and after speaking
to one or two of the others she went to the piano when Kenwardine asked
her to sing. Dick, who was sitting nearest the instrument, stooped to
take a bundle of music from a cabinet she opened.
"No," she said; "you may put those down. I'm afraid we have nothing quite
so good, and perhaps it's silly, but I've fallen back on our own
composers since the fourth of August."
Dick spread out the music, to display the titles.
"These fellows have been dead some time," he argued humorously. "They'd
probably disown their descendants if they'd survived until now. But
here's a Frenchman's work. They're on our side, and his stuff is pretty
good, isn't it?"
Clare smiled.
"Yes," she said, "it's certainly good; but I'd rather sing something
English to-night."
She began a patriotic ballad Dick knew and liked. He was not much of a
musician, but his taste was good. The song rang true; it was poetry and
not warlike jingle, but he had not heard it sung so well before. Clare's
voice had been carefully trained and she used it well, but he knew that
she had grasped the spirit of the song. One or two of the men who had
been sitting got up, two young subalterns stood very stiff and straight,
but Dick noted that Kenwardine did not change his lounging attitude. He
was smiling, and Lance, glancing at him, looked amused. Dick remembered
this afterward, but he now felt that Lance was not quite showing his
usual good form.
When the song was finished, Dick turned to Clare. He wanted to begin
talking to her before anybody else came up.
"It was very fine. I don't understand the technique of music, but one
felt that you got the song just right. And then, the way you brought out
the idea!"
"That is what the mechanical part is for," she answered with a smile and
a touch of color. "As it happens, I saw an infantry brigade on the march
to-day, and watched the long line of men go by in the dust and sun.
Perhaps that helps one to understand."
"Did you see them cross the bridge?" Dick asked eagerly.
"No," she answered; and he felt absurdly disappointed. He would have
liked to think that his work had helped her to sing.
"Have you another like the first?" he asked.
"I never sing more than once," she smiled. Then as Lance and another man
came toward them, she added, glancing at an open French window: "Besides,
the room is very hot. It would be cooler in the garden."
Dick was not a man of affairs, but he was not a fool. He knew that Clare
Kenwardine was not the girl to attempt his captivation merely because he
had shown himself susceptible. She wanted him to keep the others off, and
he thought he understood this as he glanced at Lance's companion. The
fellow had a coarse, red face and looked dissipated, and even Lance's
well-bred air was somehow not so marked as usual. Well, he was willing
that she should make any use of him that she liked.
They passed the others, and after stopping to tell Kenwardine that she
was going out, Clare drew back a curtain that covered part of the window.
Dick stepped across the ledge and, seeing that the stairs below were iron
and rather slippery, held out his hand to Clare. The curtain swung back
and cut off the light, and when they were near the bottom the girl
tripped and clutched him. Her hand swept downward from his shoulder
across his chest and caught the outside pocket of his coat, while he
grasped her waist to steady her.
"Thank you," she said. "I was clumsy, but the steps are awkward and my
shoes are smooth."
Dick was glad it was dark, for he felt confused. The girl had rested upon
him for a moment and it had given him a thrill.
They crossed the broad lawn. Half of it lay in shadow, for a wood that
rolled up a neighboring hillside cut off the light of the low, half moon.
The air was still, it was too warm for dew, and there was a smell of
flowers--stocks, Dick thought, and he remembered their pungent sweetness
afterward when he recalled that night. Clare kept in the moonlight, and
he noted the elusive glimmer of her white dress. She wore no hat or wrap,
and the pale illumination emphasized the slenderness of her figure and
lent her an ethereal grace.
They stopped at a bench beneath a copper-beech, where the shadow of the
leaves checkered with dark blotches the girl's white draperies and Dick's
uniform. Some of the others had come out, for there were voices in the
gloom.
"Perhaps you wonder why I brought you here," Clare said frankly.
"No," Dick answered. "If you had any reason, I'm not curious. And I'd
rather be outside."
"Well," she said, "the light was rather glaring and the room very hot."
She paused and added: "Mr. Brandon's your cousin?"
"He is, and a very good sort. He brought me to-night, but I felt that it
was, perhaps, something of an intrusion when you came in."
"You didn't feel that before?"
Dick knew that he was on dangerous ground. He must not admit that he
suspected Kenwardine's motive for receiving promiscuous guests.
"Well, not to the same extent. You see, Lance knows everybody and
everybody likes him. I thought I might be welcome for his sake."
"It's plain that you are fond of your cousin. But why did you imagine
that I should think your visit an intrusion?"
Dick was glad he sat in the shadow, for his face was getting hot. He
could not hint that he had expected to find a rather daring coquette--the
kind of girl, in fact, one would imagine a semi-professional gambler's
daughter to be. It now seemed possible that he had misjudged Kenwardine;
and he had certainly misjudged Clare. The girl's surroundings were
powerless to smirch her: Dick was sure of that.
"Oh, well," he answered awkwardly, "although Lance obviously knows your
father pretty well, it doesn't follow that he's a friend of yours."
"It does not," she said in a curious tone. "But do you know the man he
was with?"
"I never saw him before, and somehow I don't feel anxious to improve his
acquaintance."
Clare laughed.
"That's a quick decision, isn't it? Are you a judge of character?" she
asked.
"I have been badly mistaken," Dick admitted with a smile. "Still, I know
the people I'm going to like. How is it I haven't seen you about? We're
not very far off and most of the people in the neighborhood have driven
over to our camp."
"I only came home to-night, after being away for some time."
Dick was relieved to learn this. He did not like to think of her living
at Kenwardine's house and meeting his friends. It was scarcely half an
hour since he met Clare Kenwardine, but she had, quite unconsciously he
thought, strongly impressed him. In fact, he felt rather guilty about it.
Since he was, in a manner, expected to marry some one else, he had no
business to enjoy yielding to this stranger's charm and to thrill at her
touch.
They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Lance strolled up with
his companion.
"Don't forget the time, Dick," he remarked as he passed. "You mustn't let
him keep you too long, Miss Kenwardine. He has an important errand to do
for his colonel."
"If you don't mind, I won't go just yet," Dick said to Clare; and
understood from her silence that she did not want to dismiss him.
For the first time since they were boys, he was angry with his cousin. It
looked as if Lance had meant to take him away when Miss Kenwardine needed
him. He was flattered to think she preferred his society to the red-faced
man's, and had used him to keep the other at a distance. Well, he would
stay to the last minute and protect her from the fellow, or from anybody
else.
A little later Kenwardine joined them, and Dick knew that he must go.
Clare gave him her hand with a quick, grateful look that made his heart
beat, and Lance met him as he went into the house.
"You're cutting it very fine," he said. "Come along; here's your cap."
"In a moment! There's an infantry man I asked over to our camp."
"You haven't time to look for him," Lance answered, and good-humoredly
pushed Dick into the hall. "Get off at once! A fellow I know will give me
a lift home."
Dick ran down the drive and a few moments later his motorcycle was
humming up the road. He sped through a dark firwood, where the cool air
was filled with resinous scent, and out across a hillside down which the
stocked sheaves stood in silvery rows, but he noticed nothing except that
the white strip of road was clear in front. His thoughts were back in the
garden with Clare Kenwardine, and he could smell the clogging sweetness
of the stocks. This was folly, and he changed the gear on moderate hills
and altered the control when the engine did not need it, to occupy his
mind; but the picture of the girl he carried away with him would not be
banished.
For all that, he reached Storeton Grange in time and, running up the
drive, saw lights in the windows and a car waiting at the door. Getting
down and stating his business, he was shown into a room where a
stern-faced man in uniform sat talking to another in evening clothes.
"I understand you come from Captain Hallam," said the Colonel.
"Yes, sir. He sent me with some papers."
"You know what they are?"
"Plans of pontoons, sir."
"Very well," said the Colonel, taking out a fountain pen. "Let me have
them."
Dick put his hand into his breastpocket, which was on the outside of his
coat. The pocket was unbuttoned, and the big envelope had gone. He
hurriedly felt the other pockets, but they too were empty, and his face
got red.
The Colonel looked hard at him, and then made a sign to the other man,
who quietly went out.
"You haven't got the plans! Did you leave them behind?"
"No, sir," Dick said awkwardly. "I felt to see if they were in my pocket
when I left the camp."
The Colonel's face hardened.
"Did you come straight here?"
"No, sir. I had an hour or two's leave."
"And spent it with your friends? Had you anything to drink?"
"Yes, sir."
"As much as, or more than, usual?"
"Perhaps a little more," Dick said in confusion.
The Colonel studied him with searching eyes; and then took some paper
from a case on the table and began to write. He put the note in an
envelope and gave it to Dick.
"It's your Commanding Officer's business to investigate the matter and
you'll take him this. Report yourself to him or to the Adjutant when you
reach camp. I'll telegraph to see if you have done so."
He raised his hand in sign of dismissal and Dick went out, crushed with
shame, and feeling that he was already under arrest. If he were not in
camp when the telegram came, he would be treated as a deserter.
CHAPTER III
THE PUNISHMENT
On reaching camp and reporting himself, Dick was sent to his tent, where
he slept until he was aroused by the bustle at reveille. He had not
expected to sleep; but he was young and physically tired, and the shock
of trouble had, as sometimes happens, a numbing effect. He awoke
refreshed and composed, though his heart was heavy as he dressed, because
he feared it was the last time that he would wear his country's uniform.
The suspense was trying as he waited until the morning parade was over;
then he was summoned to a tent where the Colonel and the Adjutant sat.
"I have a telegram asking if you have arrived," the Colonel said in a
curious, dry tone. "You must understand that you have laid yourself open
to grave suspicion."
"Yes," Dick answered, wondering whether the Colonel meant that it might
have been better if he had run away.
"Very well. You admitted having received the plans. What did you do with
them?"
"Buttoned them into the left pocket of my coat. When I got to Storeton,
the envelope was gone."
"How do you account for that?"
"I can't account for it, sir."
The Colonel was silent for a few moments, and then he looked fixedly at
Dick.
"Your statements were very unsatisfactory last night, and now that you
have had time to think over the matter, I advise you to be frank. It's
plain that you have been guilty of gross negligence, but that is not the
worst. The drawings are of no direct use to the enemy, but if they fell
into their hands they might supply a valuable hint of the use to which we
mean to put the pontoons. You see what this implies?"
"I don't know how we mean to use them, sir, and I don't want to hide
anything."
"That's a wise resolve," the Colonel answered meaningly; and Dick
colored. After all, there was something he meant to hide.
"You took the plans with you when you left the camp, three or four hours
before you were due at Storeton," said the Adjutant. "Where did you go?"
"To my cousin's rooms in the town."
"Mr. Lance Brandon's," said the Adjutant thoughtfully. "Did you stay
there?"
"No; we dined at The George."
"A well-conducted house," the Adjutant remarked. "You took some wine at
dinner?"
"Two glasses of light claret."
"Then where did you go next?"
"To the new music-hall."
"And ordered drinks in the bar! Who suggested this?"
"I can't remember," Dick replied with an angry flush. "Of course, I see
where you're leading, but I was quite sober when I left the hall."
The Adjutant's expression puzzled him. He had felt that the man was not
unfriendly, and now he looked disappointed.
"I'm not sure your statement makes things better," the Colonel observed
with some dryness. "Did you go straight to Storeton from the hall?"
"No, sir. I spent an hour at a friend's house."
"Whose house was it?"
Dick pondered for a few moments, and then looked up resolutely.
"I must decline to answer, sir. I've lost the plans and must take the
consequences; but I don't see why my private friends, who have nothing to
do with it, should be involved in the trouble."
The Adjutant leaned forward across the table and said something quietly
to the Colonel, and neither of them spoke for the next minute or two.
Dick was sensible of physical as well as mental strain as he stood
stiffly in the middle of the tent. His knees felt weak, little quivers
ran through his limbs, and a ray of hot sunshine struck through the
hooked-back flap into his face, but he dared not relax his rigid pose.
The two officers looked puzzled but grave.
"Go back to your tent and stay there until I send for you," the Colonel
said at last.
Dick saluted and went out, and when he sat down on his camp-bed he
moodily lighted a cigarette and tried to think. His military career was
ended and he was ruined; but this was not what occupied him most. He was
wondering whether Clare Kenwardine had taken the plans. If so, it was his
duty to accuse her; but, actuated by some mysterious impulse, he had
refused.
The longer he thought about it, the clearer her guilt became. He was a
stranger and yet she had suggested a stroll through the garden and had
slipped and clutched him as they went down the steps. Her hand had rested
on the pocket in which the envelope was. She was the daughter of a man
who kept a private gaming house; it was not surprising that she was an
adventuress and had deceived him by her clever acting. For all that, he
could not condemn her; there was a shadow of doubt; and even if she were
guilty, she had yielded to some strong pressure from her father. His
feelings, however, were puzzling. He had spent less than an hour in her
society and she had ruined him, but he knew that he would remember her as
long as he lived.
Dick's common sense led him to smile bitterly. He was behaving like a
sentimental fool. On the whole, it was a relief when the Adjutant came
in.
"You must have known what the Colonel's decision would be," he said with
a hint of regret. "You're to be court-martialed. If you take my advice,
you'll keep nothing back."
* * * * *
The court-martial was over and Dick could not question the justice of its
sentence--he was dismissed from the army. Indeed, it was better than he
had expected. Somewhat to his surprise, the Adjutant afterward saw him
alone.
"I'm thankful our official duty's done," he said. "Of course, I'm taking
an irregular line, and if you prefer not to talk--"
"You made me feel that you wanted to be my friend," Dick replied
awkwardly.
"Then I may, perhaps, remark that you made a bad defense. In the army,
it's better to tell a plausible tale and stick to it; we like an obvious
explanation. Now if you had admitted being slightly drunk."
"But I was sober!"
The Adjutant smiled impatiently.
"So much the worse for you! If you had been drunk, you'd have been turned
out all the same, but the reason would have been, so to speak,
satisfactory. Now you're tainted by a worse suspicion. Personally, I
don't think the lost plans have any value, but if they had, it might have
gone very hard with you." He paused and gave Dick a friendly glance.
"Well, in parting, I'll give you a bit of advice. Stick to engineering,
which you have a talent for."
He went out and not long afterward Dick left the camp in civilian's
clothes, but stopped his motorcycle on the hill and stood looking back
with a pain at his heart. He saw the rows of tents stretched across the
smooth pasture, the flag he had been proud to serve languidly flapping on
the gentle breeze, and the water sparkling about the bridge. Along the
riverside, bare-armed men in shirts and trousers were throwing up banks
of soil with shovels that flashed in the strong light. He could see their
cheerful brown faces and a smart young subaltern taking out a measuring
line. Dick liked the boy, who now no doubt would pass him without a look,
and he envied him with the keenest envy he had ever felt. He had loved
his profession; and he was turned out of it in disgrace.
It was evening when he stood in the spacious library at home, glad that
the light was fading, as he confronted his father, who sat with grim face
in a big leather chair. Dick had no brothers and sisters, and his mother
had died long before. He had not lived much at home, and had been on
good, more than affectionate, terms with his father. Indeed, their
relations were marked by mutual indulgence, for Dick had no interest
outside his profession, while Mr. Brandon occupied himself with politics
and enjoyed his prominent place in local society. He was conventional and
his manners were formal and dignified, but Dick thought him very much
like Lance, although he had not Lance's genial humor.
"Well," he said when Dick had finished, "you have made a very bad mess of
things and it is, of course, impossible that you should remain here. In
fact, you have rendered it difficult for me to meet my neighbors and take
my usual part in public affairs."
This was the line Dick had expected him to take. It was his father's
pride he had wounded and not his heart. He did not know what to say and,
turning his head, he looked moodily out of the open window. The lawn
outside was beautifully kept and the flower-borders were a blaze of
tastefully assorted colors, but there was something artificial and
conventional about the garden that was as marked in the house. Somehow
Dick had never really thought of the place as home.
"I mean to go away," he said awkwardly.
"The puzzling thing is that you should deny having drunk too much,"
Brandon resumed.
"But I hadn't done so! You look at it as the others did. Why should it
make matters better if I'd owned to being drunk?"
"Drunkenness," his father answered, "is now an offense against good
taste, but not long ago it was thought a rather gentlemanly vice, and a
certain toleration is still extended to the man who does wrong in liquor.
Perhaps this isn't logical, but you must take the world as you find it. I
had expected you to learn more in the army than you seem to have picked
up. Did you imagine that your promotion depended altogether upon your
planning trenches and gun-pits well?"
"That kind of thing is going to count in the new armies," Dick replied.
"Being popular on guest-night at the mess won't help a man to hold his
trench or work his gun under heavy fire."
Brandon frowned.
"You won't have an opportunity for showing what you can do. I don't know
where you got your utilitarian, radical views; but we'll keep to the
point. Where do you think of going?"
"To New York, to begin with."
"Why not Montreal or Cape Town?"
"Well," Dick said awkwardly, "after what has happened, I'd rather not
live on British soil."
"Then why not try Hamburg?"
Dick flushed.
"You might have spared me that, sir! I lost the plans; I didn't sell
them."
"Very well. This interview is naturally painful to us both and we'll cut
it short, but I have something to say. It will not be forgotten that you
were turned out of the army, and if you succeeded me, the ugly story
would be whispered when you took any public post. I cannot have our name
tainted and will therefore leave the house and part of my property to
your cousin. Whether you inherit the rest or not will depend upon
yourself. In the meantime, I am prepared to make you an allowance, on the
understanding that you stay abroad until you are sent for."
Dick faced his father, standing very straight, with knitted brows.
"Thank you, sir, but I will take nothing."
"May I ask why?"
"If you'd looked at the thing differently and shown a little kindness, it
would have cut me to the quick," Dick said hoarsely. "I'm not a thief and
a traitor, though I've been a fool, and it hurts to know what you think.
I'm going away to-morrow and I'll get on, somehow, without your help. I
don't know that I'll come back if you do send for me."
"You don't seem to understand your position, but you may come to realize
it before very long," Brandon replied.
He got up and Dick left the library; but he did not sleep that night. It
had been hard to meet his father and what he said had left a wound that
would take long to heal. Now he must say good-by to Helen. This would
need courage, but Dick meant to see her. It was the girl's right that she
should hear his story, and he would not steal away like a cur. He did not
think Helen was really fond of him, though he imagined that she would
have acquiesced in her relatives' plans for them both had things been
different. Now, of course, that was done with, but he must say good-by
and she might show some regret or sympathy. He did not want her to
suffer, but he did not think she would feel the parting much; and she
would not treat him as his father had done.
When he called the next morning at an old country house, he was told that
Miss Massie was in the garden, and going there, he stopped abruptly at a
gap in a shrubbery. Beyond the opening there was a stretch of smooth
grass, checkered by moving shadow, and at one side a row of gladioli
glowed against the paler bloom of yellow dahlias. Helen Massie held a
bunch of the tall crimson spikes, and Dick thought as he watched her with
a beating heart that she was like the flowers. They were splendid in form
and color, but there was nothing soft or delicate in their aggressive
beauty. Helen's hair was dark and her color high, her black eyes were
bright, and her yellow dress showed a finely outlined form. Dick knew
that she was proud, resolute, and self-confident.
Then she turned her head and saw him, and he knew that she had heard of
his disgrace, for her color deepened and her glance was rather hard than
sympathetic. The hand that held the flowers dropped to her side, but she
waited until he came up.
"I see you know, and it doesn't matter who told you," he said. "I felt I
had to come before I went away."
"Yes," she answered calmly, "I heard. You have courage, Dick; but perhaps
a note would have been enough, and more considerate."
Dick wondered gloomily whether she meant that he might have saved her
pain by staying away, or that he had involved her in his disgrace by
coming, since his visit would be talked about. He reflected bitterly that
the latter was more probable.
"Well," he said, "we have been pretty good friends and I'm leaving the
country. I don't suppose I shall come back again."
"When do you go?"
"Now," said Dick. "I must catch the train at noon."
Helen's manner did not encourage any indulgence in sentiment and he half
resented this, although it made things easier. He could not say he had
come to give her up, because there had been no formal engagement. Still
he had expected some sign of pity or regret.
"You don't defend yourself," she remarked thoughtfully. "Couldn't you
have fought it out?"
"There was nothing to fight for. I lost the papers I was trusted with;
one can't get over that."
"But people may imagine you did something worse." She paused for a moment
and added: "Don't you care what I might think?"
Dick looked at her steadily. "You ought to know. Do you believe it's
possible I stole and meant to sell the plans?"
"No," she said with a touch of color. "But I would have liked you, for
your friends' sake, to try to clear yourself. If you had lost the papers,
they would have been found and sent back; as they were not, it looks as
if you had been robbed."
That she could reason this out calmly struck Dick as curious, although he
had long known that Helen was ruled by her brain and not her heart.
"I've been careless and there's nothing to be done but take my
punishment."
She gave him a keen glance. "Are you hiding something, Dick? It's your
duty to tell all that you suspect."
Dick winced. Helen was right; it was his duty, but he was not going to
carry it out. He began to see what this meant, but his resolution did not
falter.
"If I knew I'd been robbed, it would be different, but I don't, and if I
blamed people who were found to be innocent, I'd only make matters worse
for myself."
"I suppose that's true," she agreed coldly. "However, you have made your
choice and it's too late now. Where are you going, Dick?"
"To New York by the first boat from Liverpool."
He waited, watching her and wondering whether she would ask him to stop,
but she said quietly: "Well, I shall, no doubt, hear how you get on."
"It's unlikely," he answered in a hard voice. "I've lost my friends with
my character. The best thing I can do is to leave them alone."
Then he looked at his watch, and she gave him her hand. "For all that, I
wish you good luck, Dick."
She let him go, and as he went back to the gate he reflected that Helen
had taken the proper and tactful line by dismissing him as if he were
nothing more than an acquaintance. He could be nothing more now, and to
yield to sentiment would have been painful and foolish; but it hurt him
that she had realized this.
When he wheeled his bicycle away from the gate he saw a boy who helped
his father's gardener running along the road, and waited until he came
up, hot and panting. The boy held out a small envelope.
"It came after you left, Mr. Dick," he gasped.
"Then you have been very quick."
The lad smiled, for Dick was a favorite with his father's servants.
"I thought you'd like to have the note," he answered, and added
awkwardly: "Besides, I didn't see you when you went."
It was the first hint of kindness Dick had received since his disgrace
and he took the lad's hand before he gave him half a crown, though he
knew that he must practise stern economy.
"Thank you and good-by, Jim. You must have taken some trouble to catch
me," he said.
Then he opened the envelope and his look softened.
"I heard of your misfortune and am very sorry, but something tells me
that you are not to blame," the note ran, and was signed "Clare
Kenwardine."
For a moment or two Dick was sensible of keen relief and satisfaction;
and then his mood changed. This was the girl who had robbed and ruined
him; she must think him a fool! Tearing up the note, he mounted his
bicycle and rode off to the station in a very bitter frame of mind.
CHAPTER IV
ADVERSITY
When he had sold his motorcycle at Liverpool, Dick found it would be
prudent to take a third-class passage, but regretted this as soon as the
liner left the St. George's channel. The food, though badly served, was
good of its kind, and his berth was comfortable enough for a man who had
lived under canvas, but when the hatches were closed on account of bad
weather the foul air of the steerage sickened him and the habits of his
companions left much to be desired. It was difficult to take refuge in
the open air, because the steerage deck was swept by bitter spray and
often flooded as the big ship lurched across the Atlantic against a
western gale.
A spray-cloud veiled her forward when the bows plunged into a comber's
hollow side, and then as they swung up until her forefoot was clear, foam
and green water poured aft in cataracts. Sometimes much of her hull
before the bridge sank into the crest of a half-mile sea and lower decks
and alleyways looked like rivers. The gale held all the way across, and
Dick felt jaded and gloomy when they steamed into New York, a day late.
He had some trouble with the immigration officers, who asked awkward
questions about his occupation and his reason for giving it up, but he
satisfied them at length and was allowed to land.
The first few days he spent in New York helped him to realize the change
in his fortunes and the difficulties he must face. Until the night he
lost the plans, he had scarcely known a care; life had been made easy,
and his future had looked safe. He had seldom denied himself anything; he
had started well on a career he liked, and all his thoughts were centered
on fitting himself for it. Extravagance was not a failing of his, but he
had always had more money than would satisfy his somewhat simple needs.
Now, however, there was an alarming difference.
To begin with, it was obvious that he could only stay for a very limited
time at the cheap hotel he went to, and his efforts to find employment
brought him sharp rebuffs. Business men who needed assistance asked him
curt questions about his training and experience, and when he could not
answer satisfactorily promptly got rid of him. Then he tried manual labor
and found employment almost as hard to get. The few dollars he earned at
casual jobs did not pay his board at the hotel where he lived in squalid
discomfort, but matters got worse when he was forced to leave it and take
refuge in a big tenement house, overcrowded with unsavory foreigners from
eastern Europe. New York was then sweltering under a heat wave, and he
came home, tired by heavy toil or sickened by disappointment, to pass
nights of torment in a stifling, foul-smelling room.
He bore it for some weeks and then, when his small stock of money was
melting fast, set off to try his fortune in the manufacturing towns of
Pennsylvania and Ohio. Here he found work was to be had, but the best
paid kind was barred to untrained men by Trade-union rules, and the rest
was done by Poles and Ruthenians, who led a squalid semi-communistic life
in surroundings that revolted him. Still, he could not be fastidious and
took such work as he could get, until one rainy evening when he walked
home dejectedly after several days of enforced idleness. A labor agent's
window caught his eye and he stopped amidst the crowd that jostled him on
the wet sidewalk to read the notices displayed.
One ticket stated that white men, and particularly live mechanics, were
wanted for a job down South, but Dick hesitated for a few minutes,
fingering a dollar in his pocket. Carefully spent, it would buy him his
supper and leave something towards his meals next day, and he had been
walking about since morning without food. If he went without his supper,
the agent, in exchange for the dollar, would give him the address of the
man who wanted help, but Dick knew from experience that it did not follow
that he would be engaged. Still, one must risk something and the
situation was getting desperate. He entered the office and a clerk handed
him a card.
"It's right across the town, but you'd better get there quick," he said.
"The job's a snap and I've sent a lot of men along."
Dick boarded a street-car that took him part of the way, but he had to
walk the rest, and was tired and wet when he reached an office in a side
street. A smart clerk took the card and gave him a critical glance.
"It looks as if we were going to be full up, but I'll put down your name
and you can come back in the morning," he remarked. "What do you call
yourself?"
"A civil engineer," said Dick. "But where is the job and what's the pay?"
"I guess Central America is near enough; mighty fine country, where rum's
good and cheap. Pay'll pan out about two-fifty, or perhaps three dollars
if you're extra smart."
"You can get as much here," Dick objected, thinking it unwise to seem
eager.
"Then why don't you get it?" the clerk inquired. "Anyhow, you won't be
charged for board and all you'll have to do is to drive breeds and
niggers. It's a soft thing, sure, but you can light out now and come back
if you feel it's good enough for you to take your chance."
Dick went away, and had reached the landing when a man who wore loose,
gray clothes and a big, soft hat, met him.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I've been applying for the job in the South."
The other gave him a searching glance and Dick thought he noted his
anxious look and wet and shabby clothes.
"What can you do?" he resumed.
"To begin with, I can measure cubic quantities, plan out excavating work,
and use the level. If this kind of thing's not wanted, I can handle a
spade."
"Where have you done your digging?"
"In this city. Laying sewers for a contractor, who, the boys said, had to
squeeze us to make good the graft he put up to get the job."
The other nodded. "That's so; I know the man. You can use a spade all
right if you satisfied him. But the sewer's not finished yet; why did you
quit?"
"The foreman fired three or four of us to make room for friends that a
saloon-keeper who commands some votes sent along."
"Well," said the other, smiling, "you seem to understand how our city
bosses fix these things. But my job will mean pretty tough work. Are you
sure you want it?"
"I can't find another," Dick answered frankly.
"Very well, I'll put you on. Look round to-morrow and get your orders.
I've a notion that you're up against it; here's a dollar on account."
Dick took the money. He rather liked the man, whose abruptness was
disarmed by his twinkling smile. For the first time, with one exception,
during his search for employment, he had been treated as a human being
instead of an instrument for doing a certain amount of work.
It was raining hard when he reached the street, and supper would be over
before he arrived at his cheap hotel, where one must eat at fixed times
or wait for the next meal. There was, however, a small restaurant with an
Italian name outside a few blocks further on, and going in he was served
with well-cooked food and afterwards sat in a corner smoking and thinking
hard. He now felt more cheerful; but the future was dark and he realized
the difficulties in his path.
American industry was highly organized. The man who hoped for advancement
must specialize and make himself master of some particular branch. Dick
had specialized in England, and thought he knew his subject, but could
not use his knowledge. The Americans to whom he tried to sell it would
have none of him, and Dick owned that he could not blame them; since it
was natural to suppose that the man who was unfaithful to his country
would not be loyal to his employer. When he looked for other openings, he
found capital and labor arrayed in hostile camps. There was mechanical
work he was able to do, but this was not allowed, because the organized
workers, who had fought stubbornly for a certain standard of comfort,
refused to let untrained outsiders share the benefits they had won.
Business was left; but it needed money, and if he tried to enter it as a
clerk, he must first obtain smart clothes and find somebody to certify
his ability and character, which was impossible. It looked as if he must
be content with manual labor. The wages it commanded were not low and he
was physically strong, but he shrank from the lives the lower ranks of
toilers led when their work was done. The crowded bunk-house and squalid
tenement revolted him. Still, he was young and optimistic; his luck might
change when he went South and chance give him an opportunity of breaking
through the barriers that shut him in. He sat in the corner, pondering,
until it got late and the tired Italian politely turned him out.
Next morning he joined a group of waiting men at the railroad station.
They had a dejected look as they sat upon their bundles outside the
agent's office, except for three or four who were cheerfully drunk. Their
clothes were shabby and of different kinds, for some wore cheap
store-suits and some work-stained overalls. It was obvious that adversity
had brought them together, and Dick did not think they would make amiable
companions. About half appeared to be Americans, but he could not
determine the nationality of the rest, who grumbled in uncouth English
with different accents.
By and by the clerk whom Dick had met came out of the office with a
bundle of tickets, which he distributed, and soon afterwards the train
rolled into the depot. Dick was not pleased to find that a car had been
reserved for the party, since he would sooner have traveled with the
ordinary passengers. Indeed, when a dispute began as the train moved
slowly through the wet street, he left the car. In passing through the
next, he met the conductor, who asked for his ticket, and after tearing
off a section of the long paper, gave him a card, which he gruffly
ordered him to stick in his hat. Then he put his hand on Dick's shoulder,
and pushed him back through the vestibule.
"That's your car behind and you'll stop right there," he said. "Next time
you come out we'll put you off the train."
Dick resigned himself, but stopped on the front platform and looked back
as the train jolted across a rattling bridge. A wide, yellow river ran
beneath it, and the tall factories and rows of dingy houses were fading
in the rain and smoke on the other side. Dick watched them until they
grew indistinct, and then his heart felt lighter. He had endured much in
the grimy town; but all that was over. After confronting, with
instinctive shrinking, industry's grimmest aspect, he was traveling
toward the light and glamour of the South.
Entering the smoking compartment, he found the disturbance had subsided,
and presently fell into talk with a man on the opposite seat who asked
for some tobacco. He told Dick he was a locomotive fireman, but had got
into trouble, the nature of which he did not disclose. Dick never learned
much more about his past than this, but their acquaintance ripened and
Kemp proved a useful friend.
It was getting dark when they reached an Atlantic port and were lined up
on the terminal platform by a man who read out a list of their names. He
expressed his opinion of them with sarcastic vigor when it was discovered
that three of the party had left the train on the way; and then packed
the rest into waiting automobiles, which conveyed them to the wharf as
fast as the machines would go.
"Guess you won't quit this journey. The man who jumps off will sure get
hurt," he remarked as they started.
In spite of his precautions, another of the gang was missing when they
alighted, and Kemp, the fireman, grinned at Dick.
"That fellow's not so smart as he allows," he said. "He'd have gone in
the last car, where he could see in front, if he'd known his job."
They were hustled up a steamer's gangway and taken to the after end of
the deck, where their conductor turned his back on them for a few minutes
while he spoke to a mate.
"Now's your time," said Kemp, "if you feel you want to quit."
Dick looked about. The spar-deck, on which the boats were stowed, covered
the spot where he stood, and the passage beneath the stanchions was dark.
There was nobody at the top of the gangway under the big cargo-lamp, and
its illumination did not carry far across the wharf. If he could reach
the latter, he would soon be lost in the gloom, and he was sensible of a
curious impulse that urged him to flight. It almost amounted to panic,
and he imagined that the other men's desertion must have daunted him. For
a few moments he struggled with the feeling and then conquered it.
"No," he said firmly; "I'll see the thing through."
Kemp nodded. "Well, I guess it's too late now."
Two seamen, sent by the mate, went to the top of the gangway, and the
fellow who had brought the party from the station stood on guard near.
Dick afterward realized that much depended on the choice he swiftly made
and wondered whether it was quite by chance he did so.
"You were pretty near going," his companion resumed.
"Yes," said Dick, thoughtfully; "I believe I was. As a matter of fact, I
don't know why I stopped."
The other smiled. "I've felt like that about risky jobs I took. Sometimes
I lit out, and sometimes I didn't, but found out afterward I was right
either way. If you feel you have to go, the best thing you can do is to
get a move on."
Dick agreed with this. He did not understand it, but knew that while he
had still had time to escape down the gangway and felt strongly tempted
to do so, it was impressed upon him that he must remain.
A few minutes later their conductor left them with a sarcastic farewell,
the ropes were cast off, and the steamer swung out from the wharf. When,
with engines throbbing steadily, she headed down the bay, Dick went to
his berth, and on getting up next morning found the American coast had
sunk to a low, gray streak to starboard. A fresh southwest breeze was
blowing under a cloudy sky and the vessel, rolling viciously, lurched
across the white-topped combers of the warm Gulf Stream.
After breakfast, some of his companions gathered into listless, grumbling
groups, and some brought out packs of greasy cards, but Dick sat by
himself, wondering with more buoyant feelings what lay before him. He had
known trouble and somehow weathered it, and now he was bound to a country
where the sun was shining. It was pleasant to feel the soft air on his
face and the swing of the spray-veiled bows. After all, good fortune
might await him down South.
CHAPTER V
THE CONCRETE TRUCK
It was very hot in the deep hollow that pierced the mountain range behind
Santa Brigida on the Caribbean Sea. The black peaks cut against a glaring
sky and the steep slopes of red soil and volcanic cinders on one side of
the ravine were dazzlingly bright. The other was steeped in blue shadow
that scarcely seemed to temper the heat, and the dark-skinned men who
languidly packed the ballast among the ties of a narrow-gage railroad
that wound up the hill panted as they swung their shovels. At its lower
end, the ravine opened on to a valley that got greener as it ran down to
the glittering sea, on the edge of which feathery palms clustered round
Santa Brigida.
The old city, dominated by its twin, cathedral towers, shone ethereally
white in the distance, with a narrow fringe of flashing surf between it
and the vivid blue of the Caribbean. It was a thriving place, as the
black dots of steamers in the roadstead showed, for of late years
American enterprise had broken in upon its lethargic calm. The population
was, for the most part, of Spanish stock that had been weakened by
infusions of Indian and negro blood, but there were a number of Chinamen,
and French Creoles. Besides these, Americans, Britons, and European
adventurers had established themselves, and the town was a hotbed of
commercial and political intrigue. The newcomers were frankly there for
what they could get and fought cunningly for trading and agricultural
concessions. The leading citizens of comparatively pure Spanish strain
despised the grasping foreigners in their hearts, but as a rule took
their money and helped them in their plots. Moreover, they opened a
handsome casino and less reputable gambling houses with the object of
collecting further toll.
Such wealth as the country enjoyed was largely derived from the fertile
soil, but the district about Santa Brigida was less productive than the
rest and had been long neglected. There was rain enough all round, but
much of the moisture condensed on the opposite side of the range and left
the slopes behind the town comparatively arid. To remedy this an
irrigation scheme was being carried out by American capitalists, and the
narrow-gage railroad formed part of the undertaking.
A man dressed in rather baggy, gray clothes and a big, soft hat sat in
the shadow of the rock. His thin face had been recently browned by the
sun, for the paler color where his hat shaded it showed that he was used
to a northern climate. Though his pose was relaxed and he had a cigar in
his mouth, there was a hint of energy about him and he was following the
curves of the railroad with keenly observant eyes. A girl in white dress
of fashionable cut sat near him, holding a green-lined sunshade, for
although they were in the shadow the light was strong. The likeness
between them indicated they were father and daughter.
"I expect you're feeling it pretty hot," Fuller remarked.
"It is not oppressive and I rather like the brightness," the girl
replied. "Besides, it's cool enough about the tent after the sun goes
behind the range. Of course, you are used to the climate."
"I was, but that was twenty-four years ago and before you were born. Got
my first lift with the ten thousand dollars I made in the next state down
this coast, besides the ague and shivers that have never quite left me.
However, it's pretty healthy up here, and I guess it ought to suit Jake
all right."
Ida Fuller looked thoughtful, and her pensive expression added to the
charm of her attractive face. She had her father's keen eyes, but they
were, like her hair, a soft dark-brown; and the molding of brows and nose
and mouth was rather firm than delicate. While her features hinted at
decision of character, there was nothing aggressive in her look, which,
indeed, was marked by a gracious calm. Though she was tall, her figure
was slender.
"Yes," she agreed, "if he would stay up here!"
Fuller nodded. "I'd have to fix him up with work enough to keep him busy,
and ask for a full-length report once a week. That would show me what he
was doing and he'd have to stick right to his job to find out what was
going on."
"Unless he got somebody to tell him, or perhaps write the report. Jake,
you know, is smart."
"You're fond of your brother, but I sometimes think you're a bit hard on
him. I admit I was badly riled when they turned him down from Yale, but
it was a harmless fool-trick he played, and when he owned up squarely I
had to let it go."
"That's Jake's way. You can't be angry with him. Still, perhaps, it's a
dangerous gift. It might be better for him if he got hurt now and then."
Fuller, who did not answer, watched her, as she pondered. Her mother had
died long ago, and Fuller, who was largely occupied by his business, knew
that Jake might have got into worse trouble but for the care Ida had
exercised. He admitted that his daughter, rather than himself, had
brought up the lad, and her influence had been wholly for good. By and by
she glanced at Santa Brigida.
"It's the casino and other attractions down there I'm afraid of. If you
had some older man you could trust to look after Jake, one would feel
more satisfied."
"Well," said Fuller with a twinkle, "there's nobody I know who could fill
the bill, and I'm not sure the older men are much steadier than the
rest."
He stopped as a puff of smoke rose at the lower end of the ravine and
moved up the hill. Then a flash of twinkling metal broke out among the
rocks, and Ida saw that a small locomotive was climbing the steep track.
"She's bringing up concrete blocks for the dam," Fuller resumed. "We use
them large in the lower courses, and I had the bogie car they're loaded
on specially built for the job; but I'm afraid we'll have to put down
some pieces of the line again. The grade's pretty stiff and the curves
are sharp."
Ida was not bored by these details. She liked her father to talk to her
about his business, and her interest was quickly roused. Fuller, who was
proud of her keen intelligence, told her much, and she knew the
importance of the irrigation scheme he had embarked upon. Land in the
arid belt could be obtained on favorable terms and, Fuller thought, be
made as productive as that watered by the natural rainfall. It was,
however, mainly because he had talked about finding her scapegrace
brother employment on the work that Ida had made him take her South.
As she glanced at the track she noted that room for it had been dug out
of the hillside, which was seamed by gullies that the rails twisted
round. The loose soil, consisting largely of volcanic cinders, appeared
to offer a very unsafe support. It had slipped away here and there,
leaving gaps between the ties, which were unevenly laid and at the
sharper bends overhung the steep slope below. In the meantime, the small
locomotive came nearer, panting loudly and throwing up showers of sparks,
and Ida remarked how the rails bent and then sprang up again as the
truck, which carried two ponderous blocks of stone, rolled over them. The
engine rocked, sparks flashed among the wheels as their flanges bit the
curves, and she wondered what the driver felt or if he had got used to
his rather dangerous work.
As a matter of fact, Dick Brandon, who drove the engine, felt some
nervous strain. He had applied for the post at Kemp's suggestion, after
the latter had given him a few lessons in locomotive work, and had since
been sorry that he had obtained it. Still he had now a room to himself at
the shed where the engine was kept, and a half-breed fireman to help him
with the heavier part of his task. He preferred this to living in a hot
bunk-house and carrying bags of cement in the grinding mill, though he
knew there was a certain risk of his plunging down the ravine with his
engine.
The boiler primed when he started and was not steaming well. The pistons
banged alarmingly as they compressed the water that spurted from the
drain-cocks, and his progress was marked by violent jerks that jarred the
couplings of the bogie truck. Though Dick only wore a greasy shirt and
overall trousers, he felt the oppressive heat, and his eyes ached with
the glare as he gazed up the climbing track. The dust that rolled about
the engine dimmed the glasses, the footplate rattled, and it looked as if
his fireman was performing a clumsy dance.
By and by he rather doubtfully opened the throttle to its widest. If the
boiler primed again, he might knock out the cylinder-heads, but there was
a steep pitch in front that was difficult to climb. The short locomotive
rocked and hammered, the wheels skidded and gripped again, and Dick took
his hand from the lever to dash the sweat from his eyes.
They were going up, and he would be past the worst if he could get his
load round the curve ahead. They were half way round when there was a
clang behind him and the engine seemed to leap forward. Glancing over his
shoulder as he shut off steam, Dick saw the fireman gazing back, and a
wide gap between the concrete blocks and his load of coal. The couplings
had snapped as they strained round the bend and the truck would run down
the incline until it smashed through the sheds that held the grinding and
mixing plant at the bottom. He saw that prompt action was needed, and
reversing the machinery, gave the fireman an order in uncouth Castilian.
The fellow looked at him stupidly, as if his nerve had failed, or he
thought the order too risky to obey. There was only one thing to be done,
and since it must be done at once, Dick must undertake it himself. The
engine was now running down the line after the truck, which had not
gathered much speed yet, and he climbed across the coal and dropped upon
the rear buffer-frame. Balancing himself upon it, he waited until the gap
between him and the truck got narrower, and then put his hand on top of
the concrete and swung himself across. He got his foot upon the side of
the car and made his way along, holding the top of the block, while the
dust rolled about him and he thought he would be jolted off. Indeed,
there was only an inch-wide ledge of smooth iron to support his foot,
which slipped once or twice; but he reached the brake-gear and screwed it
down. Then, crawling back, he hooked on the spare coupling and returned,
breathless and shaky, to his engine. A minute or two later he brought it
to a stop and had got down upon the line when somebody called him.
Looking round, he saw Fuller standing near, and knew him as the man who
had given him the dollar in the American town. He had heard that his
employer had come out to see what progress was being made, but had not
yet encountered him. He did not notice Ida, who was sitting in the shadow
of the rock.
"You were smart," said Fuller. "There'd have been an ugly smash if the
blocks had got away down the grade. But why didn't you stick to the
throttle and send your fireman?"
"I don't think he understood what he ought to do, and there was no time
to explain."
Fuller nodded. "So you did it yourself! But why didn't you push the car?
You could have held her up better then."
"I couldn't get behind it. The loop-track down at the switches has caved
in."
"I see. But it's a stiff grade and you didn't seem to be hustling your
engine much."
"The boiler was priming and I was afraid of the cylinders."
"Just so. You pumped up the water pretty high?"
"No; it was at the usual working level," said Dick, who paused and
resumed thoughtfully: "I can't account for the thing. Why does a boiler
prime?"
There are one or two obvious reasons for a boiler's priming; that is to
say, throwing water as well as steam into the engine, but this sometimes
happens when no cause can be assigned, and Fuller saw that Dick did not
expect an answer to his question. It was rather an exclamation, prompted
by his failure to solve a fascinating problem, and as such indicated that
his interest in his task was not confined to the earning of a living.
Fuller recognized the mind of the engineer.
"Well," he replied, "there's a good deal we don't know yet about the
action of fluids under pressure. But do you find the grade awkward when
she's steaming properly?"
"I can get up. Still, I think it will soon cost you as much in extra fuel
as it would to relay this bit of line. Two hundred cubic yards cut out at
the bend would make things much easier."
"Two hundred yards?" said Fuller, studying the spot.
"Two hundred and fifty at the outside," Dick answered confidently, and
then felt embarrassed as he saw Miss Fuller for the first time. His
clothes were few and dirty and he was awkwardly conscious that his hands
and face were black. But his employer claimed his attention.
"What would you reckon the weight of the stuff?"
Dick told him after a short silence, and Fuller asked: "Two-thousand-pound
tons?"
"Yes; I turned it into American weight."
"Well," said Fuller, "you must get on with your job now, but come up to
my tent after supper."
Dick started his locomotive, and when it panted away up the incline
Fuller looked at his daughter with a smile.
"What do you think of that young man?"
"He has a nice face. Of course he's not the type one would expect to find
driving a locomotive."
"Pshaw!" said Fuller. "I'm not talking about his looks."
"Nor am I, in the way you mean," Ida rejoined. "I thought he looked
honest, though perhaps reliable is nearest what I felt. Then he was very
professional."
Fuller nodded. "That's what I like. The man who puts his job before what
he gets for it naturally makes the best work. What do you think of his
manner?"
"It was good; confident, but not assertive, with just the right note of
deference," Ida answered, and then laughed. "It rather broke down after
he saw me."
"That's not surprising, anyhow. I expect he's used to wearing different
clothes and more of them when he meets stylish young women. It doesn't
follow that the young fellow isn't human because he's professional.
However, I want to see what the boys are doing farther on."
CHAPTER VI
A STEP UP
Dusk was falling when Dick went to keep his appointment with his
employer. Fireflies glimmered in the brush beside the path, and the
lights of Santa Brigida flashed in a brilliant cluster on the edge of the
shadowy sea. High above, rugged peaks cut black against the sky, and the
land breeze that swept their lower slopes brought with it instead of
coolness a warm, spicy smell. There was more foliage when Dick reached
the foot of a projecting spur, for a dark belt of forest rolled down the
hill; and by and by he saw a big tent, that gleamed with a softened
radiance like a paper lantern, among a clump of palms. It seemed to be
well lighted inside, and Dick remembered having heard orders for electric
wires to be connected with the power-house at the dam.
Fuller obviously meant to give his daughter all the civilized comfort
possible, and Dick was glad he had been able to find a clean duck suit,
though he was not sure he had succeeded in removing all the oily grime
from his face. Nothing could be done with his hands. The knuckles were
scarred, the nails broken, and the black grease from the engine had
worked into his skin. Still, this did not matter much, because he had
gradually overcome his fastidiousness and it was not likely that Miss
Fuller would notice him.
She was, however, sitting outside the tent, from which an awning extended
so as to convert its front into a covered veranda, and Dick was half
surprised when she gave him a smile of recognition that warranted his
taking off his hat. Then Fuller, beckoning him to come forward, switched
on another lamp and the light fell on a table covered with plans. Dick
stopped when he reached it and waited, not knowing how his employer meant
to receive him.
"Sit down," said Fuller, indicating a chair, and then gave him one of the
plans, some paper, and a fountain pen. "Study that piece of digging and
let me know the weight of stuff to be moved, the number of men you'd use,
and what you think the job would cost."
Dick set to work, and at once became absorbed. Twenty minutes passed and
he did not move or speak, nor did he see the smile with which Ida
answered Fuller's look. In another ten minutes he put down the pen and
gave Fuller his calculations.
"I think that's near it, sir. I'm reckoning on the use of colored peons."
Fuller nodded. "You haven't left much margin for what we call
contingencies. But they're going to bring us some coffee. Will you take a
cigar?"
A Chinaman brought out a silver coffee-pot on a tray, which he placed on
a folding table in front of Ida, and since it was two or three yards from
the other, Dick got up when she filled the cups. She gave him two, which
he carried back, but remained where she was, within hearing but far
enough away not to obtrude her society upon the others. Dick, who lighted
his cigar, felt grateful to Fuller. It was some time since he had met
people of any refinement on friendly terms, and until he took up his
quarters in the locomotive shed had been living in squalor and dirt.
There was not much furniture outside the tent, but the neat folding
tables, comfortable canvas chairs, delicate china, and silver coffee-pot
gave the place a luxurious look, and though Miss Fuller was, so to speak,
outside the circle, the presence of a well-dressed, attractive girl had
its charm. Indeed, Dick felt half embarrassed by the pleasantness of his
surroundings. They were unusual and reminded him poignantly of the
privileges he had enjoyed in England.
"Where did you learn to make these calculations?" Fuller asked after a
time.
"In the British Army, Royal Engineers," Dick answered with a flush.
"Were you an officer?"
Dick had dreaded the question. It looked as if truthfulness would cost
him much; but he determined that his new friends should know the worst.
"Yes."
"Then why did you quit?"
Dick glanced at Ida, and imagined that she was interested, though she did
not look up.
"I was turned out, sir."
"Ah!" said Fuller, without surprise. "May I ask why? It's not impertinent
curiosity."
"I was sent with some important papers, which I lost. This was bad
enough, but there was some ground for suspecting that I had stolen them."
"Do you know how they were lost?"
Dick was grateful for the way the question was put, since it hinted that
Fuller did not doubt his honesty.
"No," he said. "That is, I have a notion, but I'm afraid I'll never quite
find out."
Fuller did not reply for a minute or two, and Dick, whose face was rather
hot, glanced back at Ida. Her eyes were now fixed on him with quiet
interest, and something in her expression indicated approval.
"Well," said Fuller, "I'm going to give you a chance of making good,
because if you had done anything crooked, you wouldn't have told me that
tale. You'll quit driving the locomotive and superintend on a section of
the dam. I'm not satisfied with the fellow who's now in charge. He's
friendly with the dago sub-contractors and I suspect I'm being robbed."
Dick's eyes sparkled. His foot was on the ladder that led to success; and
he did not mean to stay at the bottom. Moreover, it caused him an
exhilarating thrill to feel that he was trusted again.
"I'll do my best, sir," he said gratefully.
"Very well; you'll begin to-morrow, and can use the rooms behind the iron
office shack. But there's something you have forgotten."
Dick looked at him with a puzzled air; and Fuller laughed.
"You haven't asked what I'm going to pay you yet."
"No," said Dick. "To tell the truth, it didn't seem to matter."
"Profession comes first?" Fuller suggested. "Well, that's right, but I've
hired professional men, engineering and medical experts, who charged
pretty high. Anyhow, here's my offer--"
Dick was satisfied, as was Fuller. The latter was often generous and
would not have taken unfair advantage of Dick's necessity, but he did not
object to engaging a talented young man at something below the market
rate.
"While I'm here you'll come over twice a week to report," he resumed.
"And now if there's anything you'd like to ask."
"First of all, I owe you a dollar," Dick remarked, putting the money on
the table. "The pay-clerk wouldn't take it, because he said it would mix
up his accounts. I'm glad to pay you back, but this doesn't cancel the
debt."
"It wasn't a big risk. I thought you looked played out."
"I was played out and hungry. In fact, it took me five minutes to make up
my mind whether I'd pay the agent who gave me your address his fee,
because it meant going without a meal."
Fuller nodded. "Did you hesitate again, after you knew you'd got the
job?"
"I did. When we were hustled on board the steamer, there was nobody at
the gangway for a few moments and I felt I wanted to run away. There
didn't seem to be any reason for this, but I very nearly went."
"That kind of thing's not quite unusual," Fuller answered with a smile.
"In my early days, when every dollar was of consequence, I often had a
bad time after I'd made a risky deal. Used to think I'd been a fool, and
I'd be glad to pay a smart fine if the other party would let me out. Yet
if he'd made the proposition, I wouldn't have clinched with it."
"Such vacillation doesn't seem logical, in a man," Ida interposed. "Don't
you practical people rather pride yourselves on being free from our
complexities? Still I suppose there is an explanation."
"I'm not a philosopher," Fuller replied. "If you have the constructive
faculty, it's your business to make things and not examine your feelings;
but my explanation's something like this--When you take a big risk you
have a kind of unconscious judgment that tells you if you're right, but
human nature's weak, and scares you really don't believe in begin to
grip. Then it depends on your nerve whether you make good or not."
"Don't they call it sub-conscious?" Ida asked. "And how does that
judgment come?"
"I guess it's built up on past experience, on things you've learned long
since and stored away. In a sense, they're done with, you don't call them
up and argue from them; but all the same, they're the driving force when
you set your teeth and go ahead."
Ida looked at Dick. "That can't apply to us, who have no long experience
to fall back upon."
"I've only made one venture of the kind, but I've just discovered that it
turned out right."
Fuller smiled. "That's neat." Then he turned to Ida. "But I wasn't
talking about women. They don't need experience."
"Sometimes you're merely smart, and sometimes you're rather deep, but I
can't decide which you are just now," Ida rejoined. "However, I expect
you're longing to get back to the plans."
"No," said Fuller. "They have to be thought of, but life isn't all a
matter of building dams. Now I'm getting old, I've found that out."
"And you? Have you any opinion on the subject?" Ida asked Dick.
Dick hesitated, wondering whether she meant to put him at his ease or was
amused by his seriousness.
"I don't imagine my views are worth much and they're not very clear. In a
way, of course, it's plain that Mr. Fuller's right--"
"But after all, building dams and removing rocks may very well come
first?"
Dick pondered this. So far, his profession had certainly come first. He
was not a prig or a recluse, but he found engineering more interesting
than people. Now he came to think of it, he had been proud of Helen's
beauty, but she had not stirred him much or occupied all his thoughts.
Indeed, he had only once been overwhelmingly conscious of a woman's
charm, and that was in Kenwardine's garden. He had lost his senses then,
but did not mean to let anything of the kind happen again.
"Well," he said diffidently, "so long as you're content with your
occupation, it doesn't seem necessary to make experiments and look for
adventures. I expect it saves you trouble to stick to what you like and
know."
He noted Ida's smile, and was silent afterwards while she argued with her
father. He did not want to obtrude himself, and since they seemed to
expect him to stay, it was pleasant enough to sit and listen.
The air was getting cooler and the moon had risen and cast a silver track
across the sea. The distant rumble of the surf came up the hillside in a
faint, rhythmic beat, and the peaks above the camp had grown in
distinctness. A smell of spice drifted out of the jungle, and Dick, who
was tired, was sensible of a delightful languor. The future had suddenly
grown bright and besides this, Ida's gracious friendliness had given him
back his confidence and self-respect. He was no longer an outcast; he had
his chance of making good and regaining the amenities of life that he had
learned to value by their loss. He was very grateful to the girl and
Fuller, but at length took his leave and returned to the locomotive shed
with a light heart and a springy step.
Next morning he began his new work with keen energy. It absorbed him, and
as the dam slowly rose in a symmetrical curve of molded stone, its
austere beauty commanded his attention. Hitherto he had given utility the
leading place, but a change had begun the night he sat beneath the
copper-beech with Clare Kenwardine. The design of the structure was good,
but Dick determined that the work should be better, and sometimes stopped
in the midst of his eager activity to note the fine, sweeping lines and
silvery-gray luster of the concrete blocks. There were soft lights at
dawn and when the sun sank in which the long embankment glimmered as if
carved in mother-of-pearl.
In the meantime, he went to Fuller's tent twice a week and generally met
Ida there. Once or twice, he pleaded with his employer for extra labor
and cement to add some grace of outline to the dam, and, although this
was unproductive expenditure, Fuller agreed.
"I like a good job, but it's going to cost high if you mean to turn out a
work of art," he said. "However, if Bethune thinks the notion all right,
I suppose I'll have to consent."
Dick colored, and wondered whether he had been given a hint, for Bethune
was his superior and a man of ability.
"He doesn't object, sir."
"That's good," Fuller replied with a twinkle. "Still, if you hustle him
too much, you'll make him tired."
Dick did not smile, because he did not know how far it was wise to go,
but he suspected that Bethune had been tired before he came to the dam.
The latter was generally marked by an air of languid indifference, and
while his work was well done he seldom exceeded his duty.
Next evening Dick went to see Bethune and found him lying in a hammock
hung between the posts of the veranda of his galvanized iron hut. A
syphon and a tall glass filled with wine in which a lump of ice floated,
stood on a table within his reach, and an open book lay upside down upon
the floor. He wore white duck trousers, a green shirt of fine material,
and a red sash very neatly wound round his waist. His face was sunburned,
but the features were delicately cut and his hands, which hung over the
edge of the hammock, were well cared for.
"Mix yourself a drink," he said to Dick. "There's a glass and some ice in
the bureau inside. Anyhow my steward boy put some there."
Dick, who went into the hut, came back with a grin. "There's a bit of wet
blanket, but the ice has gone. It seems to have run into your papers."
"They'll dry," Bethune said tranquilly. "You had better put some of the
_gaseosa_ in the wine; it's sour Spanish _tinto_. Then if you like to
pick up the book, I'll read you some François Villon. There was red
blood in that fellow and it's a pity he's dead. You get into touch with
him better beside the Spanish Main than you can in New York."
"I never heard of him, and perhaps I ought to explain----"
"What you came for? Then go ahead and ease your mind. It's business first
with you."
"It occurred to me that I had perhaps taken too much upon myself now and
then. You are my chief, of course, and I don't want to look pushing."
"That shows good taste," Bethune remarked. "But how are you going to get
over the difficulty that you _are_ what you call pushing? Anyhow, I'm
surprised it did occur to you."
"To tell the truth, it was something Fuller said----"
"So I imagined! Well, when you go too far I'll pull you up, but we
needn't bother about it in the meantime. You were obviously born a
hustler, but you have an ingenuousness that disarms resentment. In fact,
you quite upset our views of the British character."
"Then the feeling's mutual," Dick rejoined with a grin. "You don't
harmonize with what I've seen of Americans."
"Ours is a big country and we've room for different types; but I come
from Georgia and we haven't all learned to hustle yet in the South.
That's probably why I'm here, when I could have had a much better paid
job."
Dick did not doubt this, because he had seen something of the other's
mathematical powers. He was not a fool at figures himself, but Bethune
could solve by a flash of genius problems that cost him laborious
calculation. It was strange that such a man should be content to make a
very modest use of his talents.
"I suppose you have met Miss Fuller," Bethune resumed.
"Yes," said Dick. "She made things pleasant for me when I first went to
the tent. I like her very much."
"Miss Fuller has most of the New England virtues, including a stern sense
of her responsibility. I expect you don't know if she shares her father's
good opinion of yourself."
"I don't know what Fuller's opinion is," Dick replied awkwardly.
Bethune laughed. "Well, he's given you a good job. But why I asked was
this: if Miss Fuller's quite satisfied about you, she'll probably put her
maverick brother in your charge. She came here not long ago with the
object of finding out if I was suited for the post, and I imagined
learned something about me in a quiet way. It was a relief when she
obviously decided that I wasn't the proper man. The girl has
intelligence. If she had asked me, I could have recommended you."
"Do you know much about her brother?"
"I've learned something. The lad's a breakaway from the sober Fuller
type; and I think his views of life rather agree with mine. However,
perhaps we had better let Miss Fuller tell you what she thinks fit. And
now would you like some François Villon?"
"No," said Dick firmly. "I want to see that Moran turns out his gang at
sunrise and must get back."
"Pick me up the book, anyhow," Bethune replied, and laughed good-humoredly
when Dick left him.
CHAPTER VII
DICK UNDERTAKES A RESPONSIBILITY
The glare of the big arc-lights flooded the broad, white plaza when Dick
crossed it on his way to the Hotel Magellan. The inhabitants of Santa
Brigida had finished their evening meal and, as was their custom, were
taking the air and listening to the military band. They were of many
shades of color and different styles of dress, for dark-skinned peons in
plain white cotton, chattering negroes, and grave, blue-clad Chinamen
mingled with the citizens who claimed to spring from European stock.
These, however, for the most part, were by no means white, and though
some derived their sallow skin from Andalusian and Catalan ancestors,
others showed traces of Carib origin.
The men were marked by Southern grace; the younger women had a dark,
languorous beauty, and although their dress was, as a rule, an out of
date copy of Parisian modes, their color taste was good, and the creamy
white and soft yellow became them well. A number of the men wore white
duck, with black or red sashes and Panama hats, but some had Spanish
cloaks and Mexican sombreros.
Flat-topped houses, colored white and pink and lemon, with almost
unbroken fronts, ran round the square. A few had green lattices and
handsome iron gates to the arched entrances that ran like a tunnel
through the house, but many showed no opening except a narrow slit of
barred window. Santa Brigida was old, and the part near the plaza had
been built four hundred years ago.
Dick glanced carelessly at the crowd as he crossed the square. He liked
the music, and there was something interesting and exotic in the play of
moving color, but his mind was on his work and he wondered whether he
would find a man he wanted at the hotel. One could enter it by a Moorish
arch that harmonized with the Eastern style of its front; but this had
been added, and he went in by the older tunnel and across the patio to
the open-fronted American bar that occupied a space between the balcony
pillars.
He did not find his man, and after ordering some wine, lighted a
cigarette and looked about while he waited to see if the fellow would
come in. One or two steamship officers occupied a table close by, a
Frenchman was talking excitedly to a handsome Spanish half-breed, and a
fat, red-faced German with spectacles sat opposite a big glass of
pale-colored beer. Dick was not interested in these, but his glance grew
keener as it rested on a Spaniard, who had a contract at the irrigation
works, sitting with one of Fuller's storekeepers at the other end of the
room. Though there was no reason the Spaniard should not meet the man in
town, Dick wondered what they were talking about, particularly since they
had chosen a table away from everybody else.
The man he wanted did not come, and by and by he determined to look for
him in the hotel. He went up an outside staircase from the patio, round
which the building ran, and had reached a balcony when he met Ida Fuller
coming down. She stopped with a smile.
"I am rather glad to see you," she said. "My father, who went on board
the American boat, has not come back as he promised, and the French lady
he left me with has gone."
"I'm going off to a cargo vessel to ask when they'll land our cement, and
we might find out what is keeping Mr. Fuller, if you don't mind walking
to the mole."
They left the hotel and shortly afterwards reached the mole, which
sheltered the shallow harbor where the cargo lighters were unloaded. The
long, smooth swell broke in flashes of green and gold phosphorescence
against the concrete wall, and the moon threw a broad, glittering track
across the sea. There was a rattle of cranes and winches and a noisy tug
was towing a row of barges towards the land. The measured thud of her
engines broke through the splash of water flung off the lighters' bows as
they lurched across the swell, and somebody on board was singing a
Spanish song. Farther out, a mailboat's gently swaying hull blazed with
electric light, and astern of her the reflection of a tramp steamer's
cargo lamp quivered upon the sea. By and by, Dick, who ascertained that
Fuller had not landed, hailed a steam launch, which came panting towards
some steps.
"I can put you on board the American boat, and bring you back if Mr.
Fuller isn't there," he said, and when Ida agreed, helped her into the
launch.
Then he took the helm while the fireman started the engine, and the craft
went noisily down the harbor. As they passed the end of the mole, Dick
changed his course, and the white town rose clear to view in the
moonlight behind the sparkling fringe of surf. The flat-topped houses
rose in tiers up a gentle slope, interspersed with feathery tufts of
green and draped here and there with masses of creepers. Narrow gaps of
shadow opened between them, and the slender square towers of the
cathedral dominated all, but in places a steep, red roof struck a
picturesque but foreign note.
"Santa Brigida has a romantic look at night," Dick remarked. "Somehow it
reminds me of pictures of the East."
"That is not very strange," Ida answered with a smile. "The flat roof and
straight, unbroken wall is the oldest type of architecture. Man naturally
adopted it when he gave up the tent and began to build."
"Yes," said Dick. "Two uprights and a beam across! You couldn't get
anything much simpler. But how did it come here?"
"The Arabs found it in Palestine and took it to Northern Africa as the
Moslem conquest spread. The cube, however, isn't beautiful, and the Moors
elaborated it, as the Greeks had done, but in a different way. The latter
broke the square from the cornices and pillars; the Moors with the
Saracenic arch, minarets, and fretted stone, and then forced their model
upon Spain. Still the primitive type survives longest and the Spaniards
brought that to the New World."
"No doubt, it's the explanation. But the high, red roofs yonder aren't
Moorish. The flat top would suit the dry East, but these indicate a
country where they need a pitch that will shed the rain and snow. In fact
one would imagine that the original model came from Germany."
"It really did. Spain was overrun by the Visigoths, who were Teutons."
"Well," said Dick, "this is interesting. I'm not an architect, but
construction's my business, as well as my hobby."
"Then don't you think you are a fortunate man?"
"In a sense, perhaps," Dick answered. "Still, that's no reason you should
be bored for my entertainment." He paused and resumed: "I'm grateful
because you mean to be kind, as you were the night I met you first at the
tent. Although you had heard my story, I saw you wanted to make me feel I
was being given a fresh start."
Ida studied him with a thoughtful calm that he found embarrassing.
"Perhaps I did, but suppose we talk about something else."
"Very well. If it's not bad form, I wasn't in the least astonished by
your lecture about the roofs, because one finds your people have a
breadth of knowledge that's remarkable. I once showed an old abbey near
our place at home to some American tourists, and soon saw they knew more
about its history than I did. There was a girl of seventeen who corrected
me once or twice, and when I went to the library I found that she was
right. The curious thing is that you're, so to speak, rather parochial
with it all. One of my American employers treated me pretty well until he
had to make some changes in his business. Took me to his house now and
then, and I found his wife and daughters knew the old French and Italian
cities. Yet they thought them far behind Marlin Bluff, which is really a
horribly ugly place."
"I know it," said Ida, laughing. "Still, the physical attractiveness of a
town isn't it's only charm. Besides, are you sure you don't mean
patriotic when you say parochial? You ought to sympathize with the former
feeling."
"I don't know. Patriotism is difficult when your country has no use for
you."
Ida did not reply, and it was a few minutes later when she said: "I'm
glad I met you to-night, because we go home soon and there's a favor I
want to ask. My brother is coming out to take a post on the irrigation
work and I want you to look after him."
"But he mayn't like being looked after, and it's very possible he knows
more about the work than I do. I've only had a military training."
"Jake has had no training at all, and is three or four years younger than
I think you are."
"Then, of course, I'll be glad to teach him all I can."
"That isn't exactly what I mean, although we want him to learn as much as
possible about engineering."
"I don't see what else I could teach him."
Ida smiled. "Then I must explain. Jake is rash and fond of excitement and
gay society. He makes friends easily and trusts those he likes, but this
has some drawbacks because his confidence is often misplaced. Now I don't
think you would find it difficult to gain some influence over him."
"And what would you expect me to do afterwards?"
"You might begin by trying to make him see how interesting his new
occupation is."
"That might be harder than you think," Dick replied. "Molding concrete
and digging irrigation ditches have a fascination for me, but I dare say
it's an unusual taste. Your brother mightn't like weighing cement in the
hot mixing sheds or dragging a measuring chain about in the sun."
"It's very possible," Ida agreed with a hint of dryness. "I want you to
show him what it means; make him feel the sense of power over material.
Jake's rather boyish, and a boy loves to fire a gun because something
startling happens in obedience to his will when he pulls the trigger.
Isn't it much the same when one gives the orders that shatter massive
rocks and move ponderous stones? However, that's not all. I want you to
keep him at the dam and prevent his making undesirable friends."
"Though it's not the thing I'm cut out for, I'll try," said Dick, with
some hesitation. "I'm surprised that you should put your brother in my
charge, after what you know about me."
"You were unfortunate, negligent, perhaps, for once."
"The trouble is that my friends and relations seemed to think me
dishonest. At least, they believed that my getting into disgrace was
quite as bad."
"I don't," said Ida calmly. "What I ask will need some tact, but if
you'll promise to look after Jake, I shall feel satisfied."
Dick was silent for the next few moments, watching the phosphorescent
foam stream back from the launch's bows. Then he said: "Thank you, Miss
Fuller. In a way, it's embarrassing to feel you trust me; but I'll do
what I can to deserve it."
Three or four minutes afterwards the launch steamed round the liner's
stern and ran into the gloom beneath her tall side. There was a blaze of
light above that fell upon the farthest off of the row of boats, past
which the launch ran with her engine stopped, and the dark water broke
into a fiery sparkle as the swell lapped the steamer's plates. A man came
down the ladder when the launch jarred against its foot, and Ida, finding
that Fuller was still on board, went up while Dick steamed across to the
cargo-boat that lay with winches hammering not far off. After talking to
her mate, he returned to the harbor, and when he landed, lighted a
cigarette and studied some alterations that were being made at the
landward end of the mole. He had noticed the work as he passed with Ida,
but was now able to examine it. A number of concrete blocks and cement
bags were lying about.
Beckoning a peon who seemed to be the watchman, Dick gave him a cigarette
and asked: "How far are they going to re-face the mole?"
"As far as the post yonder, señor."
It was obvious that a large quantity of cement would be required and Dick
resumed: "Who is doing the work?"
"Don Ramon Oliva."
Dick hid his interest. Ramon Oliva was the man he had seen talking to
Fuller's storekeeper at the hotel.
"Where does one buy cement in this town?"
"Señor Vaz, the merchant, sells it now and then."
Dick let the peon go, and leaving the mole, found Vaz in a café. Sitting
down at his table he asked: "Do you keep cement in your warehouse?"
"Sometimes," said the other; "when work it is required for is going on.
But I sold the last I had two or three months ago."
"I believe we run short now and then, but we have a big lot being landed
now. As our sheds will be pretty full, I could let you have a quantity if
you like."
"Thanks, but no," said the merchant. "I do not think anybody would buy it
from me for some time, and it is bad to keep when one's store is damp."
Dick, who drank a glass of wine with him, went away in a thoughtful mood.
He wondered where Don Ramon got his cement, and meant to find out, though
he saw that caution would be needed. He owed much to Fuller and had made
his master's business his. Now it looked as if Fuller were being robbed
and although he had, no doubt, cunning rogues to deal with, Dick
determined that the thing must be stopped. When he returned to the dam he
went to Bethune's hut and found him lying in his hammock.
"Whose duty is it to check the storekeeper's lists?" he asked. "I suppose
you strike a balance between the goods delivered him and the stuff he
hands out for use on the works."
"It's done, of course," said Bethune. "I haven't examined the books
myself; François, the Creole clerk, is responsible. However, one would
imagine you had duties enough without taking up another, but if you mean
to do so, you had better begin soon. Your energy won't stand this climate
long."
"I don't know what I may do yet," Dick replied. "Still, it struck me that
our stores might be sold in the town."
"I expect they are, to some extent," Bethune carelessly agreed. "That
kind of thing is hard to stop anywhere, and these folks are very smart at
petty pilfering. Anyway, you might get yourself into trouble by
interfering and any small theft you stopped probably wouldn't pay for the
time you'd have to spend on the job. Leave it alone, and take matters as
you find them, is my advice."
Dick talked about something else, but when he went back to his shack he
knew what he meant to do.
CHAPTER VIII
AN INFORMAL COURT
One morning, soon after Fuller and his daughter had gone home, Dick stood
at a table in the testing house behind the mixing sheds. The small,
galvanized iron building shook with the throb of engines and rattle of
machinery, and now and then a shower of cinders pattered upon the roof;
for the big mill that ground up the concrete was working across the road.
The lattice shutters were closed, for the sake of privacy, and kept out
the glare, though they could not keep out the heat, which soaked through
the thin, iron walls, and Dick's face was wet with perspiration as he
arranged a number of small concrete blocks. Some of these were broken,
and some partly crushed. Delicate scales and glass measures occupied a
neighboring shelf, and a big steel apparatus that looked rather like a
lever weighing machine stood in the shadow.
Where the draught that came through the lattices flowed across the room,
Bethune lounged in a canvas chair, and another man, with a quiet,
sunburned face, sat behind him. This was Stuyvesant, whose authority was
only second to Fuller's.
"Brandon seems to have taken a good deal of trouble, but this kind of
investigation needs the strictest accuracy, and we haven't the best of
testing apparatus," Bethune remarked. "I expect he'll allow that the
results he has got may be to some extent misleading, and I doubt if it's
worth while to go on with the matter. Are you sure you have made no
mistakes, Dick?"
Dick pondered for a few moments. If he were right, as he thought he was,
the statements he had to make would lead to the discharge of the
sub-contractor. Remembering his own disgrace, he shrank from condemning
another. He knew what he had suffered, and the man might be innocent
although his guilt seemed plain. It was a hateful situation, but his duty
was to protect his master's interests and he could not see him robbed.
"You can check my calculations," he answered quietly.
"That's so," agreed Stuyvesant, who added with a dry smile as he noted
Bethune's disapproving look: "We can decide about going on with the thing
when we have heard Brandon."
"Very well," said Dick, giving him some papers, and then indicated two
different rows of the small concrete blocks. "These marked A were made
from cement in our store; the lot B from some I took from Oliva's stock
on the mole. They were subjected to the same compressive, shearing, and
absorbent tests, and you'll see that there's very little difference in
the results. The quality of standard makes of cement is, no doubt, much
alike, but you wouldn't expect to find that of two different brands
identical. My contention is that the blocks were made from the same
stuff."
Stuyvesant crossed the floor and measured the blocks with a micrometer
gage, after which he filled two of the graduated glass measures and then
weighed the water.
"Well?" he said to Bethune, who had picked up Dick's calculations.
"The figures are right; he's only out in a small decimal."
Stuyvesant took the papers and compared them with a printed form he
produced from his pocket.
"They correspond with the tests the maker claims his stuff will stand,
and we can take it that they're accurate. Still, this doesn't prove that
Oliva stole the cement from us. The particular make is popular on this
coast, and he may have bought a quantity from somebody else. Did you
examine the bags on the mole, Brandon?"
"No," said Dick, "I had to get my samples in the dark. If Oliva bought
the cement, he must have kept it for some time, because the only man in
the town who stocks it sold the last he had three months ago. The next
thing is our storekeeper's tally showing the number of bags delivered to
him. I sat up half the night trying to balance this against what he
handed out and could make nothing of the entries."
"Let me see," said Bethune, and lighted a cigarette when Dick handed him
a book, and a bundle of small, numbered forms. "You can talk, if you
like," he added as he sharpened a pencil.
Dick moved restlessly up and down the floor, examining the testing
apparatus, but he said nothing, and Stuyvesant did not speak. He was a
reserved and thoughtful man. After a time, Bethune threw the papers on
the table.
"François isn't much of a bookkeeper," he remarked. "One or two of the
delivery slips have been entered twice, and at first I suspected he might
have conspired with Oliva. Still, that's against my notion of his
character, and I find he's missed booking stuff that had been given out,
which, of course, wouldn't have suited the other's plans."
"You can generally count on a Frenchman's honesty," Stuyvesant observed.
"But do you make the deliveries ex-store tally with what went in?"
"I don't," said Bethune dryly. "Here's the balance I struck. It shows the
storekeeper is a good many bags short."
He passed the paper across, and Dick examined it with surprise.
"You have worked this out already from the muddled and blotted entries!
Do you think you've got it right?"
"I'm sure," said Bethune, smiling. "I'll prove it if you like. We know
how much cement went into stock. How many molded blocks of the top course
have we put down at the dam?"
Dick told him, and after a few minutes' calculation Bethune looked up.
"Then here you are! Our concrete's a standard density; we know the weight
of water and sand and what to allow for evaporation. You see my figures
agree very closely with the total delivery ex-store."
They did so, and Dick no longer wondered how Bethune, who ostentatiously
declined to let his work interfere with his comfort, held his post. The
man thought in numbers, using the figures, as one used words, to express
his knowledge rather than as a means of obtaining it by calculation. Dick
imagined this was genius.
"Well," said Stuyvesant, "I guess we had better send for the storekeeper
next."
"Get it over," agreed Bethune. "It's an unpleasant job."
Dick sent a half-naked peon to look for the man, and was sensible of some
nervous strain as he waited for his return. He hated the task he had
undertaken, but it must be carried out. Bethune, who had at first tried
to discourage him, now looked interested, and Dick saw that Stuyvesant
was resolute. In the meanwhile, the shed had grown suffocatingly hot, his
face and hands were wet with perspiration, and the rumble of machinery
made his head ache. He lighted a cigarette, but the tobacco tasted bitter
and he threw it away. Then there were footsteps outside and Stuyvesant
turned to him.
"We leave you to put the thing through. You're prosecutor."
Dick braced himself as a man came in and stood by the table, looking at
the others suspiciously. He was an American, but his face was heavy and
rather sullen, and his white clothes were smeared with dust.
"We have been examining your stock-book," said Dick. "It's badly kept."
The fellow gave him a quick glance. "Mr. Fuller knows I'm not smart at
figuring, and if you want the books neat, you'll have to get me a better
clerk. Anyhow, I've my own tally and allow I can tell you what stuff I
get and where it goes."
"That is satisfactory. Look at this list and tell me where the cement
you're short of has gone."
"Into the mixing shed, I guess," said the other with a half-defiant
frown.
"Then it didn't come out. We haven't got the concrete at the dam. Are
there any full bags not accounted for in the shed?"
"No, sir. You ought to know the bags are skipped right into the tank as
the mill grinds up the mush."
"Very well. Perhaps you'd better consult your private tally and see if it
throws any light upon the matter."
The man took out a note-book and while he studied it Bethune asked, "Will
you let me have the book?"
"I guess not," said the other, who shut the book with a snap, and then
turned and confronted Dick.
"I want to know why you're getting after me!"
"It's fairly plain. You're responsible for the stores and can't tell us
what has become of a quantity of the goods."
"Suppose I own up that my tally's got mixed?"
"Then you'd show yourself unfit for your job; but that is not the worst.
If you had made a mistake the bags wouldn't vanish. You had the cement,
it isn't in the store and hasn't reached us in the form of concrete. It
must have gone somewhere."
"Where do you reckon it went, if it wasn't into the mixing shed?"
"To the Santa Brigida mole," Dick answered quietly, and noting the man's
abrupt movement, went on: "What were you talking to Ramon Oliva about at
the Hotel Magellan?"
The storekeeper did not reply, but the anger and confusion in his face
were plain, and Dick turned to the others.
"I think we'll send for Oliva," said Stuyvesant. "Keep this fellow here
until he comes."
Oliva entered tranquilly, though his black eyes got very keen when he
glanced at his sullen accomplice. He was picturesquely dressed, with a
black silk sash round his waist and a big Mexican sombrero. Taking out a
cigarette, he remarked that it was unusually hot.
"You are doing some work on the town mole," Dick said to him. "Where did
you get the cement?"
"I bought it," Oliva answered, with a surprised look.
"From whom?"
"A merchant at Anagas, down the coast. But, señores, my contract on the
mole is a matter for the port officials. I do not see the object of these
questions."
"You had better answer them," Stuyvesant remarked, and signed Dick to go
on.
Dick paused for a moment or two, remembering how he had confronted his
judges in a tent in an English valley. The scene came back with poignant
distinctness.
He could hear the river brawling among the stones, and feel his Colonel's
stern, condemning gaze fixed upon his face. For all that, his tone was
resolute as he asked: "What was the brand of the cement you bought?"
"The _Tenax_, señor," Oliva answered with a defiant smile.
Then Dick turned to the others with a gesture which implied that there
was no more to be said, and quietly sat down. _Tenax_ was not the brand
that Fuller used, and its different properties would have appeared in the
tests. The sub-contractor had betrayed himself by the lie, and his
accomplice looked at him with disgust.
"You've given the thing away," he growled. "Think they don't know what
cement is? Now they have you fixed!"
There was silence for the next minute while Stuyvesant studied some
figures in his pocket-book. Then he wrote upon a leaf, which he tore out
and told Dick to give it to Oliva.
"Here's a rough statement of your account up to the end of last month,
Don Ramon," he said. "You can check it and afterwards hand the pay-clerk
a formal bill, brought up to date, but you'll notice I have charged you
with a quantity of cement that's missing from our store. Your engagement
with Mr. Fuller ends to-day."
Oliva spread out his hands with a dramatic gesture. "Señores, this is a
scandal, a grand injustice! You understand it will ruin me? It is
impossible that I submit."
"Very well. We'll put the matter into the hands of the _Justicia_."
"It is equal," Oliva declared with passion. "You have me marked as a
thief. The port officials give me no more work and my friends talk. At
the _Justicia_ all the world hears my defense."
"As you like," said Stuyvesant, but the storekeeper turned to Oliva with
a contemptuous grin.
"I allow you're not such a blamed fool," he remarked. "Take the chance
they've given you and get from under before the roof falls in."
Oliva pondered for a few moments, his eyes fixed on Stuyvesant's unmoved
face, and then shrugged with an air of injured resignation.
"It is a grand scandal, but I make my bill."
He moved slowly to the door, but paused as he reached it, and gave Dick a
quick, malignant glance. Then he went out and the storekeeper asked
Stuyvesant: "What are you going to do with me?"
"Fire you right now. Go along to the pay-clerk and give him your time. I
don't know if that's all we ought to do; but we'll be satisfied if you
and your partner get off this camp."
"I'll quit," said the storekeeper, who turned to Dick. "You're a smart
kid, but we'd have bluffed you all right if the fool had allowed he used
the same cement."
Then he followed Oliva, and Stuyvesant got up.
"That was Oliva's mistake," he remarked. "I saw where you were leading
him and you put the questions well. Now, however, you'll have to take on
his duties until we get another man."
They left the testing-house, and as Bethune and Dick walked up the valley
the former said: "It's my opinion that you were imprudent in one respect.
You showed the fellows that it was you who found them out. It might have
been better if you had, so to speak, divided the responsibility."
"They've gone, and that's the most important thing," Dick rejoined.
"From the works. It doesn't follow that they'll quit Santa Brigida.
Payne, the storekeeper, is of course an American tough, but I don't think
he'll make trouble. He'd have robbed us cheerfully, but I expect he'll
take his being found out as a risk of the game; besides, Stuyvesant will
have to ship him home if he asks for his passage. But I didn't like the
look Oliva gave you. These dago half-breeds are a revengeful lot."
"I'm not in the town often and I'll be careful if I go there after dark.
To tell the truth, I didn't want to interfere, but I couldn't let the
rogues go on with their stealing."
"I suppose not," Bethune agreed. "The trouble about doing your duty is
that it often costs you something."
CHAPTER IX
JAKE FULLER
A month after Fuller sailed his son arrived at Santa Brigida, and Dick,
who met him on the mole, got something of a surprise when a handsome
youth landed and came straight towards him. Jake Fuller was obviously
very young, but had an ease of manner and a calm self-confidence that
would have done credit to an elderly man of the world. His clothes showed
nice taste, and there was nothing about him to indicate the reckless
scapegrace Dick had expected.
"You're Brandon, of course," he said as he shook hands. "Glad to meet
you. Knew you a quarter of a mile off."
"How's that?" Dick asked. "You haven't seen me before."
"For one thing, you're stamped Britisher; then you had a kind of
determined look, as if you'd come down to yank me right off to the
irrigation ditches before I'd time to run loose in the city. Matter of
duty to you, and you were going to put it through."
Dick said nothing, and Jake laughed. "Well, that's all right; I guess
we'll hit it! And now we'll put out when you like. I laid in a pretty
good breakfast on the boat; I like smart service and a well-chosen menu,
and don't suppose you have either at the camp."
"They might be better," Dick agreed, feeling that he had promised Miss
Fuller more than he might be able to perform. Then he told a peon to take
Jake's luggage and led the way to a mule carriage at the end of the mole.
"I didn't expect to ride in a transfer-wagon," Jake remarked. "Haven't
you any autos yet? If not, I'll indent for one when the next stock order
goes home."
"Perhaps you had better wait until you see the roads."
"You're surely British," Jake replied. "If you'd been an American, you'd
get the car first and make the roads fit in. However, you might tell the
ancient dago to get a move on."
Dick was silent for the next few minutes. On the whole, he thought he
would like Fuller, and made some allowance for the excitement he, no
doubt, felt at beginning his career in a foreign country, but none for any
wish to impress his companion. It was unlikely that the self-possessed lad
would care what Dick thought of him, although it looked as if he meant to
be friendly. Then as the sweating mules slowly climbed the rutted track
out of the town Dick began to point out the changing level of the land,
the ravines, or barrancos, that formed natural drainage channels from the
high watershed, and the influence of drought and moisture on the
cultivation. Jake showed a polite interest, but inquired what amusements
were to be had in Santa Brigida, about which Dick gave him as little
information as possible. If he had understood Miss Fuller's hints, the
Spanish city was no place for her brother.
Jake spent the day following Dick about the works and made no complaint
about the heat and dust, though he frowned when a shower of cement or a
splash of oil fell upon his clothes. It was obvious that he knew nothing
about engineering, but the questions he asked indicated keen intelligence
and Dick was satisfied. A room adjoining the latter's quarters had been
prepared for the newcomer, and they sat, smoking, on the veranda after
the evening meal.
"Do you think you'll like your work?" Dick asked.
"I've got to like it, and it might be worse. Since I'm not allowed to
draw or model things, I can make them, and I guess that's another form of
the same talent, though it's considerably less interesting than the
first."
"But perhaps more useful," Dick suggested.
"Well, I don't know. Our taste is pretty barbarous, as a rule, and you
can't claim that yours is more advanced, but I allow that the Spaniards
who built Santa Brigida had an eye for line and color. These dagos have a
gift we lack; you can see it in the way they wear their clothes. My
notion is that it's some use to teach your countrymen to admire beauty
and grace. We're great at making things, but there's no particular need
to make them ugly."
"Then you're a bit of an artist?"
"I meant to be a whole one and might have made good, although the old man
has not much use for art. Unfortunately, however, I felt I had to kick
against the conventionality of the life I led and the protest I put up
was a little too vigorous. It made trouble, and in consequence, my folks
decided I'd better be an engineer. I couldn't follow their arguments, but
had to acquiesce."
"It's curious how you artists claim to be exempt from the usual rules, as
if you were different from the rest of us."
"We _are_ different," Jake rejoined with a twinkle. "It's our business to
see the truth of things, while you try to make it fit your formulas about
what you think is most useful to yourself or society. A formula's like
bad spectacles; it distorts the sight, and yours is plainly out of focus.
For example, I guess you're satisfied with the white clothes you're
wearing."
"I don't know that it's important, but what's the matter with them?"
"Well," said Jake, with a critical glance, "they're all wrong. Now you've
got good shoulders, your figure's well balanced, and I like the way you
hold your head, but your tailor has spoiled every prominent line. I'll
show you some time when I model you in clay." He paused and grinned. "I
guess the Roman sentinel pose would suit you best, as I noted it when you
stood on the mole waiting for me, determined to do your duty at any cost.
Besides, there is something of the soldier about you."
"I wish you'd stop rotting," said Dick with a touch of awkwardness,
though he saw that Jake knew nothing about his leaving the army. "Was it
your father's notion that you should be an engineer?"
"He thinks so," Jake answered, grinning. "My opinion is that you have to
thank my sister Ida for the job of looking after me. She made this her
business until I went to Yale, when, of course, she lost control. Ida has
a weakness for managing people, for their good, but you ought to take it
as a delicate compliment that she passed me on to you."
"After all, Miss Fuller's age must be nearly the same as mine," Dick
remarked.
"I see what you mean, but in some respects she's much older. In fact, I
guess I could give you a year or two myself. But it seems to me you've
kind of wilted since we began to talk. You've gone slack and your eyes
look heavy. Say, I'm sorry if I've made you tired."
"I don't think you had much to do with it," said Dick. "My head aches and
I've a shivery feeling that came on about this time last night. A touch
of malarial fever, perhaps; they get it now and then in the town, though
we ought to be free from it on the hill. Anyhow, if you don't mind, I'll
get off to bed."
He went away, and Jake looked about the veranda and the room that opened
on to it. There was a canvas chair or two, a folding table, a large
drawing board on a trestle frame, and two cheap, tin lamps. It was
obvious that Dick thought of nothing much except his work and had a
Spartan disregard for comfort.
"A good sort, but it's concrete first and last with him," Jake remarked.
"Guess I've got to start by making this shack fit for a white man to live
in."
Dick passed a restless night, but felt better when he began his work on
the dam next morning, though he did not touch the small hard roll and
black coffee his colored steward had put ready for him. The air was
fresh, the jungle that rolled down the hill glittered with dew, and the
rays of the red sun had, so far, only a pleasant warmth. Cranes were
rattling, locomotives snorted as they moved the ponderous concrete blocks
and hauled away loads of earth, and a crowd of picturesque figures were
busy about the dam. Some wore dirty white cotton and ragged crimson
sashes; the dark limbs of others projected from garments of vivid color.
Dick drove the men as hard as he was able. They worked well, chattering
and laughing, in the early morning, and there was much to be done,
because Oliva's dismissal had made a difference.
The men flagged, as the sun got higher, and at length Dick sat down in
the thin shade of a tree. The light was now intense, the curving dam
gleamed a dazzling pearly-gray through a quivering radiance, and the
water that had gathered behind it shone like molten silver. One could
imagine that the pools reflected heat as well as light. Dick's eyes
ached, and for a few minutes he let them rest upon the glossy, green
jungle, and the belts of cultivation down the hill.
Then he roused himself, because he must watch what was going on. The
great blocks must be properly fitted into place, and one could not trust
the dusky laborers to use the care that was needed; besides, they were
getting slack, and the fresh blocks the locomotives brought would soon
begin to accumulate. Since this would mean extra handling and consequent
expense, the track must be kept clear. Still, Dick wished noon would
come, for his head ached badly and he felt the heat as he had not felt it
before.
It was hard to force himself to begin again after the short mid-day rest,
but he became a little more vigorous as the sun sank and the shadow of
the black cordillera lengthened across the valley. After dinner, when he
lounged on the veranda, the headache and lassitude returned, and he
listened to Jake's talk vacantly and soon went to bed. He knew he was not
well, but while malarial fever was not unusual in the neighborhood people
seldom took it in a virulent form, and as there was a good doctor at
Santa Brigida he determined to consult him when he had occasion to visit
the town. As it happened, a crane broke next day, and when evening came
he set off to inquire if new castings could be made for it in the Spanish
foundry. While he waited for an engine to take him down the line, Jake
announced his intention of coming.
"I've never been round a Spanish town," he said.
"You're not going round a Spanish town now, if I can prevent it," Dick
rejoined. "However, I suppose I can't order you off your father's
locomotive."
Jake smiled. "You can resent my taking the line you hint at when I've
done so, but I guess one must make allowances. You're getting the fever
badly, partner."
"It's the heat," Dick answered in an apologetic tone. "Anyhow, Santa
Brigida's a dirty, uninteresting place."
"I expect your ideas of what's interesting are different from mine.
Concrete's all right in the daytime, though you can have too much of it
then, but you want to please your eye and relax your brain at night."
"I was afraid of something of the kind. But here's the locomotive. Get
up, if you're coming."
Dick was silent as the engine jolted down the track, for he was feverish
and his companion's talk irritated him. Besides, he had promised Ida
Fuller to take care of the lad and knew something of the license that
ruled in the city. Jake seemed to claim the supposititious privileges of
the artistic temperament, and there were wine-shops, gamblers, pretty
Creole girls with easy manners, and ragged desperados who carried knives,
in Santa Brigida. In fact, it offered too many opportunities for romantic
adventures. In consequence, Dick went to the Hotel Magellan, which they
reached after walking from the end of the line, and took Jake into the
bar.
"You had better stop here; I won't be longer than I can help," he said.
"They'll make you a rather nice iced drink of Canary _tinto_."
"Just so," Jake replied. "_Tinto's_ a thin, sour claret, isn't it? In New
York not long ago you could get iced buttermilk. Can't say I was fond of
it, but I reckon it's as exhilarating as the other stuff."
Dick left him with some misgivings and went about his business. It was
eight o'clock in the evening and the foundry would be closed, but he knew
where the manager lived and went to his house, which was situated in the
older part of the city. He had not taken Jake because he had to pass some
of the less reputable cafés and gambling dens and thought it undesirable
that the lad should know where they were. The foundry manager was not at
home, but a languishing young woman with a thickly powdered face, who
called her mother before she conferred with Dick, told him where Don
Tomas had gone, and Dick set off again in search of the café she named.
A half moon hung low in the clear sky, but, for the most part, its light
only reached a short distance down the white and yellow fronts of the
flat-topped houses. These got light and air from the central courtyard,
or patio, and the outer walls were only pierced by one or two very narrow
windows at some height from the ground. The openings were marked here and
there by a faint glow from within, which was often broken by a shadowy
female form leaning against the bars and speaking softly to another
figure on the pavement below.
There were few street lamps, and in places the houses crowded in upon the
narrow strip of gloom through which Dick picked his way with echoing
steps. Most of the citizens were in the plaza, and the streets were quiet
except for the measured beat of the surf and the distant music of the
band. A smell of rancid oil and garlic, mingled with the strong perfumes
Spanish women use, hung about the buildings, but now and then a puff of
cooler air flowed through a dark opening and brought with it the keen
freshness of the sea. Once the melancholy note of a guitar came down from
a roof and somebody began to sing in a voice that quivered with fantastic
tremolos.
Dick went carefully, keeping as far as possible away from the walls. In
Santa Brigida, all white men were supposed to be rich, and the honesty of
the darker part of its mixed population was open to doubt. Besides, he
had learned that the fair-skinned Northerners were disliked. They brought
money, which was needed, into the country, but they also brought machines
and business methods that threatened to disturb the tranquillity the
Latin half-breed enjoyed. The latter must be beaten in industrial strife
and, exchanging independence for higher wages, become subject to a more
vigorous, mercantile race. The half-breeds seemed to know this, and
regarded the foreigners with jealous eyes. For all that, Dick carried no
weapons. A pistol large enough to be of use was an awkward thing to hide,
and he agreed with Bethune that to wear it ostentatiously was more likely
to provoke than avoid attack.
Once he thought he was followed, but when he stopped to look round, the
shadowy figure behind turned into a side street, and he presently found
the man he was in search of in a quiet café. He spent some time
explaining the drawings of the patterns that would be required before Don
Tomas undertook to make the castings, and then languidly leaned back in
his chair. His head had begun to ache again and he felt strangely limp
and tired. The fever was returning, as it did at night, but he roused
himself by and by and set off to visit the doctor.
On his way he passed the casino and, to his surprise, saw Jake coming
down the steps. Dick frowned when they met.
"How did you get in?" he asked. "It's the rule for somebody to put your
name down on your first visit."
"So it seemed," said Jake. "There are, however, ways of getting over such
difficulties, and a dollar goes some distance in this country; much
farther, in fact, than it does in ours."
"It's some consolation to think you've had to pay for your amusement,"
Dick answered sourly.
Jake smiled. "On the contrary, I found it profitable. You make a mistake
that's common with serious folks, by taking it for granted that a
cheerful character marks a fool." He put his hand in his pocket and
brought it out filled with silver coin. "Say, what do you think of this?"
"Put the money back," Dick said sharply, for there was a second-rate
wine-shop not far off and a group of untidy half-breeds lounged about its
front. Jake, however, took out another handful of silver.
"My luck was pretty good; I reckon it says something for me that I knew
when to stop."
He jingled the money as he passed the wine-shop, and Dick, looking back,
thought one of the men inside got up, but nobody seemed to be following
them when they turned into another street. This was the nearest way to
the doctor's, but it was dark and narrow, and Dick did not like its look.
"Keep in the middle," he warned Jake.
They were near the end of the street when two men came out of an arch and
waited for them.
"Have you a match, señor?" one who held a cigarette in his hand asked.
"No," said Dick suspiciously. "Keep back!"
"But it is only a match we want," said the other, and Jake stopped.
"What's the matter with giving him one? Wait till I get my box."
He gave it to the fellow, who struck a match, and after lighting his
cigarette held it so that the faint illumination touched Dick's face.
"Thanks, señor," said the half-breed, who turned to his companion as he
added softly in Castilian: "The other."
Dick understood. It was not Jake but himself who was threatened; and he
thought he knew why.
"Look out for that fellow, Jake!" he cried. "Get back to the wall!"
Jake, to Dick's relief, did as he was told, but next moment another man
ran out of the arch, and somebody in the darkness called out in
Castilian. Dick thought he knew the voice; but the men were behind him
now, and he turned to face them. The nearest had his hand at his ragged
sash, and Dick saw that he must act before the long Spanish knife came
out. He struck hard, leaning forward as he did so, and the man reeled
back; but the other two closed with him, and although his knuckles jarred
as a second blow got home, he felt a stinging pain high up in his side.
His breathing suddenly got difficult, but as he staggered towards the
wall he saw Jake dash his soft hat in the face of another antagonist and
spring upon the fellow. There seemed to be four men round them and one
was like Oliva, the contractor; but Dick's sight was going and he had a
fit of coughing that was horribly painful.
He heard Jake shout and footsteps farther up the street, and tried to
lean against the house for support, but slipped and fell upon the
pavement. He could neither see nor hear well, but made out that his
assailants had slunk away and men were running towards Jake, who stood,
calling for help, in the middle of the street. Shortly afterwards a group
of dark figures gathered round and he heard confused voices. He thought
Jake knelt down and tried to lift him, but this brought on a stab of
burning pain and he knew nothing more.
CHAPTER X
LA MIGNONNE
A cool sea breeze blew through the half-opened lattice, and a ray of
sunshine quivered upon the ocher-colored wall, when Dick awoke from a
refreshing sleep. He felt helplessly weak, and his side, which was
covered by a stiff bandage, hurt him when he moved, but his head was
clear at last and he languidly looked about. The room was spacious, but
rather bare. There was no carpet, but a rug made a blotch of cool green
on the smooth, dark floor. Two or three religious pictures hung upon the
wall and he noted how the soft blue of the virgin's dress harmonized with
the yellow background. An arch at one end was covered by a leather
curtain like those in old Spanish churches, but it had been partly drawn
back to let the air circulate. Outside the hooked-back lattice he saw the
rails of a balcony, and across the narrow patio a purple creeper spread
about a dazzling white wall.
All this was vaguely familiar, because it was some days since Dick had
recovered partial consciousness, though he had been too feeble to notice
his surroundings much or find out where he was. Now he studied the room
with languid interest as he tried to remember what had led to his being
brought there. The scanty furniture was dark and old; and he knew the
wrinkled, brown-faced woman in black who sat by the window with a dark
shawl wound round her head. She had a place in his confused memories; as
had another woman with a curious lifeless face and an unusual dress, who
had once or twice lifted him and done something to his bandages. Still,
it was not of her Dick was thinking. There had been somebody else,
brighter and fresher than either, who sat beside him when he lay in
fevered pain and sometimes stole in and vanished after a pitiful glance.
A bunch of flowers stood upon the table; and their scent mingled with the
faint smell of decay that hung about the room. Lying still, Dick heard
the leather curtain rustle softly in the draught, muffled sounds of
traffic, and the drowsy murmur of the surf. Its rhythmic beat was
soothing and he thought he could smell the sea. By and by he made an
abrupt move that hurt him as a voice floated into the room. It was
singularly clear and sweet, and he thought he knew it, as he seemed to
know the song, but could not catch the words and the singing stopped.
Then light footsteps passed the arch and there was silence again.
"Who's that?" he asked with an energy he had not been capable of until
then.
"_La mignonne_," said the old woman with a smile that showed her thick,
red lips and firm white teeth.
"And who's Mignonne?"
"_La, la!_" said the woman soothingly. "_C'est ma mignonne._ But you jess
go to sleep again."
"How can I go to sleep when I'm not sleepy and you won't tell me what I
want to know?" Dick grumbled, but the woman raised her hand and began to
sing an old plantation song.
"I'm not a child," he protested weakly. "But that's rather nice."
Closing his eyes, he tried to think. His nurse was not a Spanish mulatto,
as her dark dress suggested. It was more likely that she came from
Louisiana, where the old French stock had not died out; but Dick felt
puzzled. She had spoken, obviously with affection, of _ma mignonne_; but
he was sure the singer was no child of hers. There was no Creole accent
in that clear voice, and the steps he heard were light. The feet that had
passed his door were small and arched; not flat like a negro's. He had
seen feet of the former kind slip on an iron staircase and brush, in
pretty satin shoes, across a lawn on which the moonlight fell. Besides, a
girl whose skin was fair and whose movements were strangely graceful had
flitted about his room. While he puzzled over this he went to sleep and
on waking saw with a start of pleasure Jake sitting near his bed. His
nurse had gone.
"Hullo!" he said. "I'm glad you've come. There are a lot of things I want
to know."
"The trouble is I've been ordered not to tell you much. It's a comfort to
see you looking brighter."
"I feel pretty well. But can you tell me where I am and how I got there?"
"Certainly. We'll take the last question first. Somebody tore off a
shutter and we carried you on it. I guess you know you got a dago's knife
between your ribs."
"I seem to remember something like that," said Dick; who added with
awkward gratitude: "I believe the brutes would have killed me if you
hadn't been there."
"It was a pretty near thing. Does it strike you as curious that while you
made yourself responsible for me I had to take care of you?"
"You did so, anyhow," Dick remarked with feeling. "But go on."
"Somebody brought a Spanish doctor, who said you couldn't be moved much
and must be taken into the nearest house, so we brought you here."
"Where is 'here'? That's what I want to know?"
"My orders are not to let you talk. We've changed our positions now;
you've got to listen. For all that, you ought to be thankful you're not
in the Santa Brigida hospital, which was too far away. It's three hundred
years old and smells older. Felt as if you could bake bricks in it, and
no air gets in."
"But what were you doing at the hospital?"
"I went to see a fellow who told me he'd been fired out of our camp. He
came up just after the dago knifed you, and knocked out the man I was
grappling with, but got an ugly stab from one of the gang. We didn't find
this out until we had disposed of you. However, he's nearly all right and
they'll let him out soon."
"Ah!" said Dick. "That must be Payne, the storekeeper. But, you see, I
fired him. Why did he interfere?"
"I don't know. He said something about your being a white man and it was
three to one."
Dick pondered this and then his thoughts resumed their former groove.
"Who's the mulatto woman in black?"
"She's called Lucille. A nice old thing, and seems to have looked after
you well. When I came in she was singing you to sleep. Voice all gone, of
course, but I'd like to write down the song. It sounded like the genuine
article."
"What do you mean by the 'genuine article'?"
"Well, I think it was one of the plantation lullabies they used to sing
before the war; not the imitation trash fourth-rate composers turned out
in floods some years ago. That, of course, has no meaning, but the other
expressed the spirit of the race. Words quaint coon-English with a touch
of real feeling; air something after the style of a camp-meeting hymn,
and yet somehow African. In fact, it's unique music, but it's good."
"Hadn't I another nurse?" Dick asked.
Jake laughed. "I ought to have remembered that you're not musical. There
was a nursing sister of some religious order."
"I don't mean a nun," Dick persisted. "A girl came in now and then."
"It's quite possible. Some of them are sympathetic and some are curious.
No doubt, you were an interesting patient; anyhow, you gave the Spanish
doctor plenty trouble. He was rather anxious for a time; the fever you
had before the dago stabbed you complicated things." Jake paused and
looked at his watch. "Now I've got to quit. I had orders not to stay
long, but I'll come back soon to see how you're getting on."
Dick let him go and lay still, thinking drowsily. Jake had apparently not
meant to answer his questions. He wanted to know where he was and had not
been told. It looked as if his comrade had been warned not to enlighten
him; but there was no reason for this. Above all, he wanted to know who
was the girl with the sweet voice and light step. Jake, who had admitted
that she might have been in his room, had, no doubt, seen her, and Dick
could not understand why he should refuse to speak of her. While he
puzzled about it he went to sleep again.
It was dark when he awoke, and perhaps he was feverish or his brain was
weakened by illness, for it reproduced past scenes that were mysteriously
connected with the present. He was in a strange house in Santa Brigida,
for he remarked the shadowy creeper on the wall and a pool of moonlight
on the dark floor of his room. Yet the cornfields in an English valley,
through which he drove his motor bicycle, seemed more real, and he could
see the rows of stocked sheaves stretch back from the hedgerows he sped
past. Something sinister and threatening awaited him at the end of the
journey, but he could not tell what it was. Then the cornfields vanished
and he was crossing a quiet, walled garden with a girl at his side. He
remembered how the moonlight shone through the branches of a tree and
fell in silver, splashes on her white dress. Her face was in the shadow,
but he knew it well.
After a time he felt thirsty, and moving his head looked feebly about the
room. A slender, white figure sat near the wall, and he started, because
this must be the girl he had heard singing.
"I wonder if you could get me something to drink?" he said.
The girl rose and he watched her intently as she came towards him with a
glass. When she entered the moonlight his heart gave a sudden throb.
"Clare, Miss Kenwardine!" he said, and awkwardly raised himself on his
arm.
"Yes," she said, "I am Clare Kenwardine. But drink this; then I'll put
the pillows straight and you must keep still."
Dick drained the glass and lay down again, for he was weaker than he
thought.
"Thanks! Don't go back into the dark. You have been here all the time? I
mean, since I came."
"As you were seldom quite conscious until this morning, how did you
know?"
"I didn't know, in a way, and yet I did. There was somebody about who
made me think of England, and then, you see, I heard you sing."
"Still," she said, smiling, "I don't quite understand."
"Don't you?" said Dick, who felt he must make things plain. "Well, you
stole in and out and sat here sometimes when Lucille was tired. I didn't
exactly notice you--perhaps I was too ill--but I felt you were there, and
that was comforting."
"And yet you are surprised to see me now!"
"I can't have explained it properly. I didn't know you were Miss
Kenwardine; but I felt I knew you and kept trying to remember, but I was
feverish and my mind wouldn't take your image in. For all that, something
told me it was really there already, and I'd be able to recognize it if I
waited. It was like a photograph that wasn't developed."
"You're feverish now," Clare answered quietly. "I mustn't let you talk so
much."
"You're as bad as Jake; he wouldn't answer my questions," Dick grumbled.
"Then, you see, I want to talk."
Clare laughed, as if she found it a relief to do so. "That doesn't matter
if it will do you harm."
"I'll be very quiet," Dick pleaded. "I'll only speak a word or two now
and then. But don't go away!"
Clare sat down, and after a few minutes Dick resumed: "You passed my door
to-day, and it's curious that I knew your step, though, if you can
understand, without actually recognizing it. It was as if I was dreaming
something that was real. The worst of being ill is that your brain gets
working independently, bringing things up on its own account, without
your telling it. Anyhow, I remembered the iron steps with the glow of the
window through the curtain, and how you slipped--you wore little white
shoes, and the moonlight shone through the branches on your dress."
He broke off and frowned, for a vague, unpleasant memory obtruded itself.
Something that had had disastrous consequences had happened in the quiet
garden, but he could not remember what it was.
"Why did Lucille call you _ma mignonne_?" he asked. "Doesn't it mean a
petted child?"
"Not always. She was my nurse when I was young."
"Then you have lived here before?"
"Not here, but in a country where there are people like Lucille, though
it's long ago. But you mustn't speak another word. Go to sleep at once!"
"Then stay where I can see you and I'll try," Dick answered; and although
he did not mean to do so, presently closed his eyes.
Clare waited until his quiet breathing showed that he was asleep, and
then crossed the floor softly and stood looking down on him. There was
light enough to see his face and it was worn and thin. His weakness moved
her to pity, but there was something else. He had remembered that night
in England, he knew her step and voice, and his rambling talk had caused
her a thrill, for she remembered the night in England well. Brandon had
shielded her from a man whom she had good ground for wishing to avoid. He
had, no doubt, not quite understood the situation, but had seen that she
needed help and chivalrously offered it. She knew he could be trusted and
had without much hesitation made her unconventional request. He had then
been marked by strong vitality and cheerful confidence, but he was ill
and helpless now, and his weakness appealed to her as his vigor had not
done. He was, in a way, dependent on her, and Clare felt glad this was
so. She blushed as she smoothed the coverlet across his shoulders and
then quietly stole away.
There was no sea breeze next morning and the sun shone through a yellow
haze that seemed to intensify the heat. The white walls reflected a
curious subdued light that was more trying to the eyes than the usual
glare, and the beat of the surf was slow and languid. The air was still
and heavy, and Dick's fever, which had been abating, recovered force. He
was hot and irritable, and his restlessness did not vanish until Clare
came in at noon.
"I've been watching for you since daybreak, and you might have come
before," he said. "Lucille means well, but she's clumsy. She doesn't help
one to be quiet as you do."
"You're not quiet," Clare answered in a reproving tone. "Lucille is a
very good nurse; better than I am."
"Well," said Dick in a thoughtful tone, "perhaps she is, in a way. She
never upsets the medicine on my pillow, as you did the last time. The
nasty stuff got into my hair----"
Clare raised her hand in remonstrance. "You really mustn't talk."
"I'm going to talk," Dick answered defiantly. "It's bad for me to keep
puzzling over things, and I mean to get them straight. Lucille's very
patient, but she isn't soothing as you are. It rests one's eyes to look
at you, but that's not altogether why I like you about. I expect it's
because you knew I hadn't stolen those plans when everybody else thought
I had. But then why did I tear your letter up?"
Clare made an abrupt movement. She knew he must be kept quiet and his
brain was not working normally, but his statement was disturbing.
"You tore it up?" she asked, with some color in her face.
"Yes," said Dick in a puzzled voice, "I tore it all to bits. There was a
reason, though I can't remember it. In fact, I can't remember anything
to-day. But don't go off if I shut my eyes for a minute: it wouldn't be
fair."
Clare turned her head, but except for this she did not move, and it was a
relief when after a few disjointed remarks his voice died away. She was
moved to pity, but for a few moments she had quivered in the grasp of
another emotion. It was obvious that Dick did not altogether know what he
was saying, but he had shown her plainly the place she had in his mind,
and she knew she would not like to lose it.
Half an hour later Lucille came in quietly and Clare went away.
CHAPTER XI
CLARE GETS A SHOCK
For a week the stagnant heat brooded over Santa Brigida, sucking up the
citizens' energy and leaving limp depression. Steaming showers that broke
at intervals filled the air with an enervating damp, and the nights were
worse than the days. No draught crept through the slits of windows into
the darkened houses, and the musty smell that characterizes old Spanish
cities gathered in the patios and sweltering rooms.
This reacted upon Dick, who had a bad relapse, and for some days caused
his nurses grave anxiety. There was sickness in the town and the doctor
could spare but little time to him, the nursing sister was occupied, and
Dick was, for the most part, left to Clare and Lucille. They did what
they could; the girl with pitiful tenderness, the mulatto woman with
patience and some skill, but Dick did not know until afterwards that, in
a measure, he owed his life to them. Youth, however, was on his side, the
delirium left him, and after lying for a day or two in half-conscious
stupor, he came back to his senses, weak but with unclouded mind. He knew
he was getting better and his recovery would not be long, but his
satisfaction was marred by keen bitterness. Clare had stolen his papers
and ruined him.
Point by point he recalled his visit to Kenwardine's house, trying to
find something that could be urged in the girl's defense and when he
failed seeking excuses for her; but her guilt was obvious. He hated to
own it, but the proof was overwhelming. She knew the power of her beauty
and had treated him as a confiding fool. He was not revengeful and had
been a fool, but it hurt him badly to realize that she was not what he
had thought. He hardly spoke to Lucille, who came in now and then, and
did not ask for Clare, as he had hitherto done. The girl did not know
this because she was taking the rest she needed after a week of strain.
Jake was his first visitor next morning and Dick asked for a cigarette.
"I'm well enough to do what I like again," he said. "I expect you came
here now and then."
"I did, but they would only let me see you once. I suppose you know you
were very ill?"
"Yes; I feel like that. But I dare say you saw Kenwardine. It looks as if
this is his house."
"It is. We brought you here because it's near the street where you got
stabbed."
Dick said nothing for a minute, and then asked: "What's Kenwardine doing
in Santa Brigida?"
"It's hard to say. Like other foreigners in the town, he's probably here
for what he can get; looking for concessions or a trading monopoly of
some kind."
"Ah!" said Dick. "I'm not sure. But do you like him?"
"Yes. He strikes me as a bit of an adventurer, but so are the rest of
them, and he's none the worse for that. Trying to get ahead of dago
politicians is a risky job."
"Is he running this place as a gambling house?"
"No," said Jake warmly; "that's much too strong. There is some card play
evenings, and I've lost a few dollars myself, but the stakes are moderate
and anything he makes on the bank wouldn't be worth while. He enjoys a
game, that's all. So do other people; we're not all like you."
"Did you see Miss Kenwardine when you came for a game?"
"I did, but I want to point out that I came to see you. She walked
through the patio, where we generally sat, and spoke to us pleasantly,
but seldom stopped more than a minute. A matter of politeness, I imagine,
and no doubt she'd sooner have stayed away."
"Kenwardine ought to keep her away. One wonders why he brought the girl
to a place like this."
Jake frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps your remark is justified, in a sense,
but you mustn't carry the idea too far. He's not using his daughter as an
attraction; it's unthinkable."
"That is so," agreed Dick.
"Well," said Jake, "I allow that our talking about it is in pretty bad
taste, but my view is this: Somehow, I don't think Kenwardine has much
money and he may feel he has to give the girl a chance."
"To marry some gambling rake?"
"No," said Jake sharply. "It doesn't follow that a man is trash because
he stakes a dollar or two now and then, and there are some pretty
straight fellows in Santa Brigida." Then he paused and grinned. "Take
yourself, for example; you've talent enough to carry you some way, and
I'm open to allow you're about as sober as a man could be."
"As it happens, I'm not eligible," Dick rejoined with a touch of
grimness. "Kenwardine wouldn't think me worth powder and shot, and I've a
disadvantage you don't know of yet."
"Anyhow, it strikes me you're taking a rather strange line. Kenwardine
let us bring you here when you were badly hurt, and Miss Kenwardine has
given herself a good deal of trouble about you. In fact, I guess you owe
it to her that you're recovering."
"That's true, I think," said Dick. "I can't remember much about my
illness, but I've a notion that she took very good care of me. Still,
there's no reason I should give her further trouble when I'm getting
better, and I want you to make arrangements for carrying me back to the
dam. Perhaps a hammock would be the best plan."
"You're not fit to be moved yet."
"I'm going, anyhow," Dick replied with quiet resolution.
After trying in vain to persuade him, Jake went away, and soon afterwards
Kenwardine came in. The light was strong and Dick noted the touches of
gray in his short, dark hair, but except for this he looked young and
athletic. His figure was graceful, his dress picturesque, for he wore
white duck with a colored silk shirt and red sash, and he had an easy,
good-humored manner. Sitting down close by, he gave Dick a friendly
smile.
"I'm glad to find you looking better, but am surprised to hear you think
of leaving us," he said.
"My work must be falling behind and Stuyvesant has nobody to put in my
place."
"He sent word that they were getting on all right," Kenwardine remarked.
"I'm afraid he was overstating it with a good motive. Then, you see, I
have given you and Miss Kenwardine a good deal of trouble and can't take
advantage of your kindness any longer. It would be an unfair advantage,
because I'm getting well. Of course I'm very grateful, particularly as I
have no claim on you."
"That is a point you can hardly urge. You are a countryman, and your
cousin is a friend of mine. I think on that ground we are justified in
regarding you as an acquaintance."
Dick was silent for a few moments. He felt that had things been different
he would have liked Kenwardine. The man had charm and had placed him
under a heavy obligation. Dick admitted this frankly, but could not stay
any longer in his house. He had, however, a better reason for going than
his dislike to accepting Kenwardine's hospitality. Clare had robbed him
and he must get away before he thought of her too much. It was an awkward
situation and he feared he had not tact enough to deal with it.
"The truth is, I've no wish to renew my acquaintance with people I met in
England, and I went to America in order to avoid doing so," he said. "You
know what happened before I left."
"Yes; but I think you are exaggerating its importance. After all, you're
not the only man who has, through nothing worse than carelessness, had a
black mark put against his name. You may have a chance yet of showing
that the thing was a mistake."
"Then I must wait until the chance comes," Dick answered firmly.
"Very well," said Kenwardine. "Since this means you're determined to go,
we must try to make it as easy as possible for you. I'll see the doctor
and Mr. Fuller."
He went out, and by and by Clare came in and noted a difference in Dick.
He had generally greeted her as eagerly as his weakness allowed, and
showed his dependence on her, but now his face was hard and resolute. The
change was puzzling and disturbing.
"My father tells me you want to go away," she remarked.
"I don't want to, but I must," Dick answered with a candor he had not
meant to show. "You see, things I ought to be looking after will all go
wrong at the dam."
"Isn't that rather egotistical?" Clare asked with a forced smile. "I have
seen Mr. Bethune, who doesn't look overworked and probably doesn't mind
the extra duty. In fact, he said so."
"People sometimes say such things, but when they have to do a good deal
more than usual they mind very much. Anyhow, it isn't fair to ask them,
and that's one reason for my going away."
Clare colored and her eyes began to sparkle. "Do you think we mind?"
"I don't," Dick answered awkwardly, feeling that he was not getting on
very well. "I know how kind you are and that you wouldn't shirk any
trouble. But still----"
"Suppose we don't think it a trouble?"
Dick knitted his brows. It was hard to believe that the girl who sat
watching him with a puzzled look was an adventuress. He had made her
blush, and had come near to making her angry, while an adventuress would
not have shown her feelings so easily. The light that shone through the
window touched her face, and he noted its delicate modeling, the purity
of her skin, and the softness of her eyes. The sparkle had gone, and they
were pitiful. Clare had forgiven his ingratitude because he was ill.
"Well," he said, "what you think doesn't alter the fact that I have given
you trouble and kept you awake looking after me at night. I wasn't always
quite sensible, but I remember how often you sat here and brought me cool
things to drink. Indeed, I expect you helped to save my life." He paused
and resumed in a voice that thrilled with feeling: "This wasn't all you
did. When I was having a very bad time before I left England and
everybody believed the worst, you sent me a letter saying that you knew I
was innocent."
"You told me you tore up the letter," Clare remarked quietly.
Dick's face got red. He had not taken the line he meant to take and was
obviously making a mess of things.
"Are you sure I wasn't delirious?"
"I don't think so. Did you tear up the letter?"
He gave her a steady look, for he saw that he must nerve himself to face
the situation. It was unfortunate that he was too ill to deal with it
properly, but he must do the best he could.
"I'll answer that if you'll tell me how you knew I was innocent."
Clare looked puzzled, as if his manner had jarred; and Dick saw that she
was not acting. Her surprise was real. He could not understand this, but
felt ashamed of himself.
"In a sense, of course, I didn't know," she answered with a touch of
embarrassment. "Still, I felt you didn't steal the plans. It seemed
impossible."
"Thank you," said Dick, who was silent for the next few moments. He
thought candor was needed and had meant to be frank, but he could not
wound the girl who had taken care of him.
"Anyhow, I lost the papers and that was almost as bad," he resumed
feebly. "When you get into trouble people don't care much whether you're
a rogue or a fool. You're in disgrace and that's all that matters.
However, I mustn't bore you with my grumbling. I'm getting better and
they want me at the dam."
"Then I suppose you must go as soon as you are able," Clare agreed, and
began to talk about something else.
She left him soon and Dick lay still, frowning. It had been a trying
interview and he doubted if he had come through it well, but hoped Clare
would make allowances for his being ill. He did not want her to think him
ungrateful, and had certainly no wish to punish her for what had happened
in the past. But she had stolen his papers and he must get away.
He was taken away next morning, with the consent of the doctor, who
agreed that the air would be more invigorating on the hill. Clare did not
come down to see him off and Dick felt strangely disappointed, although
she had wished him a quick recovery on the previous evening. Kenwardine,
however, helped him into his hammock and after the carriers started went
back to the room where Clare sat. He noted that although the sun was hot
the shutter was not drawn across the window, which commanded the street.
"Well," he said, "Mr. Brandon has gone and on the whole that's a relief."
"Do you know why he went so soon?" Clare asked.
Kenwardine sat down and looked at her thoughtfully. He was fond of Clare,
though he found her something of an embarrassment now and then. He was
not rich and ran certain risks that made his ability to provide for her
doubtful, while she had no marked talents to fall back upon if things
went against him. There was, however, the possibility that her beauty
might enable her to make a good marriage, and although Kenwardine could
not do much at present to forward this plan he must try to prevent any
undesirable entanglement. Brandon, for example, was not to be thought of,
but he suspected Clare of some liking for the young man.
"Yes," he said, "I know and sympathize with him. In fact, I quite see why
he found it difficult to stay. The situation was only tolerable while he
was very ill."
"Why?"
Kenwardine meant to tell her. It was better that she should smart a
little now than suffer worse afterwards.
"As soon as he began to get better Brandon remembered that we were the
cause of his misfortunes. You can see how this complicated things."
"But we had nothing to do with them," Clare said sharply. "What made him
think we had?"
"It's not an illogical conclusion when he imagines that he lost his
papers in our house."
Clare got up with a red flush in her face and her eyes sparkling. "It's
absurd!" she exclaimed. "He must have been delirious when he said so."
"He didn't say so in as many words; Brandon has some taste. But he was
perfectly sensible and intended me to see what he meant."
The girl stood still, trembling with anger and confusion, and Kenwardine
felt sorry for her. She was worse hurt than he had expected, but she
would rally.
"But he couldn't have been robbed while he was with us," she said with an
effort, trying to understand Dick's point of view. "He hadn't an
overcoat, so the plans must have been in the pocket of his uniform, and
nobody except myself was near him."
She stopped with a gasp as she remembered how she had slipped and seized
Dick. In doing so her hand had caught his pocket. Everything was plain
now, and for a few moments she felt overwhelmed. Her face blanched, but
her eyes were hard and very bright.
Kenwardine left her, feeling that Brandon would have cause to regret his
rashness if he ever attempted to renew her acquaintance, and Clare sat
down and tried to conquer her anger. This was difficult, because she had
received an intolerable insult. Brandon thought her a thief! It was plain
that he did so, because the change in his manner bore out all her father
had said, and there was no other explanation. Then she blushed with shame
as she realized that from his point of view her unconventional behavior
warranted his suspicions. She had asked him to come into the garden and
had written him a note! This was horribly foolish and she must pay for
it, but she had been mistaken about his character.
She had, as a rule, avoided the men she met at her father's house and had
shrunk with frank repugnance from one or two, but Brandon had seemed
different. Then he had watched for her when he was ill and she had seen
his heavy eyes get brighter when she came into the room. Now, however,
she understood him better. She had some beauty and he had been satisfied
with her physical attractiveness, although he thought her a thief. This
was worse than the coarse admiration of the men she had feared. It was
unthinkably humiliating, but her anger helped her to bear the blow. After
all, she was fortunate in finding out what Brandon was, since it might
have been worse had the knowledge come later. There was a sting in this
that rankled, but she could banish him from her thoughts now.
CHAPTER XII
DICK KEEPS HIS PROMISE
Twinkling points of light that pierced the darkness lower down the hill
marked the colored laborers' camp, and voices came up faintly through the
still air. The range cut off the land breeze, though now and then a
wandering draught flickered down the hollow spanned by the dam, and a
smell of hot earth and damp jungle hung about the veranda of Dick's iron
shack. He sat near a lamp, with a drawing-board on his knee, while Jake
lounged in a canvas chair, smoking and occasionally glancing at the sheet
of figures in his hand. His expression was gloomily resigned.
"I suppose you'll have things ready for us in the morning," Dick said
presently.
"François' accounts are checked and I'm surprised to find them right,
but I imagine the other calculations will not be finished. Anyhow, it
won't make much difference whether they are or not. I guess you know
that!"
"Well, of course, if you can't manage to do the lot----"
"I don't say it's impossible," Jake rejoined. "But beginning work before
breakfast is bad enough, without going on after dinner. Understand that I
don't question your authority to find me a job at night; it's your object
that makes me kick."
"We want the calculations made before we set the boys to dig."
"Then why didn't you give me them when I was doing nothing this
afternoon?" Jake inquired.
"I hadn't got the plans ready."
"Just so. You haven't had things ready for me until after dinner all this
week. As you're a methodical fellow that's rather strange. Still, if you
really want the job finished, I'll have to do my best, but I'm going out
first for a quarter of an hour."
"You needn't," Dick said dryly. "If you mean to tell the engineer not to
wait, he's gone. I sent him off some time since."
"Of course you had a right to send him off," Jake replied in an injured
tone. "But I don't quite think----"
"You know what your father pays for coal. Have you reckoned what it costs
to keep a locomotive two or three hours for the purpose of taking you to
Santa Brigida and back?"
"I haven't, but I expect the old man wouldn't stand for my running a
private car," Jake admitted. "However, it's the only way of getting into
town."
"You were there three nights last week. What's more, you tried to draw
your next month's wages. That struck me as significant, though I'd
fortunately provided against it."
"So I found out. I suppose I ought to be grateful for your thoughtfulness
but can't say I am. I wanted the money because I had a run of wretched
luck."
"At the casino?"
"No," said Jake, shortly.
"Then you were at Kenwardine's; I'll own that's what I wanted to prevent.
He's a dangerous man and his house is no place for you."
"One would hardly expect you to speak against him. Considering
everything, it's perhaps not quite in good taste."
Dick put down the drawing-board and looked at him steadily. "It's very
bad taste. In fact, I find myself in a very awkward situation. Your
father gave me a fresh start when I needed it badly, and agreed when your
sister put you in my charge."
"Ida's sometimes a bit officious," Jake remarked.
"Well," Dick continued, "I promised to look after you, and although I
didn't know what I was undertaking, the promise must be kept. It's true
that Kenwardine afterwards did me a great service; but his placing me
under an obligation doesn't relieve me from the other, which I'd incurred
first."
Somewhat to his surprise, Jake nodded agreement. "No, not from your point
of view. But what makes you think Kenwardine _is_ dangerous?"
"I can't answer. You had better take it for granted that I know what I'm
talking about, and keep away from him."
"As a matter of fact, it was Miss Kenwardine to whom you owed most," Jake
said meaningly. "Do you suggest that she's dangerous, too?"
Dick frowned and his face got red, but he said nothing, and Jake resumed:
"There's a mystery about the matter and you know more than you intend to
tell; but if you blame the girl for anything, you're absolutely wrong. If
you'll wait a minute, I'll show you what I mean."
He went into the shack and came back with a drawing-block which he stood
upon the table under the lamp, and Dick saw that it was a water-color
portrait of Clare Kenwardine. He did not know much about pictures, but it
was obvious that Jake had talent. The girl stood in the patio, with a
pale-yellow wall behind her, over which a vivid purple creeper trailed.
Her lilac dress showed the graceful lines of her slender figure against
the harmonious background, and matched the soft blue of her eyes and the
delicate white and pink of her skin. The patio was flooded with strong
sunlight, but the girl looked strangely fresh and cool.
"I didn't mean to show you this, but it's the best way of explaining what
I think," Jake said with some diffidence. "I'm weak in technique, because
I haven't been taught, but I imagine I've got sensibility. It's plain
that when you paint a portrait you must study form and color, but there's
something else that you can only feel. I don't mean the character that's
expressed by the mouth and eyes; it's something vague and elusive that
psychologists give you a hint of when they talk about the _aura_. Of
course you can't paint it, but unless it, so to speak, glimmers through
the work, your portrait's dead."
"I don't quite understand; but sometimes things do give you an impression
you can't analyze," Dick replied.
"Well, allowing for poor workmanship, all you see here's harmonious. The
blues and purples and yellows tone, and yet, if I've got the hot glare of
the sun right, you feel that the figure's exotic and doesn't belong to
the scene. The latter really needs an olive-skinned daughter of the
passionate South; but the girl I've painted ought to walk in the
moonlight through cool forest glades."
Dick studied the picture silently, for he remembered with disturbing
emotion that he had felt what Jake suggested when he first met Clare
Kenwardine. She was frank, but somehow remote and aloof; marked by a
strange refinement he could find no name for. He was glad that Jake did
not seem to expect him to speak, but after a few moments the latter
wrapped up the portrait and took it away. When he came back he lighted a
cigarette.
"Now," he said, "do you think it's sensible to distrust a girl like that?
Admitting that her father makes a few dollars by gambling, can you
believe that living with him throws any taint on her?"
Dick hesitated. Clare had stolen his papers. This seemed impossible, but
it was true. Yet when he looked up he answered as his heart urged him:
"No. It sounds absurd."
"It is absurd," Jake said firmly.
Neither spoke for the next minute, and then Dick frowned at a disturbing
thought. Could the lad understand Clare so well unless he loved her?
"That picture must have taken some time to paint. Did Miss Kenwardine
often pose for you?"
"No," said Jake, rather dryly; "in fact, she didn't really pose at all. I
had trouble to get permission to make one or two quick sketches, and
worked up the rest from memory."
"Yet she let you sketch her. It was something of a privilege."
Jake smiled in a curious way. "I think I see what you mean. Miss
Kenwardine likes me, but although I've some artistic taste, I'm frankly
flesh and blood; and that's not quite her style. She finds me a little
more in harmony with her than the rest, but this is all. Still, it's
something to me. Now you understand matters, perhaps you won't take so
much trouble to keep me out of Santa Brigida."
"I'll do my best to keep you away from Kenwardine," Dick declared.
"Very well," Jake answered with a grin. "You're quite a good sort, though
you're not always very smart, and I can't blame you for doing what you
think is your duty."
Then he set to work on his calculations and there was silence on the
veranda.
Dick kept him occupied for the next week, and then prudently decided not
to press the lad too hard by finding him work that obviously need not be
done. If he was to preserve his power, it must be used with caution. The
first evening Jake was free he started for Santa Brigida, though as there
was no longer a locomotive available, he got two laborers to take him
down the line on a hand-car. After that he had some distance to walk and
arrived at Kenwardine's powdered with dust. It was a hot night and he
found Kenwardine and three or four others in the patio.
A small, shaded lamp stood upon the table they had gathered round, and
the light sparkled on delicate green glasses and a carafe of wine. It
touched the men's white clothes, and then, cut off by the shade, left
their faces in shadow and fell upon the tiles. A colored paper lantern,
however, hung from a wire near an outside staircase and Jake saw Clare a
short distance away. It looked as if she had stopped in crossing the
patio, but as he came forward Kenwardine got up.
"It's some time since we have seen you," he remarked.
"Yes," said Jake. "I meant to come before, but couldn't get away."
"Then you have begun to take your business seriously?"
"My guardian does."
"Ah!" said Kenwardine, speaking rather louder, "if you mean Mr. Brandon,
I certainly thought him a serious person. But what has this to do with
your coming here?"
"He found me work that kept me busy evenings."
"With the object of keeping you out of mischief?"
"I imagine he meant something of the kind," Jake admitted with a chuckle.
He glanced round, and felt he had been too frank, as his eyes rested on
Clare. He could not see her face, but thought she was listening.
"Then it looks as if he believed we were dangerous people for you to
associate with," Kenwardine remarked, with a smile. "Well, I suppose
we're not remarkable for the conventional virtues."
Jake, remembering Dick had insisted that Kenwardine was dangerous, felt
embarrassed as he noted that Clare was now looking at him. To make things
worse, he thought Kenwardine had meant her to hear.
"I expect he really was afraid of my going to the casino," he answered as
carelessly as he could.
"Though he would not be much relieved to find you had come to my house
instead? Well, I suppose one must make allowances for the Puritan
character."
"Brandon isn't much of a Puritan, and he's certainly not a prig," Jake
objected.
Kenwardine laughed. "I'm not sure this explanation makes things much
better, but we'll let it go. We were talking about the new water supply.
It's a harmless subject and you ought to be interested."
Jake sat down and stole a glance at Clare as he drank a glass of wine.
There was nothing to be learned from her face, but he was vexed with
Kenwardine, who had intentionally involved him in an awkward situation.
Jake admitted that he had not dealt with it very well. For all that, he
began to talk about the irrigation works and the plans for bringing water
to the town, and was relieved to see that Clare had gone when he next
looked round.
As a matter of fact, Clare had quietly stolen away and was sitting on a
balcony in the dark, tingling with anger and humiliation. She imagined
that she had banished Brandon from her thoughts and was alarmed to find
that he had still power to wound her. It had been a shock to learn he
believed that she had stolen his papers; but he had now warned his
companion against her father and no doubt herself. Jake's manner when
questioned had seemed to indicate this.
By and by she tried, not to make excuses for Brandon, but to understand
his point of view, and was forced to admit that it was not unreasonable.
Her father now and then allowed, or perhaps encouraged, his guests to
play for high stakes, and she had hated to see the evening gatherings of
extravagant young men at their house in England. Indeed, she had eagerly
welcomed the change when he had offered to take her abroad because
business necessitated his leaving the country. Things had been better at
Santa Brigida, but after a time the card playing had begun again. The men
who now came to their house were, however, of a different type from the
rather dissipated youths she had previously met. They were quieter and
more reserved; men of experience who had known adventure. Still, she
disliked their coming and had sometimes felt she must escape from a life
that filled her with repugnance. The trouble was that she did not know
where to find a refuge and could not force herself to leave her father,
who had treated her with good-humored indulgence.
Then she began to wonder what was the business that had brought him to
Santa Brigida. He did not talk about it, but she was sure it was not
gambling, as Brandon thought. No doubt he won some money from his
friends, but it could not be much and he must lose at times. She must
look for another explanation and it was hard to find. Men who did not
play cards came to the house in the daytime and occasionally late at
night, and Kenwardine, who wrote a good many letters, now and then went
away down the coast. There was a mystery about his occupation that
puzzled and vaguely alarmed her, and she could turn to nobody for advice.
She had refused her aunt's offer of a home and knew it would not be
renewed. They had cast her off and done with her. Getting up presently
with a troubled sigh, she went to her room.
In the meantime, Jake stayed in the patio with the others. A thin, dark
Spaniard, who spoke English well, and two Americans occupied the other
side of the table; a fat German sat nearly opposite the Spaniard and next
to Jake. The heat made them languid and nobody wanted to play cards,
although there was a pack on the table. This happened oftener than
Brandon thought.
"It's a depressing night and an enervating country," Kenwardine remarked.
"I wonder why we stay here as we do, since we're apt to leave it as poor
as when we came. The people are an unstable lot, and when you've spent
your time and energy developing what you hope is a profitable scheme,
some change of policy or leaders suddenly cuts it short."
"I guess that explains why we _are_ here," one of the Americans replied.
"The South is the home of the dramatic surprise and this appeals to us.
In the North, they act by rule and one knows, more or less, what will
happen; but this gives one no chances to bet upon."
The fat German nodded. "It is the gambler's point of view. You people
take with pleasure steep chances, as they say, but mine act not so. The
system is better. One calculates beforehand what may happen and it is
provided for. If things do not go as one expects, one labors to change
them, and when this is not possible adopts an alternative plan."
"But there always is a plan, Señor Richter!" the Spaniard remarked.
Richter smiled. "With us, I think that is true. Luck is more fickle than
a woman and we like not the surprise. But our effort is to be prepared
for it."
"You're a pretty hard crowd to run up against," said the other American.
Jake, who had taken no part in the recent talk, and leaned languidly back
in his chair, turned his head as he heard footsteps in the patio. They
were quick and decided, as if somebody was coming straight towards the
table, but they stopped suddenly. This seemed strange and Jake, who had
caught a glimpse of a man in white clothes, looked round to see if
Kenwardine had made him a sign. The latter, however, was lighting his
pipe, but the Spaniard leaned forward a little, as if trying to see
across the patio. Jake thought he would find this difficult with the
light of the lamp in his eyes, but Richter, who sat opposite, got up and
reached across the table.
"With excuses, Don Sebastian, but the wine is on your side," he said, and
filled his glass from the decanter before he sat down.
In the meantime the man who had come in was waiting, but seemed to have
moved, because Jake could only see an indistinct figure in the gloom.
"Is that you, Enrique?" Kenwardine asked when he had lighted his pipe.
"_Sí, señor_," a voice answered, and Kenwardine made a sign of
dismissal.
"_Bueno!_ You can tell me about it to-morrow. I am engaged now."
The footsteps began again and when they died away Kenwardine picked up
the cards.
"Shall we play for half an hour?" he asked.
The others agreed, but the stakes were moderate and nobody took much
interest in the game; and Jake presently left the house without seeing
anything more of Clare. He felt he had wasted the evening, but as he
walked back to the line he thought about the man whom Kenwardine had sent
away. He did not think the fellow was one of the servants, and it seemed
strange that Richter should have got up and stood in front of Don
Sebastian when the latter was trying to see across the patio. Still,
there was no apparent reason why the Spaniard should want to see who had
come in, and Jake dismissed the matter.
CHAPTER XIII
THE RETURN FROM THE FIESTA
The sure-footed mules, braced hard against the weight of the carriage,
slid down a steep descent across slippery stones when Clare, who wondered
what would happen if the worn-out harness broke, rode into Adexe.
Gleaming white houses rose one above another among feathery palms, with a
broad streak of darker green in their midst to mark the shady alameda.
Behind, the dark range towered against the sky; in front lay a
foam-fringed beach and the vast blue sweep of dazzling sea. Music came up
through the languid murmur of the surf, and the steep streets were filled
with people whose clothes made patches of brilliant color. The carriage
jolted safely down the hill, and Clare looked about with interest as they
turned into the central plaza, where the driver stopped.
"It's a picturesque little town and I'm glad you brought me," she said.
"But what does the fiesta they're holding celebrate?"
"I don't know; the first landing of the Spaniards, perhaps," Kenwardine
replied. "Anyhow, it's a popular function, and as everybody in the
neighborhood takes part in it, I came with the object of meeting some
people I do business with. In fact, I may have to leave you for a time
with the wife of a Spaniard whom I know."
When coming down the hillside Clare had noticed a sugar mill and an ugly
coaling wharf that ran out into the bay. Two steamers lay not far off,
rolling gently on the glittering swell, and several lighters were moored
against the wharf. Since she had never heard him speak of coal, she
imagined her father's business was with the sugar mill, but he seldom
talked to her about such matters and she did not ask. He took her to an
old, yellow house, with tarnished brass rails barring its lower windows
and a marble fountain in the patio, where brilliant creepers hung from
the balconies. The soft splash of falling water was soothing and the
spray cooled the air.
"It is very pretty," Clare said while they waited. "I wish we could make
our patio like this."
"We may be able to do so when Brandon and his friends bring us the
water," Kenwardine replied with a quick glance at the girl. "Have you
seen him recently?"
"Not for three or four weeks," said Clare.
There was nothing to be learned from her face, but Kenwardine noted a
hint of coldness in her voice. Next moment, however, a stout lady in a
black dress, and a thin, brown-faced Spaniard came down to meet them.
Kenwardine presented Clare, and for a time they sat on a balcony, talking
in a mixture of French and Castilian. Then a man came up the outside
staircase and took off his hat as he turned to Kenwardine. He had a
swarthy skin, but Clare carelessly remarked that the hollows about his
eyes were darker than the rest of his face, as if they had been
overlooked in a hurried wash, and his bare feet were covered with fine,
black dust.
"Don Martin waits you, señor," he said.
Kenwardine excused himself to his hostess, and after promising to return
before long went away with the man.
"Who is Don Martin, and does he own the coaling wharf?" Clare asked.
"No," said the Spaniard. "What makes you imagine so?"
"There was some coal-dust on his messenger."
The Spaniard laughed. "Your eyes are as keen as they are bright,
señorita, but your father spoke of business and he does not deal in
coal. They use it for the engine at the sugar mill."
"Could I follow him to the mill? I would like to see how they extract the
sugar from the cane."
"It is not a good day for that; the machinery will not be running," said
the Spaniard, who looked at his wife.
"I meant to take you to the cathedral. Everybody goes on the fiesta," the
lady broke in.
Clare agreed. She suspected that her father had not gone to the sugar
mill, but this did not matter, and she presently left the house with her
hostess. The small and rather dark cathedral was crowded, and Clare, who
understood very little of what went on, was impressed by the close rows
of kneeling figures, while the candles glimmering through the incense,
and the music, had their effect. She came out in a thoughtful mood,
partly dazzled by the change of light, and it was with something of a
shock she stopped to avoid collision with a man at the bottom of the
steps. It was Brandon, and she noted that he looked well again, but
although they were face to face and he waited with his eyes fixed on her,
she turned away and spoke to her companion. Dick crossed the street with
his hand clenched and his face hot, but felt that he had deserved his
rebuff. He could not expect Miss Kenwardine to meet him as a friend.
An hour or two later, Kenwardine returned to the house with Richter, the
German, and said he found he must drive to a village some distance off to
meet an official whom he had expected to see in the town. He doubted if
he could get back that night, but a sailing barquillo would take
passengers to Santa Brigida, and Clare could go home by her. The girl
made no objection when she heard that two French ladies, whom she knew,
were returning by the boat, and stayed with her hostess when Kenwardine
and Richter left. Towards evening the Spaniard came in and stated that
the barquillo had sailed earlier than had been announced, but a steam
launch was going to Santa Brigida with some friends of his on board and
he could get Clare a passage if she would sooner go. Señor Kenwardine,
he added, might drive home by another road without calling there again.
Half an hour later Clare went with him to the coaling wharf, where a
launch lay at some steps. A few people were already on board, and her
host left after putting her in charge of a Spanish lady. The girl
imagined that he was glad to get rid of her, and thought there was
something mysterious about her father's movements. Something he had not
expected must have happened, because he would not have brought her if he
had known he could not take her home. It was, however, not a long run to
Santa Brigida, by sea, and the launch, which had a powerful engine,
looked fast.
In another few minutes a man came down the steps and threw off a rope
before he jumped on board. Taking off his hat to the passengers, he
started the engine and sat down at the helm. Clare did not see his face
until the launch was gliding away from the wharf, and then hid her
annoyance and surprise, for it was Brandon. His eyes rested on her for a
moment as he glanced about the boat, but she saw he did not expect
recognition. Perhaps she had been wrong when she passed him outside the
cathedral, but it was now too late to change her attitude.
The water was smooth, the sun had sunk behind the range, and a warm
breeze that ruffled the shining surface with silky ripples blew off the
shore. The rumble of the surf came in a deep undertone through the throb
of the engine, and the launch sped on with a frothy wave curling at her
bows. Now and then Clare glanced quickly at the helmsman, who sat with
his arm thrown round the tiller. She thought he looked disturbed, and
felt sorry, though she told herself that she had done the proper thing.
After a time the launch swung in towards the beach and stopped at a rude
landing behind a reef. Houses showed among the trees not far off and
Clare thought this was the pueblo of Arenas. Then she was disturbed to
see that all her companions were going to land. When the Spanish lady
said good-by she got up, with the idea of following the rest, but Dick
stopped her.
"Do you expect Mr. Kenwardine to meet you?" he asked.
"No. I was told the launch was going to Santa Brigida, but didn't know
that she was yours."
Dick eyes twinkled. "I am going to Santa Brigida and the boat is one we
use, but my colored fireman refused to leave the fiesta. Now you can't
stay at Arenas, and I doubt if you can get a mule to take you home,
because they'll all have gone to Adexe. But, if you like, we'll go ashore
and try."
"You don't think I could find a carriage?" Clare asked irresolutely,
seeing that if she now showed herself determined to avoid him, it would
be humiliating to be forced to fall back upon his help.
"I don't. Besides, it's some distance to Santa Brigida over a rough,
steep road that you'd find very awkward in the dark, while as I can land
you in an hour, it seems unnecessary for you to leave the boat here."
"Yes," said Clare, "perhaps it is."
Dick threw some coal into the furnace, and restarted the launch. The
throb of the engine was quicker than before, and when a jet of steam blew
away from the escape-pipe Clare imagined that he meant to lose no time.
She glanced at him as he sat at the helm with a moody face; and then away
at the black hills that slid past. The silence was embarrassing and she
wondered whether he would break it. On the whole, she wanted him to do
so, but would give him no help.
"Of course," he said at length, "you needn't talk if you'd sooner not.
But you gave me the cut direct in Adexe, and although I may have deserved
it, it hurt."
"I don't see why it should hurt," Clare answered coldly.
"Don't you?" he asked. "Well, you have the right to choose your
acquaintances; but I once thought we were pretty good friends and I
mightn't have got better if you hadn't taken care of me. That ought to
count for something."
Clare blushed, but her eyes sparkled and her glance was steady. "If we
are to have an explanation, it must be complete and without reserve. Very
well! Why did you change when you were getting better? And why did you
hint that I must know you hadn't stolen the plans?"
Dick studied her with some surprise. He had thought her gentle and
trustful, but saw that she burned with imperious anger. It certainly was
not acting and contradicted the supposition of her guilt.
"If I did hint anything of the kind, I must have been a bit light-headed,"
he answered awkwardly. "You get morbid fancies when you have fever."
"The fever had nearly gone. You were braver then than you seem to be
now
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