Poor Man's Rock, Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  The House in Cradle Bay

  On an afternoon in the first week of November, 1918, under a sky bankfull of murky cloud and an air freighted with a chill which threateneduntimely snow, a man came rowing up along the western side of SquittyIsland and turned into Cradle Bay, which lies under the lee of PointOld. He was a young man, almost boyish-looking. He had on a pair of finetan shoes, brown overalls, a new gray mackinaw coat buttoned to hischin. He was bareheaded. Also he wore a patch of pink celluloid over hisright eye.

  When he turned into the small half-moon bight, he let up on his oars anddrifted, staring with a touch of surprise at a white cottage-roofedhouse with wide porches sitting amid an acre square of bright green lawnon a gentle slope that ran up from a narrow beach backed by a lowsea-wall of stone where the gravel ended and the earth began.

  "Hm-m-m," he muttered. "It wasn't built yesterday, either. Funny henever mentioned _that_."

  He pushed on the oars and the boat slid nearer shore, the man's eyesstill steadfast on the house. It stood out bold against the grass andthe deeper green of the forest behind. Back of it opened a hillsidebrown with dead ferns, dotted with great solitary firs and gnarlybranched arbutus.

  No life appeared there. The chimneys were dead. Two moorings bobbed inthe bay, but there was no craft save a white rowboat hauled high abovetidewater and canted on its side.

  "I wonder, now." He spoke again.

  While he wondered and pushed his boat slowly in on the gravel, a low_pr-r-r_ and a sibilant ripple of water caused him to look behind. Ahigh-bowed, shining mahogany cruiser, seventy feet or more over all,rounded the point and headed into the bay. The smooth sea parted with awhistling sound where her brass-shod stem split it like a knife. Sheslowed down from this trainlike speed, stopped, picked up a mooring,made fast. The swell from her rolled in, swashing heavily on the beach.

  The man in the rowboat turned his attention to the cruiser. There werepeople aboard to the number of a dozen, men and women, clustered on herflush afterdeck. He could hear the clatter of their tongues, low ripplesof laughter, through all of which ran the impatient note of a male voiceissuing peremptory orders.

  The cruiser blew her whistle repeatedly,--shrill, imperative blasts. Theman in the rowboat smiled. The air was very still. Sounds carry overquiet water as if telephoned. He could not help hearing what was said.

  "Wise management," he observed ironically, under his breath.

  The power yacht, it seemed, had not so much as a dinghy aboard.

  A figure on the deck detached itself from the group and waved abeckoning hand to the rowboat.

  The rower hesitated, frowning. Then he shrugged his shoulders and pulledout and alongside. The deck crew lowered a set of steps.

  "Take a couple of us ashore, will you?" He was addressed by a short,stout man. He was very round and pink of face, very well dressed, and bythe manner in which he spoke to the others, and the glances he castashore, a person of some consequence in great impatience.

  The young man laid his rowboat against the steps.

  "Climb in," he said briefly.

  "You, Smith, come along," the round-faced one addressed a youth in tightblue jersey and peaked cap.

  The deck boy climbed obediently down. A girl in white duck and heavyblue sweater put her foot on the steps.

  "I think I shall go too, papa," she said.

  Her father nodded and followed her.

  The rowboat nosed in beside the end of a narrow float that ran from thesea wall. The boy in the jersey sprang out, reached a steadying hand tohis employer. The girl stepped lightly to the planked logs.

  "Give the boy a lift on that boat to the _chuck_, will you?" the stoutperson made further request, indicating the white boat bottom up onshore.

  A queer expression gleamed momentarily in the eyes of the boatman. Butit passed. He did not speak, but made for the dinghy, followed by thehand from the yacht. They turned the boat over, slid it down and afloat.The sailor got in and began to ship his oars.

  The man and the girl stood by till this was done. Then the girl turnedaway. The man extended his hand.

  "Thanks," he said curtly.

  The other's hand had involuntarily moved. The short, stout man dropped asilver dollar in it, swung on his heel and followed hisdaughter,--passed her, in fact, for she had only taken a step or two andhalted.

  The young fellow eyed the silver coin in his hand with an expressionthat passed from astonishment to anger and broke at last into a smile ofsheer amusement. He jiggled the coin, staring at it thoughtfully. Thenhe faced about on the jerseyed youth about to dip his blades.

  "Smith," he said, "I suppose if I heaved this silver dollar out into the_chuck_ you'd think I was crazy."

  The youth only stared at him.

  "You don't object to tips, do you, Smith?" the man in the mackinawinquired.

  "Gee, no," the boy observed. "Ain't you got no use for money?"

  "Not this kind. You take it and buy smokes."

  He flipped the dollar into the dinghy. It fell clinking on the slattedfloor and the youth salvaged it, looked it over, put it in his pocket.

  "Gee," he said. "Any time a guy hands me money, I keep it, believe me."

  His gaze rested curiously on the man with the patch over his eye. Hisfamiliar grin faded. He touched his cap.

  "Thank y', sir."

  He heaved on his oars. The boat slid out. The man stood watching, handsdeep in his pockets. A displeased look replaced the amused smile as hisglance rested a second on the rich man's toy of polished mahogany andshining brass. Then he turned to look again at the house up the slopeand found the girl at his elbow.

  He did not know if she had overheard him, and he did not at the momentcare. He met her glance with one as impersonal as her own.

  "I'm afraid I must apologize for my father," she said simply. "I hopeyou aren't offended. It was awfully good of you to bring us ashore."

  "That's quite all right," he answered casually. "Why should I beoffended? When a roughneck does something for you, it's proper to handhim some of your loose change. Perfectly natural."

  "But you aren't anything of the sort," she said frankly. "I feel sureyou resent being tipped for an act of courtesy. It was very thoughtlessof papa."

  "Some people are so used to greasing their way with money that they'llhand St. Peter a ten-dollar bill when they pass the heavenly gates," heobserved. "But it really doesn't matter. Tell me something. Whose houseis that, and how long has it been there?"

  "Ours," she answered. "Two years. We stay here a good deal in thesummer."

  "Ours, I daresay, means Horace A. Gower," he remarked. "Pardon mycuriosity, but you see I used to know this place rather well. I've beenaway for some time. Things seem to have changed a bit."

  "You're just back from overseas?" she asked quickly.

  He nodded. She looked at him with livelier interest.

  "I'm no wounded hero," he forestalled the inevitable question. "I merelyhappened to get a splinter of wood in one eye, so I have leave until itgets well."

  "If you are merely on leave, why are you not in uniform?" she askedquickly, in a puzzled tone.

  "I am," he replied shortly. "Only it is covered up with overalls andmackinaw. Well, I must be off. Good-by, Miss Gower."

  He pushed his boat off the beach, rowed to the opposite side of the bay,and hauled the small craft up over a log. Then he took his bag in handand climbed the rise that lifted to the backbone of Point Old. Halfwayup he turned to look briefly backward over beach and yacht and house, upthe veranda steps of which the girl in the blue sweater was nowclimbing.

  "It's queer," he muttered.

  He went on. In another minute he was on the ridge. The Gulf opened out,a dead dull gray. The skies were hidden behind drab clouds. The air wasclammy, cold, hushed, as if the god of storms were gathering his breathfor a great effort.

  And Jack MacRae himself, when he topped the height which gave clearvision for many miles of shore and sea, drew a
deep breath and haltedfor a long look at many familiar things.

  He had been gone nearly four years. It seemed to him but yesterday thathe left. The picture was unchanged,--save for that white cottage in itssquare of green. He stared at that with a doubtful expression, then hisuncovered eye came back to the long sweep of the Gulf, to the browncliffs spreading away in a ragged line along a kelp-strewn shore. He putdown the bag and seated himself on a mossy rock close by a stunted,leaning fir and stared about him like a man who has come a great way tosee something and means to look his fill.