Mr. Jack Hamlin's Mediation, Page 2

  THE MAN AT THE SEMAPHORE

  In the early days of the Californian immigration, on the extremest pointof the sandy peninsula, where the bay of San Francisco debouches intothe Pacific, there stood a semaphore telegraph. Tossing its black armsagainst the sky,--with its back to the Golden Gate and that vast expanseof sea whose nearest shore was Japan,--it signified to another semaphorefurther inland the "rigs" of incoming vessels, by certain uncouth signs,which were again passed on to Telegraph Hill, San Francisco, where theyreappeared on a third semaphore, and read to the initiated "schooner,""brig" "ship," or "steamer." But all homesick San Francisco had learnedthe last sign, and on certain days of the month every eye was turned towelcome those gaunt arms widely extended at right angles, which meant"sidewheel steamer" (the only steamer which carried the mails) and"letters from home." In the joyful reception accorded to that herald ofglad tidings, very few thought of the lonely watcher on the sand duneswho dispatched them, or even knew of that desolate Station.

  For desolate it was beyond description. The Presidio, with itsvoiceless, dismounted cannon and empty embrasures hidden in a hollow,and the Mission Dolores, with its crumbling walls and belfry tower lostin another, made the ultima thule of all San Francisco wandering. TheCliff house and Fort Point did not then exist; from Black Point thecurving line of shore of "Yerba Buena"--or San Francisco--showed onlya stretch of glittering wind-swept sand dunes, interspersed withstraggling gullies of half-buried black "scrub oak." The long sixmonths' summer sun fiercely beat upon it from the cloudless sky above;the long six months' trade winds fiercely beat upon it from the west;the monotonous roll-call of the long Pacific surges regularly beat uponit from the sea. Almost impossible to face by day through sliding sandsand buffeting winds, at night it was impracticable through the densesea-fog that stole softly through the Golden Gate at sunset. Thence,until morning, sea and shore were a trackless waste, bounded only by thewarning thunders of the unseen sea. The station itself, a rudely builtcabin, with two windows,--one furnished with a telescope,--looked likea heap of driftwood, or a stranded wreck left by the retiring sea; thesemaphore--the only object for leagues--lifted above the undulatingdunes, took upon itself various shapes, more or less gloomy, accordingto the hour or weather,--a blasted tree, the masts and clinging sparsof a beached ship, a dismantled gallows; or, with the background of agolden sunset across the Gate, and its arms extended at right angles,to a more hopeful fancy it might have seemed the missionary Cross, whichthe enthusiast Portala lifted on that heathen shore a hundred yearsbefore.

  Not that Dick Jarman--the solitary station keeper--ever indulged thisfancy. An escaped convict from one of her Britannic Majesty's penalcolonies, a "stowaway" in the hold of an Australian ship, he had landedpenniless in San Francisco, fearful of contact with his more honestcountrymen already there, and liable to detection at any moment. Luckilyfor him, the English immigration consisted mainly of gold-seekers enroute to Sacramento and the southern mines. He was prudent enough toresist the temptation to follow them, and accepted the post of semaphorekeeper,--the first work offered him,--which the meanest immigrant,filled with dreams of gold, would have scorned. His employers asked himno questions, and demanded no references; his post could be scarcelydeemed one of trust,--there was no property for him to abscond with butthe telescope; he was removed from temptation and evil company in hislonely waste; his duties were as mechanical as the instrument he worked,and interruption of them would be instantly known at San Francisco. Forthis he would receive his board and lodging and seventy-five dollars amonth,--a sum to be ridiculed in those "flush days," but which seemed tothe broken-spirited and half-famished stowaway a princely independence.

  And then there was rest and security! He was free from that torturinganxiety and fear of detection which had haunted him night and day forthree months. The ceaseless vigilance and watchful dread he had knownsince his escape, he could lay aside now. The rude cabin on the sanddune was to him as the long-sought cave to some hunted animal. It seemedimpossible that any one would seek him there. He was spared alike thecontact of his enemies or the shame of recognizing even a friendly face,until by each he would be forgotten. From his coign of vantage on thatdesolate waste, and with the aid of his telescope, no stranger couldapproach within two or three miles of his cabin without undergoing hisscrutiny. And at the worst, if he was pursued here, before him was thetrackless shore and the boundless sea!

  And at times there was a certain satisfaction in watching, unseen and inperfect security, the decks of passing ships. With the aid of his glasshe could mingle again with the world from which he was debarred, andgloomily wonder who among those passengers knew their solitary watcher,or had heard of his deeds; it might have made him gloomier had he knownthat in those eager faces turned towards the golden haven there waslittle thought of anything but themselves. He tried to read in faces onboard the few outgoing ships the record of their success with a strangeenvy. They were returning home! HOME! For sometimes--but seldom--hethought of his own home and his past. It was a miserable past of forgeryand embezzlement that had culminated a career of youthful dissipationand self-indulgence, and shut him out, forever, from the staid oldEnglish cathedral town where he was born. He knew that his relationsbelieved and wished him dead. He thought of this past with littlepleasure, but with little remorse. Like most of his stamp, he believedit was ill-luck, chance, somebody else's fault, but never his ownresponsible action. He would not repent; he would be wiser only. And hewould not be retaken--alive!

  Two or three months passed in this monotonous duty, in which he partlyrecovered his strength and his nerves. He lost his furtive, restless,watchful look; the bracing sea air and the burning sun put into his facethe healthy tan and the uplifted frankness of a sailor. His eyes grewkeener from long scanning of the horizon; he knew where to lookfor sails, from the creeping coastwise schooner to the far-roundingmerchantman from Cape Horn. He knew the faint line of haze thatindicated the steamer long before her masts and funnels became visible.He saw no soul except the solitary boatman of the little "plunger,"who landed his weekly provisions at a small cove hard by. The boatmanthought his secretiveness and reticence only the surliness of hisnation, and cared little for a man who never asked for the news, and towhom he brought no letters. The long nights which wrapped the cabin insea-fog, and at first seemed to heighten the exile's sense of security,by degrees, however, became monotonous, and incited an odd restlessness,which he was wont to oppose by whiskey,--allowed as a part of hisstores,--which, while it dulled his sensibilities, he, however, neverpermitted to interfere with his mechanical duties.

  He had been there five months, and the hills on the opposite shorebetween Tamalpais were already beginning to show their russet yellowsides. One bright morning he was watching the little fleet of Italianfishing-boats hovering in the bay. This was always a picturesquespectacle, perhaps the only one that relieved the general monotony ofhis outlook. The quaint lateen sails of dull red, or yellow, showingagainst the sparkling waters, and the red caps or handkerchiefs of thefishermen, might have attracted even a more abstracted man. Suddenly oneof the larger boats tacked, and made directly for the little covewhere his weekly plunger used to land. In an instant he was alertand suspicious. But a close examination of the boat through his glasssatisfied him that it contained, in addition to the crew, only two orthree women, apparently the family of the fishermen. As it ran up onthe beach and the entire party disembarked he could see it was merelya careless, peaceable invasion, and he thought no more about it. Thestrangers wandered about the sands, gesticulating and laughing; theybrought a pot ashore, built a fire, and cooked a homely meal. Hecould see that from time to time the semaphore--evidently a novelty tothem--had attracted their attention; and having occasion to signal thearrival of a bark, the working of the uncouth arms of the instrumentdrew the children in half-frightened curiosity towards it, although theothers held aloof, as if fearful of trespassing upon some work of thegovernment, no doubt secretly guarded by the police. A few morningslater
he was surprised to see upon the beach, near the same locality,a small heap of lumber which had evidently been landed in the earlymorning fog. The next day an old tent appeared on the spot, and themen, evidently fishermen, began the erection of a rude cabin beside it.Jarman had been long enough there to know that it was government land,and that these manifestly humble "squatters" upon it would not beinterfered with for some time to come. He began to be uneasy again; itwas true they were fully half a mile from him, and they were foreigners;but might not their reckless invasion of the law attract others, inthis lawless country, to do the same? It ought to be stopped. For onceRichard Jarman sided with legal authority.

  But when the cabin was completed, it was evident from what he saw of itsrude structure that it was only a temporary shelter for the fisherman'sfamily and the stores, and refitting of the fishing-boat, moreconvenient to them than the San Francisco wharves. The beach wasutilized for the mending of nets and sails, and thus became halfpicturesque. In spite of the keen northwestern trades, the cloudless,sunshiny mornings tempted these southerners back to their native alfresco existence; they not only basked in the sun, but many of theirhousehold duties, and even the mysteries of their toilet, were performedin the open air. They did not seem to care to penetrate into thedesolate region behind them; their half-amphibious habit kept them nearthe water's edge, and Richard Jarman, after taking his limited walksfor the first few mornings in another direction, found it no longernecessary to avoid the locality, and even forgot their propinquity.

  But one morning, as the fog was clearing away and the sparkle of thedistant sea was beginning to show from his window, he rose from hisbelated breakfast to fetch water from the "breaker" outside, which hadto be replenished weekly from Sancelito, as there was no spring in hisvicinity. As he opened the door, he was inexpressibly startled by thefigure of a young woman standing in front of it, who, however, halffearfully, half laughingly withdrew before him. But his own manifestdisturbance apparently gave her courage.

  "I jess was looking at that thing," she said bashfully, pointing to thesemaphore.

  He was still more astonished, for, looking at her dark eyes and olivecomplexion, he had expected her to speak Italian or broken English. And,possibly because for a long time he had seen and known little of women,he was quite struck with her good looks. He hesitated, stammered, andthen said:--

  "Won't you come in?"

  She drew back still farther and made a rapid gesture of negation withher head, her hand, and even her whole lithe figure. Then she said, witha decided American intonation:--

  "No, sir."

  "Why not?" said Jarman mechanically.

  The girl sidled up against the cabin, keeping her eyes fixed on Jarmanwith a certain youthful shrewdness.

  "Oh, you know!" she said.

  "I really do not. Tell me why."

  She drew herself up against the wall a little proudly, though stillyouthfully, with her hands behind her.

  "I ain't that kind of girl," she said simply.

  The blood rushed to Jarman's checks. Dissipated and abandoned as hislife had been, small respecter of women as he was, he was shocked andshamed. Knowing too, as he did, how absorbed he was in other things, hewas indignant, because not guilty.

  "Do as you please, then," he said shortly, and reentered the cabin. Butthe next moment he saw his error in betraying an irritation that wasopen to misconstruction. He came out again, scarcely looking at thegirl, who was lounging away.

  "Do you want me to explain to you how the thing works?" he saidindifferently. "I can't show you unless a ship comes in."

  The girl's eyes brightened softly as she turned to him.

  "Do tell me," she said, with an anticipatory smile and flash of whiteteeth. "Won't you?"

  She certainly was very pretty and simple, in spite of her late speech.Jarman briefly explained to her the movements of the semaphore arms andtheir different significance. She listened with her capped head a littleon one side like an attentive bird, and her arms unconsciously imitatingthe signs. Certainly, for all that she SPOKE like an American, hergesticulation was Italian.

  "And then," she said triumphantly when he paused, "when the sailors seethat sign up they know they are coming in the harbor."

  Jarman smiled, as he had not smiled since he had been there. Hecorrected this mistake of her eager haste to show her intelligence, and,taking the telescope, pointed out the other semaphore,--a thin blackoutline on a distant inland hill. He then explained how HIS signs wererepeated by that instrument to San Francisco.

  "My! Why, I always allowed that was only the cross stuck up in the LoneMountain Cemetery," she said.

  "You are a Catholic?"

  "I reckon."

  "And you are an Italian?"

  "Father is, but mother was a 'Merikan, same as me. Mother's dead."

  "And your father is the fisherman yonder?"

  "Yes,--but," with a look of pride, "he's got the biggest boat of any."

  "And only you and your family are ashore here?"

  "Yes, and sometimes Mark." She laughed an odd little laugh.

  "Mark? Who's he?" he asked quickly.

  He had not noticed the sudden coquettish pose and half-affectedbashfulness of the girl; he was thinking only of the possibility ofdetection by strangers.

  "Oh, he is Marco Franti, but I call him 'Mark.' It's the same name, youknow, and it makes him mad," said the girl, with the same suggestion ofarchness and coquetry.

  But all this was lost on Jarman.

  "Oh, another Italian," he said, relieved. She turned away a littleawkwardly when he added, "But you haven't told me YOUR name, you know."

  "Cara."

  "Cara,--that's 'dear' in Italian, isn't it?" he said, with areminiscence of the opera and a half smile.

  "Yes," she said a little scornfully, "but it means Carlotta,--Charlotte,you know. Some girls call me Charley," she said hurriedly.

  "I see--Cara--or Carlotta Franti."

  To his surprise she burst into a peal of laughter.

  "I reckon not YET. Franti is Mark's name, not mine. Mine isMurano,--Carlotta Murano. Good-by." She moved away, then stoppedsuddenly and said, "I'm comin' again some time when the thing isworking," and with a nod of her head, ran away. He looked after her;could see the outlines of her youthful figure in her slim cottongown,--limp and clinging in the damp sea air, and the sudden revelationof her bare ankles thrust stockingless into canvas shoes.

  He went back into his cabin, when presently his attention was engrossedby an incoming vessel. He made the signals, half expecting, almosthoping, that the girl would return to watch him. But her figure wasalready lost in the sand dunes. Yet he fancied he still heard the echoesof her voice and his own in this cabin which had so long been dumb andvoiceless, and he now started at every sound. For the first time hebecame aware of the dreadful disorder and untidiness of its uninvadedprivacy. He could scarcely believe he had been living with his stove,his bed, and cooking utensils all in one corner of the barnlike room,and he began to put them "to rights" in a rough, hard formality,strongly suggestive of his convict experience. He rolled up his blanketsinto a hard cylinder at the head of his cot. He scraped out his kettlesand saucepans, and even "washed down" the floor, afterwards sprinklingclean dry sand, hot with the noonday sunshine, on its half-dried boards.In arranging these domestic details he had to change the position of alittle mirror; and glancing at it for the first time in many days, hewas dissatisfied with his straggling beard,--grown during his voyagefrom Australia,--and although he had retained it as a disguise, he atonce shaved it off, leaving only a mustache, and revealing a face fromwhich a healthier life and out-of-door existence had removed the lasttraces of vice and dissipation. But he did not know it.

  All the next day he thought of his fair visitor, and found himself oftenrepeating her odd remark that she was "not that kind of girl," with asmile that was alternately significant or vacant. Evidently she couldtake care of herself, he thought, although her very good looks no doubthad exposed he
r to the rude attentions of fishermen or the common driftof San Francisco wharves. Perhaps this was why her father brought herhere. When the day passed and she came not, he began vaguely to wonderif he had been rude to her. Perhaps he had taken her simple remark tooseriously; perhaps she had expected he would only laugh, and had foundhim dull and stupid. Perhaps he had thrown away an opportunity. Anopportunity for what? To renew his old life and habits? No, no! Thehorrors of his recent imprisonment and escape were still too fresh inhis memory; he was not safe yet. Then he wondered if he had not grownspiritless and pigeon-livered in his solitude and loneliness. The nextday he searched for her with his glass, and saw her playing with oneof the children on the beach,--a very picture of child or nymphlikeinnocence. Perhaps it was because she was not "that kind of girl" thatshe had attracted him. He laughed bitterly. Yes; that was very funny;he, an escaped convict, drawn towards honest, simple innocence! Yet heknew--he was positive--he had not thought of any ill when he spoke toher. He took a singular, a ridiculous pride in and credit to himself forthat. He repeated it incessantly to himself. Then what made her angry?Himself! The devil! Did he carry, then, the record of his past lifeforever in his face--in his speech--in his manners? The thought madehim sullen. The next day he would not look towards the shore; it waswonderful what excitement and satisfaction he got out of that strangeact of self-denial; it made the day seem full that had been so vacantbefore; yet he could not tell why or wherefore. He felt injured, but herather liked it. Yet in the night he was struck with the idea that shemight have gone back to San Francisco, and he lay awake longing forthe morning light to satisfy him. Yet when the fog cleared, and froma nearer point, behind a sand dune, he discovered, by the aid of hisglass, that she was seated on the sun-warmed sands combing out her longhair like a mermaid, he immediately returned to the cabin, and thatmorning looked no more that way. In the afternoon, there being no sailsin sight, he turned aside from the bay and walked westward towards theocean, halting only at the league-long line of foam which marked thebreaking Pacific surges. Here he was surprised to see a little child,half-naked, following barefooted the creeping line of spume, or runningafter the detached and quivering scraps of foam that chased each otherover the wet sand, and only a little further on, to come upon Caraherself, sitting with her elbows on her knees and her round chin in herhands, apparently gazing over the waste of waters before her. A suddenand inexplicable shyness overtook him. He hesitated, and steppedhalf-hidden in a gully between the sand dunes.

  As yet he had not been observed; the young girl called to the child and,suddenly rising, threw off her red cap and shawl and quietly began todisrobe herself. A couple of coarse towels were at her feet. Jarmaninstantly comprehended that she was going to bathe with the child. Sheundoubtedly knew as well as he did that she was safe in that solitude;that no one could intrude upon her privacy from the bay shore, nor fromthe desolate inland trail to the sea, without her knowledge. Of hisown contiguity she had evidently taken no thought, believing him safelyhoused in his cabin beside the semaphore. She lifted her hands, and witha sudden movement shook out her long hair and let it fall down her backat the same moment that her unloosened blouse began to slip from hershoulders. Richard Jarman turned quickly and walked noiselessly andrapidly away, until the little hillock had shut out the beach.

  His retreat was as sudden, unreasoning, and unpremeditated as hisintrusion. It was not like himself, he knew, and yet it was as perfectlyinstinctive and natural as if he had intruded upon a sister. In theSouth Seas he had seen native girls diving beside the vessels for coins,but they had provoked no such instinct as that which possessed him now.More than that, he swept a quick, wrathful glance along the horizon oneither side, and then, mounting a remote hillock which still hid himfrom the beach, he sat there and kept watch and ward. From time to timethe strong sea-breeze brought him the sound of infantine screams andshouts of girlish laughter from the unseen shore; he only looked themore keenly and suspiciously for any wandering trespasser, and did notturn his head. He lay there nearly half an hour, and when the sounds hadceased, rose and made his way slowly back to the cabin. He had not gonemany yards before he heard the twitter of voices and smothered laughterbehind him. He turned; it was Cara and the child,--a girl of six orseven. Cara's face was rosy,--possibly from her bath, and possiblyfrom some shame-faced consciousness. He slackened his pace, and as theyranged beside him said, "Good-morning!"

  "Lord!" said Cara, stifling another laugh, "we didn't know you werearound; we thought you were always 'tending your telegraph, didn't we,Lucy?" (to the child, who was convulsed with mirth and sheepishness)."Why, we've been taking a wash in the sea." She tried to gather up herlong hair, which had been left to stray over her shoulders and dry inthe sunlight, and even made a slight pretense of trying to conceal thewet towels they were carrying.

  Jarman did not laugh. "If you had told me," he said gravely, "I couldhave kept watch for you with my glass while you were there. I could seefurther than you."

  "Tould you see US?" asked the little girl, with hopeful vivacity.

  "No!" said Jarman, with masterly evasion. "There are little sandhillsbetween this and the beach."

  "Then how tould other people see us?" persisted the child.

  Jarman could see that the older girl was evidently embarrassed, andchanged the subject. "I sometimes go out," he said, "when I can seethere are no vessels in sight, and I take ray glass with me. I canalways get back in time to make signals. I thought, in fact," he said,glancing at Cara's brightening face, "that I might get as far asyour house on the shore some day." To his surprise, her embarrassmentsuddenly seemed to increase, although she had looked relieved before,and she did not reply. After a moment she said abruptly:--

  "Did you ever see the sea-lions?"

  "No," said Jarman.

  "Not the big ones on Seal Rock, beyond the cliffs?" continued the girl,in real astonishment.

  "No," repeated Jarman. "I never walked in that direction." He vaguelyremembered that they were a curiosity which sometimes attracted partiesthither, and for that reason he had avoided the spot.

  "Why, I have sailed all around the rock in father's boat," continuedCara, with importance. "That's the best way to see 'em, and folks fromFrisco sometimes takes a sail out there just on purpose,--it's too sandyto walk or drive there. But it's only a step from here. Look here!" shesaid suddenly, and frankly opening her fine eyes upon him. "I'm goingto take Lucy there to-morrow, and I'll show you." Jarman felt his cheeksflush quickly with a pleasure that embarrassed him. "It won't takelong," added Cara, mistaking his momentary hesitation, "and you canleave your telegraph alone. Nobody will be there, so no one will see youand nobody know it."

  He would have gone then, anyway, he knew, yet in his absurdself-consciousness he was glad that her last suggestion had relieved himof a sense of reckless compliance. He assented eagerly, when with a waveof her hand, a flash of her white teeth, and the same abruptness she hadshown at their last parting, she caught Lucy by the arm and darted awayin a romping race to her dwelling. Jarman started after her. He hadnot wanted to go to her father's house particularly, but why was SHEevidently as averse to it? With the subtle pleasure that this admissiongave him there was a faint stirring of suspicion.

  It was gone when he found her and Lucy the next morning, radiant withthe sunshine, before his door. The restraint of their previous meetingshad been removed in some mysterious way, and they chatted gayly as theywalked towards the cliffs. She asked him frankly many questions abouthimself, why he had come there, and if he "wasn't lonely;" she answeredfrankly--I fear much more frankly than he answered her--the manyquestions he asked her about herself and her friends. When they reachedthe cliffs they descended to the beach, which they found deserted.Before them--it seemed scarce a pistol shot from the shore arose a high,broad rock, beaten at its base by the long Pacific surf, on which anumber of shapeless animals were uncouthly disporting. This was SealRock, the goal of their journey.

  Yet after a few moments they no longer looked
at it, but seated on thesand, with Lucy gathering shells at the water's edge, they continuedtheir talk. Presently the talk became eager confidences, andthen,--there were long and dangerous lapses of silence, when both werefain to make perfunctory talk with Lucy on the beach. After one of thosesilences Jarman said:--

  "Do you know I rather thought yesterday you didn't want me to come toyour father's house. Why was that?"

  "Because Marco was there," said the girl frankly.

  "What had HE to do with it?" said Jarman abruptly.

  "He wants to marry me."

  "And do you want to marry HIM?" said Jarman quickly.

  "No," said the girl passionately.

  "Why don't you get rid of him, then?"

  "I can't, he's hiding here,--he's father's friend."

  "Hiding? What's he been doing?"

  "Stealing. Stealing gold-dust from miners. I never cared for him anyway.And I hate a thief!"

  She looked up quickly. Jarman had risen to his feet, his face turned tosea.

  "What are you looking at?" she said wonderingly.

  "A ship," said Jarman, in a strange, hoarse voice. "I must hurry backand signal. I'm afraid I haven't even time to walk with you,--I must runfor it. Good-by!"

  He turned without offering his hand and ran hurriedly in the directionof the semaphore.

  Cara, discomfited, turned her black eyes to the sea. But it seemed emptyas before, no sail, no ship on the horizon line, only a little schoonerslowly beating out of the Gate. Ah, well! It no doubt was there,--thatsail,--though she could not see it; how keen and far-seeing hishandsome, honest eyes were! She heaved a little sigh, and, calling Lucyto her side, began to make her way homeward. But she kept her eyes onthe semaphore; it seemed to her the next thing to seeing him,--this manshe was beginning to love. She waited for the gaunt arms to move withthe signal of the vessel he had seen. But, strange to say, it wasmotionless. He must have been mistaken.

  All this, however, was driven from her mind in the excitement that shefound on her return thrilling her own family. They had been warned thata police boat with detectives on board had been dispatched from SanFrancisco to the cove. Luckily, they had managed to convey the fugitiveFranti on board a coastwise schooner,--Cara started as she rememberedthe one she had seen beating out of the Gate,--and he was now safe frompursuit. Cara felt relieved; at the same time she felt a strange joyat her heart, which sent the conscious blood to her cheek. She was notthinking of the escaped Marco, but of Jarman. Later, when the policeboat arrived,--whether the detectives had been forewarned of Marco'sescape or not,--they contented themselves with a formal search of thelittle fishing-hut and departed. But their boat remained lying off theshore.

  That night Cara tossed sleeplessly on her bed; she was sorry she hadever spoken of Marco to Jarman. It was unnecessary now; perhaps hedisbelieved her and thought she loved Marco; perhaps that was the reasonof his strange and abrupt leave-taking that afternoon. She longed forthe next day, she could tell him everything now.

  Towards morning she slept fitfully, but was awakened by the sound ofvoices on the sands outside the hut. Its flimsy structure, alreadywarped by the fierce day-long sun, allowed her through chinks andcrevices not only to recognize the voices of the detectives, but to heardistinctly what they said. Suddenly the name of Jarman struck upon herear. She sat upright in bed, breathless.

  "Are you sure it's the same man?" asked a second voice.

  "Perfectly," answered the first. "He was tracked to 'Frisco, butdisappeared the day he landed. We knew from our agents that he neverleft the bay. And when we found that somebody answering his descriptiongot the post of telegraph operator out here, we knew that we had spottedour man and the L250 sterling offered for his capture."

  "But that was five months ago. Why didn't you take him then?"

  "Couldn't! For we couldn't hold him without the extradition papers fromAustralia. We sent for 'em; they're due to-day or to-morrow on the mailsteamer."

  "But he might have got away at any time?"

  "He couldn't without our knowing it. Don't you see? Every time thesignals went up, we in San Francisco knew he was at his post. We had himsafe, out here on these sandhills, as if he'd been under lock and key in'Frisco. He was his own keeper, and reported to us."

  "But since you're here and expect the papers to-morrow, why don't you'cop' him now?"

  "Because there isn't a judge in San Francisco that would hold hima moment unless he had those extradition papers before him. He'd bedischarged, and escape."

  "Then what are you going to do?"

  "As soon as the steamer is signaled in 'Frisco, we'll board her in thebay, get the papers, and drop down upon him."

  "I see; and as HE'S the signal man, the darned fool"--

  "Will give the signal himself."

  The laugh that followed was so cruel that the young girl shuddered. Butthe next moment she slipped from the bed, erect, pale, and determined.

  The voices seemed gradually to retreat. She dressed herself hurriedly,and passed noiselessly through the room of her still sleeping parent,and passed out. A gray fog was lifting slowly over the sands and sea,and the police boat was gone. She no longer hesitated, but ran quicklyin the direction of Jarman's cabin. As she ran, her mind seemed to beswept clear of all illusion and fancy; she saw plainly everything thathad happened; she knew the mystery of Jarman's presence here,--thesecret of his life,--the dreadful cruelty of her remark to him,--the manthat she knew now she loved. The sun was painting the black arms of thesemaphore as she toiled over the last stretch of sand and knockedloudly at the door. There was no reply. She knocked again; the cabin wassilent. Had he already fled?--and without seeing her and knowing all!She tried the handle of the door; it yielded; she stepped boldly intothe room, with his name upon her lips. He was lying fully dressed uponhis couch. She ran eagerly to his side and stopped. It needed only asingle glance at his congested face, his lips parted with his heavybreath, to see that the man was hopelessly, helplessly drunk!

  Yet even then, without knowing that it was her thoughtless speech whichhad driven him to seek this foolish oblivion of remorse and sorrow,she saw only his HELPLESSNESS. She tried in vain to rouse him; heonly muttered a few incoherent words and sank back again. She lookeddespairingly around. Something must be done; the steamer might bevisible at any moment. Ah, yes,--the telescope! She seized it and sweptthe horizon. There was a faint streak of haze against the line of seaand sky, abreast the Golden Gate. He had once told her what it meant.It WAS the steamer! A sudden thought leaped into her clear and activebrain. If the police boat should chance to see that haze too, and sawno warning signal from the semaphore, they would suspect something. Thatsignal must be made, BUT NOT THE RIGHT ONE! She remembered quicklyhow he had explained to her the difference between the signals for acoasting steamer and the one that brought the mails. At that distancethe police boat could not detect whether the semaphore's arms wereextended to perfect right angles for the mail steamer, or if the leftarm slightly deflected for a coasting steamer. She ran out to thewindlass and seized the crank. For a moment it defied her strength; sheredoubled her efforts: it began to creak and groan, the great arms wereslowly uplifted, and the signal made.

  But the familiar sounds of the moving machinery had pierced throughJarman's sluggish consciousness as no other sound in heaven or earthcould have done, and awakened him to the one dominant sense he hadleft,--the habit of duty. She heard him roll from the bed with an oath,stumble to the door, and saw him dash forward with an affrighted face,and plunge his head into a bucket of water. He emerged from it pale anddripping, but with the full light of reason and consciousness in hiseyes. He started when he saw her; even then she would have fled, but hecaught her firmly by the wrist.

  Then with a hurried, trembling voice she told him all and everything. Helistened in silence, and only at the end raised her hand gravely to hislips.

  "And now," she added tremulously, "you must fly--quick--at once; or itwill be too late!"

  But Richard Ja
rman walked slowly to the door of his cabin, still holdingher hand, and said quietly, pointing to his only chair:--

  "Sit down; we must talk first."

  What they said was never known, but a few moments later they left thecabin, Jarman carrying in a small bag all his possessions, and Caraleaning on his arm. An hour later the priest of the Mission Dolores wascalled upon to unite in matrimony a frank, honest-looking sailor and anItalian gypsy-looking girl. There were many hasty unions in those days,and the Holy Church was only too glad to be able to give them itslegal indorsement. But the good Padre was a little sorry for the honestsailor, and gave the girl some serious advice.

  The San Francisco papers the next morning threw some dubious light uponthe matter in a paragraph headed, "Another Police Fiasco."

  "We understand that the indefatigable police of San Francisco, afterascertaining that Marco Franti, the noted gold-dust thief, was hiding onthe shore near the Presidio, proceeded there with great solemnity, andarrived, as usual, a few hours after their man had escaped. But theclimax of incapacity was reached when, as it is alleged, the sweetheartof the absconding Franti, and daughter of a brother fisherman, elopedstill later, and joined her lover under the very noses of the police.The attempt of the detectives to excuse themselves at headquarters byreporting that they were also on the track of an alleged escaped SydneyDuck was received with the derision and skepticism it deserved, as itseemed that these worthies mistook the mail steamer, which they shouldhave boarded to get certain extradition papers, for a coasting steamer."

  *****

  It was not until four years later that Murano was delighted to recognizein the husband of his long-lost daughter a very rich cattle-owner inSouthern California, called Jarman; but he never knew that he had beenan escaped convict from Sydney, who had lately received a full pardonthrough the instrumentality of divers distinguished people in Australia.