The responsibility was heavy, the duty anxious; and Billy could not forget what Archie had said about the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company.

"I 'low there was nothing for it but t' leave me in charge," he thought, as he paced the deck that night. "But 'twill be a job now to save her if they come."

Billy fancied, from time to time, that he heard the splash of oars; but the night was dark, and although he peered long and listened intently, he could discover no boat in the shadows. And when the day came, with the comparative security of light, he was inclined to think that his fancy had been tricking him.

"But it might have been the punts slippin' in from the harbours above and below," he thought, suddenly. "I wonder if 'twas."

He spent most of that day lying on a coil of rope on the deck of the cabin—dozing and delighting himself with long day-dreams. When the night fell, it fell dark and foggy. An easterly wind overcast the sky and blew a thick mist from the open sea. Lights twinkled in the cottages ashore, somewhat blurred by the mist; but elsewhere it was dark; the nearer rocks were outlined by their deeper black.

"'Twill be now," Billy thought, "or 'twill be never. Skipper Bill will sure be back with the Grand Lake to-morrow."

Some time after midnight, while Billy was pacing the deck to keep himself warm and awake, he was hailed from the shore.

"'Tis from the point at the narrows," he thought. "Sure, 'tis Skipper Bill come back."

Again he heard the hail—his own name, coming from that point at the narrows.

"Billy, b'y! Billy!"

"Aye, sir! Who are you?"

"Skipper Bill, b'y!" came the answer. "Fetch the quarter-boat. We're aground and leakin'."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"Quick, lad! I wants t' get aboard."

Billy leaped from the rail to the quarter-boat. He was ready to cast off when he heard a splash in the darkness behind him. That splash gave him pause. Were the wreckers trying to decoy him from the ship? They had a legal right to salve an abandoned vessel. He clambered aboard, determined, until he had better assurance of the safety of his charge, to let Skipper Bill and his crew, if it were indeed they, make a shift for comfort on the rocks until morning. "Skipper Bill, sir!" he called. "Can you swim?"

"Aye, b'y! But make haste."

"I'll show a light for you, sir, if you want t' swim out, but I'll not leave the schooner."

At that there was a laugh—an unmistakable chuckle—sounding whence the boy had heard the splash of an oar. It was echoed to right and left. Then a splash or two, a creak or two and a whisper. After that all was still again.

"'Tis lucky, now, I didn't go," Billy thought. "'Twas a trick, for sure. But how did they know my name?"

That was simple enough, when he came to think about it. When the skipper had warned the first fisherman off, he had ordered Billy forward by name. Wreckers they were, then—simple, good-hearted folk, believing in their right to what the sea cast up—and now bent on "salving" what they could, but evidently seeking to avoid a violent seizure of the cargo.

Billy appreciated this feeling. He had himself no wish to meet an assault in force, whether in the persons of such good-natured fellows as the man who had grinned at him on the morning of the wreck, or in those of a more villainous cast. He hoped it was to be a game of wits; and now the lad smiled.

"'Tis likely," he thought, "that I'll keep it safe."

For an hour or more there was no return of the alarm. The harbour water rippled under the winds; the rigging softly rattled and sang aloft; the swish of breakers drifted in from the narrows.

Billy sat full in the light of the deck lamps, with a gun in his hands, that all the eyes, which he felt sure were peering at him from the darkness roundabout, might see that he was alive to duty.

As his weariness increased, he began to think that the wreckers had drawn off, discouraged. Once he nodded; again he nodded, and awoke with a start; but he was all alone on the deck, as he had been.

Then, to occupy himself, he went below to light the cabin candle. For a moment, before making ready to go on deck again, he sat on the counter, lost in thought. He did not hear the prow of a punt strike the Spot Cash amidships, did not hear the whispers and soft laughter of men coming over the side by stealth, did not hear the tramp of feet coming aft. What startled him was a rough voice and a burst of laughter.

"Come aboard, skipper, sir!"

The companionway framed six weather-beaten, bearded faces. There was a grin on each, from the first, which was clear to its smallest wrinkle in the candle-light, to those which were vanishing and reappearing in the shadows behind. Billy seemed to be incapable of word or action.

"Come to report, sir," said the nearest wrecker. "We seed you was aground, young skipper, and we thought we'd help you ashore with the cargo."

Billy rested his left hand on the head of a powder keg, which stood on end on the counter beside him. His right stole towards the candlestick. There was a light in his blue eyes—a glitter or a twinkle—which might have warned the wreckers, had they known him better.

"I order you ashore!" he said, slowly. "I order you all ashore. You've no right aboard this ship. If I had my gun——"

"Sure, you left it on deck."

"If I had my gun," Billy pursued, "I'd have the right t' shoot you down."

The manner of the speech—the fierce intensity of it—impressed the wreckers. They perceived that the boy's face had turned pale, that his eyes were flashing strangely. They were unused to such a depth of passion. It may be that they were reminded of a bear at bay.

"I believe he'd do it," said one.

An uneasy quiet followed; and in that silence Billy heard the prow of another punt strike the ship. More footfalls came shuffling aft—other faces peered down the companionway. One man pushed his way through the group and made as if to come down the ladder.

"Stand back!" Billy cried.

The threat in that shrill cry brought the man to a stop. He turned; and that which he saw caused him to fall back upon his fellows. There was an outcry and a general falling away from the cabin door. Some men ran forward to the punts.

"The lad's gone mad!" said one. "Leave us get ashore!"

Billy had whipped the stopper out of the hole in the head of the powder keg, had snatched the candle from the socket, carefully guarding its flame, and now sat, triumphantly gazing up, with the butt of the candle through the hole in the keg and the flame flickering above its depths.

"Men," said he, when they had gathered again at the door, "if I let that candle slip through my fingers, you know what'll happen." He paused; then he went on, speaking in a quivering voice: "My friends left me in charge o' this here schooner, and I've been caught nappin'. If I'd been on deck, you wouldn't have got aboard. But now you are aboard, and 'tis all because I didn't do my duty. Do you think I care what becomes o' me now? Do you think I don't care whether I do my duty or not? I tell you fair that if you don't go ashore I'll drop the candle in the keg. If one o' you dares come down that ladder, I'll drop it. If I hear you lift the hatches off the hold, I'll drop it. If I hear you strike a blow at the ship, I'll drop it. Hear me?" he cried. "If you don't go, I'll drop it!"

The candle trembled between Billy's fingers. It slipped, fell an inch or more, but his fingers gripped it again before he lost it. The wreckers recoiled, now convinced that the lad meant no less than he said.

"I guess you'd do it, b'y," said the man who had attempted to descend. "Sure," he repeated, with a glance of admiration for the boy's pluck, "I guess you would."

"'Tis not comfortable here," said another. "Sure, he might drop it by accident. Make haste, b'ys! Let's get ashore."

"Good-night, skipper, sir!" said the first.

"Good-night, sir!" said Billy, grimly.

With that they went over the side. Billy heard them leap into the punts, push off, and row away. Then silence fell—broken only by the ripple of the water, the noise of the wind in the rigging, the swish of breakers drifting in. The boy waited a long time, not daring to venture on deck, lest they should be lying in wait for him at the head of the ladder. He listened for a footfall, a noise in the hold, the shifting of the deck cargo; but he heard nothing.

When the candle had burned low, he lighted another, put the butt through the hole, and jammed it. At last he fell asleep, with his head resting on a pile of dress-goods; and the candle was burning unattended. He was awakened by a hail from the deck.

"Billy, b'y, where is you?"

It was Skipper Bill's hearty voice; and before Billy could tumble up the ladder, the skipper's bulky body closed the exit.

"She's all safe, sir!" said the boy.

Skipper Bill at that moment caught sight of the lighted candle. He snatched it from its place, dropped it on the floor and stamped on it. He was a-tremble from head to foot.

"What's this foolery?" he demanded, angrily.

Billy explained.

"It was plucky, b'y," said the skipper, "but 'twas wonderful risky."

"Sure, there was no call to be afraid."

"No call to be afraid!" cried the skipper.

"No, sir—no," said Billy. "There's not a grain of powder in the keg."

"Empty—an empty keg?" the skipper roared.

"Do you think," said Billy, indignantly, "that I'd have risked the schooner that way if 'twas a full keg?"

Skipper Bill stared; and for a long time afterwards he could not look at Billy without staring.



CHAPTER XXXIV

In Which Skipper Bill, as a Desperate Expedient, Contemplates the Use of His Teeth, and Archie Armstrong, to Save His Honour, Sets Sail in a Basket, But Seems to Have Come a Cropper

Billy Topsail suddenly demanded:

"Where's the Grand Lake?"

"The Grand Lake," Skipper Bill drawled, with a sigh, "is somewheres t' the s'uth'ard footin' it for St. John's."

"You missed her!" Billy accused.

"Didn't neither," said the indignant skipper. "She steamed right past Hook-an'-Line without a wink in that direction."

This was shocking news.

"Anyhow," said little Donald North, as though it mattered importantly, "we seed her smoke."

Billy looked from Donald to Jimmie, from Jimmie to Bagg, from Bagg to the skipper; and then he stared about.

"Where's Archie?" he asked.

"Archie," the skipper replied, "is footin' it for St. John's, too. 'Skipper Bill,' says Archie, 'Billy Topsail has kep' that schooner safe. I knows he has. It was up t' Billy Topsail t' save the firm from wreckers an' I'll lay you that Billy Topsail has saved the firm. Now, Skipper Bill,' says Archie, 'you go back t' Jolly Harbour an' get that schooner off. You get her off somehow. Get her off jus' as soon as you can,' says he, 'an' fetch her to St. John's.'

"'I can't get her off,' says I.

"'Yes, you can, too, Skipper Bill,' says he. 'I'll lay you can get her off. I don't know how you'll do it,' says he; 'but I'll lay you can!'

"'I'll get her off, Archie,' says I, 'if I got t' jump in the sea an' haul her off with a line in my teeth.'

"'I knowed you would,' says he; 'an' you got the best teeth, Skipper Bill,' says he, 't' be found on this here coast. As for me, skipper,' says he, 'I'm goin' down t' St. John's if I got t' walk on water. I told my father that I'd be in his office on the first o' September—an' I'm goin' t' be there. If I can't be there with the fish I can be there with the promise o' fish; an' I can back that promise up with a motor boat, a sloop yacht an' a pony an' cart. I don't know how I'm goin' t' get t' St. John's,' says he, 'an' I don't want t' walk on a wet sea like this; but I'm goin' t' get there somehow by the first o' September, an' I'm goin' to assoom'—yes, sir, 'assoom, Skipper Bill,' says Archie—'I'm goin' to assoom that you'll fetch down the Spot Cash an' the tail an' fins of every last tom-cod aboard that there craft.'

"An' I'm goin' t' do it!" Skipper Bill roared in conclusion, with a slap of the counter with his hairy fist that made the depleted stock rattle on the shelves.

"Does you t-t-think you c-c-can haul her off with your teeth?" Donald North asked with staring eyes.

Bill o' Burnt Bay burst into a shout of laughter.

"We'll have no help from the Jolly Harbour folk," said Billy Topsail, gravely. "They're good-humoured men," he added, "but they means t' have this here schooner if they can."

"Never mind," said Skipper Bill, with an assumption of far more hope than was in his honest, willing heart. "We'll get her off afore they comes again."

"Wisht you'd 'urry up," said Bagg.

With the Spot Cash high and dry—with a small crew aboard—with a numerous folk, clever and unfriendly (however good-humoured they were), bent on possessing that which they were fully persuaded it was their right to have—with no help near at hand and small prospect of the appearance of aid—the task which Archie Armstrong had set Bill o' Burnt Bay was the most difficult one the old sea-dog had ever encountered in a long career of hard work, self-dependence and tight places. The Jolly Harbour folk might laugh and joke, they might even offer sympathy, they might be the most hospitable, tender-hearted, God-fearing folk in the world; but tradition had taught them that what the sea cast up belonged righteously to the men who could take it, and they would with good consciences and the best humour in the world stand upon that doctrine. And Bill o' Burnt Bay would do no murder to prevent them: it was not the custom of the coast to do murder in such cases; and Archie Armstrong's last injunction had been to take no lives.

Bill o' Burnt Bay declared in growing wrath to the boys that he would come next door to murder.

"I'll pink 'em, anyhow," said he, as he loaded his long gun. "I'll makes holes for earrings, ecod!"

Yes, sir; the skipper would show the Jolly Harbour folk how near a venturesome man could come to letting daylight into a Jolly Harbour hull without making a hopeless leak. Jus' t' keep 'em busy calking, ecod! How much of this was mere loud and saucy words—with how much real meaning the skipper spoke—even the skipper himself did not know. But, yes, sir; he'd show 'em in the morning. It was night, now, however—though near morning. Nobody would put out from shore before daybreak. They had been frightened off once. Skipper Bill's wrath could simmer to the boiling point. But a watch must be kept. No chances must be taken with the Spot Cash, and—

"Ahoy, Billy!" a pleasant voice called from the water.

The crew of the Spot Cash rushed on deck.

"Oh, ho!" another voice laughed. "Skipper's back, too, eh?"

"With a long—perfeckly trustworthy—loaded—gun," Skipper Bill solemnly replied.

The men in the punts laughed heartily.

"Sheer off!" Skipper Bill roared.

But in the protecting shadows of the night the punts came closer. And there was another laugh.

* * * * *

It chanced at Hook-and-Line Harbour before night—Skipper Bill had then for hours been gone towards Jolly Harbour—that a Labrador fishing craft put in for water. She was loaded deep; her decks were fairly awash with her load of fish, and at best she was squat and old and rotten—a basket to put to sea in. Here was no fleet craft; but she was south-bound, at any rate, and Archie Armstrong determined to board her. To get to St. John's—to open the door of his father's office on the first of September as he had promised—to explain and to reassure and even to present in hard cash the value of a sloop yacht and a pony and a motor boat—was the boy's feverish determination. He could not forget his father's grave words: "Your honour is involved." Perhaps he exaggerated the importance of them. His honour? The boy had no wish to be excused—had no liking for fatherly indulgence. He was wholly intent upon justifying his father's faith and satisfying his own sense of honourable obligation. It must be fish or cash—fish or cash—and as it seemed it could not be fish it must therefore be cash.

It must be hard cash—cash down—paid on the first of September over his father's desk in the little office overlooking the wharves.

"Green Bay bound," the skipper of the Labrador craft replied to Archie's question.

That signified a landing at Ruddy Cove.

"I'll go along," said Archie.

"Ye'll not," the skipper snapped. "Ye'll not go along until ye mend your manners."

Archie started in amazement.

"You'll go along, will ye?" the skipper continued. "Is you the owner o' this here craft? Ye may ask t' go along; but whether ye go or not is for me—for me, ye cub!—t' say."

Archie straightened in his father's way. "My name," said he, shortly, "is Archibald Armstrong."

The skipper instantly touched his cap.

"I'm sorry, skipper," Archie went on, with a dignity of which his manner of life had long ago made him unconsciously master, "for having taken too much for granted. I want passage with you to Ruddy Cove, skipper, for which I'll pay."

"You're welcome, sir," said the skipper.

The Wind and Tide lay at Hook-and-Line that night in fear of the sea that was running. She rode so deep in the water, and her planks and rigging and sticks were at best so untrustworthy, that her skipper would not take her to sea. Next morning, however—and Archie subsequently recalled it—next morning the wind blew fair for the southern ports. Out put the old craft into a rising breeze and was presently wallowing her way towards Green Bay and Ruddy Cove. But there was no reckless sailing. Nothing that Archie could say with any appearance of propriety moved the skipper to urge her on. She was deep, she was old; she must be humoured along. Again, when night fell, she was taken into harbour for shelter. The wind still blew fair in the morning; she made a better day of it, but was once more safely berthed for the night. Day after day she crept down the coast, lurching along in the light, with unearthly shrieks of pain and complaint, and lying silent in harbour in the dark.

"'Wisht she'd 'urry up,'" thought Archie, with a dubious laugh, remembering Bagg.

It was the twenty-ninth of August and coming on dark when the boy first caught sight of the cottages of Ruddy Cove.

"Mail-boat day," he thought, jubilantly. "The Wind and Tide will make it. I'll be in St. John's the day after to-morrow."

"Journey's end," said the skipper, coming up at that moment.

"I'm wanting to make the mail-boat," said Archie. "She's due at Ruddy Cove soon after dark."

"She'll be on time," said the skipper. "Hark!"

Archie heard the faint blast of a steamer's whistle.

"Is it she?" asked the skipper.

"Ay," Archie exclaimed; "and she's just leaving Fortune Harbour. She'll be at Ruddy Cove within the hour."

"I'm doubtin' that we will," said the skipper.

"Will you not run up a topsail?" the boy pleaded.

"Not for the queen o' England," the skipper replied, moving forward. "I've got my load—an' I've got the lives o' my crew—t' care for."

Archie could not gainsay it. The Wind and Tide had all the sail she could carry with unquestionable safety. The boy watched the mail-boat's lights round the Head and pass through the tickle into the harbour of Ruddy Cove. Presently he heard the second blast of her deep-toned whistle and saw her emerge and go on her way. She looked cozy in the dusk, he thought: she was brilliant with many lights. In the morning she would connect with the east-bound cross-country express at Burnt Bay. And meantime he—this selfsame boastful Archie Armstrong—would lie stranded at Ruddy Cove. At that moment St. John's seemed infinitely far away.



CHAPTER XXXV

In Which Many Things Happen: Old Tom Topsail Declares Himself the Bully to Do It, Mrs. Skipper William Bounds Down the Path With a Boiled Lobster, the Mixed Accommodation Sways, Rattles, Roars, Puffs and Quits on a Grade in the Wilderness, Tom Topsail Loses His Way in the Fog and Archie Armstrong Gets Despairing Ear of a Whistle

At Ruddy Cove, that night, when Archie was landed from the Wind and Tide, a turmoil of amazement instantly gave way to the very briskest consultation the wits of the place had ever known.

"There's no punt can make Burnt Bay the night," Billy Topsail's father declared.

"Nor the morrow night if the wind changes," old Jim Grimm added.

"Nor the next in a southerly gale," Job North put in.

"There's the Wind an' Tide," Tom Topsail suggested.

"She's a basket," said Archie; "and she's slower than a paddle punt."

"What's the weather?"

"Fair wind for Burnt Bay an' a starlit night."

"I've lost the express," said Archie, excitedly. "I must—I must, I tell you!—I must catch the mixed."

The Ruddy Cove faces grew long.

"I must," Archie repeated between his teeth.

The east-bound cross-country express would go through the little settlement of Burnt Bay in the morning. The mixed accommodation would crawl by at an uncertain hour of the following day. It was now the night of the twenty-ninth of August. One day—two days. The mixed accommodation would leave Burnt Bay for St. John's on the thirty-first of August.

"If she doesn't forget," said Job North, dryly.

"Or get tired an' rest too often," Jim Grimm added.

Archie caught an impatient breath.

"Look you, lad!" Tom Topsail declared, jumping up. "I'm the bully that will put you aboard!"

Archie flung open the door of Mrs. Skipper William's kitchen and made for the Topsail wharf with old Tom puffing and lumbering at his heels. Billy Topsail's mother was hailed with the news. Before Tom had well made the punt shipshape for a driving cruise up the Bay she was on the wharf with a bucket of hardtack and a kettle of water. A frantic scream—perhaps, a shout—announced the coming of Mrs. Skipper William with a ham-bone and a greatcoat. These tossed inboard, she roared a command to delay, gathered up her skirts and fled into the night, whence she emerged, bounding, with a package of tea and a boiled lobster. She had no breath left to bid them Godspeed when Tom Topsail cast off; but she waved her great soft arms, and her portly person shook with the violence of her good wishes. And up went the sail—and out fluttered the little jib—and the punt heeled to the harbour breeze—and Tom Topsail and Archie Armstrong darted away from the lights of Ruddy Cove towards the open sea.

* * * * *

The mixed accommodation, somewhere far back in the Newfoundland wilderness, came to the foot of a long grade. She puffed and valiantly choo-chooed. It was desperately hard work to climb that hill. A man might have walked beside her while she tried it. But she surmounted the crest, at last, and, as though immensely proud of herself, rattled down towards the boulder-strewn level at an amazing rate of speed. On she went, swaying, puffing, roaring, rattling, as though she had no intention whatever of coming to a stop before she had brought her five hundred mile run to a triumphant conclusion in the station at St. John's.

Even the engineer was astonished.

"Doin' fine," thought the fireman, proud of his head of steam.

"She'll make up them three hours afore mornin'," the engineer hoped.

On the next grade the mixed accommodation lagged. It was a steep grade. She seemed to lose enthusiasm with every yard of puffing progress. She began to pant—to groan—to gasp with horrible fatigue. Evidently she fancied it a cruel task to be put to. And the grade was long—and it was outrageously steep—and they had overloaded the little engine with freight cars—and she wasn't yet half-way up. It would take the heart out of any engine. But she buckled to, once more, and trembled and panted and gained a yard or two. It was hard work; it was killing work. It was a ghastly outrage to demand such effort of any engine, most of all of a rat-trap attached to a mixed accommodation on an ill-graded road. The Rat-Trap snorted her indignation. She howled with agony and despair.

And then she quit.

"What's the matter now?" a passenger asked the conductor, in a coach far in the rear.

"Looks to me as if we'd have to uncouple and run on to the next siding with half the train," the conductor replied. "But it may be the fire-box."

"What's the matter with the fire-box?"

"She has a habit of droppin' out," said the conductor.

"We'll be a day late in St. John's," the passenger grumbled.

The conductor laughed. "You will," said he, "if the trouble is with the fire-box."

* * * * *

While the mixed accommodation was panting on the long grade, Tom Topsail's punt, Burnt Bay bound, was splashing through a choppy sea, humoured along by a clever hand and a heart that understood her whims. It was blowing smartly; but the wind was none too much for the tiny craft, and she was making the best of it. At this rate—with neither change nor failure of the wind—Tom Topsail would land Archie Armstrong in Burnt Bay long before the accommodation had begun to think of achieving that point in her journey across the island. There was no failure of the wind as the night spent itself; it blew true and fair until the rosy dawn came softly out of the east. The boy awoke from a long doze to find the punt overhauling the first barren islands of the long estuary at the head of which the Burnt Bay settlement is situated.

With the most favourable weather there was a day's sailing and more yet to be done.

"How's the weather?" was Archie's first question.

"Broodin'," Tom Topsail drawled.

Archie could find no menace in the dawn.

"Jus' broodin'," Topsail repeated.

Towards night it seemed that a change and a gale of wind might be hatched by the brooding day. The wind fluttered to the east and blew up a thickening fog.

"We've time an' t' spare," said Topsail, in the soggy dusk. "Leave us go ashore an' rest."

They landed, presently, on a promising island, and made a roaring fire. The hot tea and the lobster and the hard-bread—and the tales of Topsail—and the glow and warmth of the fire—were grateful to Archie. He fell sound asleep, at last, with his greatcoat over him; and Tom Topsail was soon snoring, too. In the meantime the mixed accommodation, back in the wilderness, had surmounted the grade, had dropped three heavy cars at a way station, and was rattling on her way towards Burnt Bay with an energy and determination that surprised her weary passengers and could only mean that she was bound to make up at least some lost time or explode in the attempt.

* * * * *

Morning came—it seemed to Archie Armstrong that it never would come—morning came in a thick fog to Tom Topsail and the lad. In a general way Tom Topsail had his bearings, but he was somewhat doubtful about trusting to them. The fog thickened with an easterly wind. It blew wet and rough and cold. The water, in so far as it could be seen from the island, was breaking in white-capped waves; and an easterly wind was none of the best on the Burnt Bay course. But Tom Topsail and Archie put confidently out. The mixed accommodation was not due at Burnt Bay until 12:33. She would doubtless be late; she was always late. There was time enough; perhaps there would be time and to spare. The wind switched a bit to the south of east, however, and became nearly adverse; and down came the fog, thick and blinding. A hundred islands, and the narrowing main-shore to port and starboard, were wiped out of sight. There were no longer landmarks.

"Man," Tom Topsail declared, at last, "I don't know where I is!"

"Drive on, Tom," said Archie.

The punt went forward in a smother of water.

"Half after eleven," Archie remarked.

Tom Topsail hauled the sheet taut to pick up another puff of wind. An hour passed. Archie had lost the accommodation if she were on time.

"They's an island dead ahead," said Tom. "I feels it. Hark!" he added. "Does you hear the breakers?"

Archie could hear the wash of the sea.

"Could it be Right-In-the-Way?" Tom Topsail wondered. "Or is it Mind-Your-Eye Point?"

There was no help in Archie.

"If 'tis Right-In-the-Way," said Tom, "I'd have me bearin's. 'Tis a marvellous thick fog, this," he complained.

Mind-Your-Eye is a point of the mainland.

"I'm goin' ashore t' find out," Tom determined.

Landed, however, he could make nothing of it. Whether Right-In-the-Way, an island near by Burnt Bay, or Mind-Your-Eye, a long projection of the main-shore, there was no telling. The fog hid all outlines. If it were Right-In-the-Way, Tom Topsail could land Archie in Burnt Bay within half an hour; if it were Mind-Your-Eye point—well, maybe.

"Hark!" Tom exclaimed.

Archie could hear nothing.

"Did you not hear it?" said Tom.

"What, man? Hear what?"

"That!" Tom ejaculated.

Archie heard the distant whistle of a train.

"I knows this place," Tom burst out, in vast excitement. "'Tis Mind-Your-Eye. They's a cut road from here t' the railway. 'Tis but half a mile, lad."

Followed by Archie, Tom Topsail plunged into the bush. They did not need to be told that the mixed accommodation was labouring on a steep grade from Red Brook Bridge. They did not need to be told that a little fire, builded by the track before she ran past, a flaring signal in the fog, would stop her. With them it was merely a problem of getting to the track in time to start that fire.



CHAPTER XXXVI

And Last: In Which Archie Armstrong Hangs His Head in His Father's Office, the Pale Little Clerk Takes a Desperate Chance, Bill o' Burnt Bay Loses His Breath, and there is a Grand Dinner in Celebration of the Final Issue, at Which the Amazement of the Crew of the "Spot Cash" is Equalled by Nothing in the World Except Their Delight

It was the first of September. A rainy day, this, in St. John's: the wind in the east, thick fog blowing in from the open. Sir Archibald's grate was crackling in its accustomed cheerful way. Rain lashed the office windows at intervals; a melancholy mist curtained the harbour from view. Sir Archibald was anxious. He drummed on the desk with his finger-tips; he paced the office floor, he scowled, he pursed his lips, he dug his restless hands deep in his pockets. The expected had not happened. It was now two o'clock. Sir Archibald was used to going home at three. And it was now two o'clock—no, by Jove! it was eight after. Sir Archibald walked impatiently to the window. It was evident that the fog was the cause of his impatience. He scowled at it. No, no (thought he); no schooner could make St. John's harbour in a fog like that. And the winds of the week had been fair winds from the French Shore. Still the expected had not happened. Why had the expected not happened?

A pale little clerk put his head in at the door in a very doubtful way.

"Skipper of the Black Eagle, sir," said he. "Clerk, too," he added.

"Show 'em in," Sir Archibald growled.

What happened need not be described. It was both melancholy and stormy without; there was a roaring tempest within. Sir Archibald was not used to giving way to aggravation; but he was now presently embarked on a rough sea of it, from which, indeed, he had difficulty in reaching quiet harbour again. It was not the first interview he had had with the skipper and clerk of the Black Eagle since that trim craft had returned from the French Shore trade. But it turned out to be the final one. The books of the Black Eagle had been examined; her stores had been appraised, her stock taken, her fish weighed. And the result had been so amazing that Sir Archibald had not only been mystified but enraged. It was for this reason that when Skipper George Rumm, with Tommy Bull, the rat-eyed little clerk, left the presence of Sir Archibald Armstrong, the prediction of the clerk had come true: there were two able-bodied seamen looking for a berth on the streets of St. John's. First of all, however, they set about finding Tom Tulk o' Twillingate; but this, somehow or other, the discreet Tom Tulk never would permit them to do.

* * * * *

By Sir Archibald's watch it was now exactly 2:47. Sir Archibald rose from the chair that was his throne.

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I had hoped——"

Again the pale little clerk put his head in at the door. This time he was grinning shamelessly.

"Well?" said Sir Archibald. "What is it?"

"Master Archie, sir."

Archie shook hands with his father in a perfunctory way. Sir Archibald's cheery greeting—and with what admiration and affection and happiness his heart was filled at that moment!—Sir Archibald's cheery greeting failed in his throat. Archie was prodigiously scowling. This was no failure of affection; nor was it an evil regard towards his creditor, who would have for him, as the boy well knew, nothing but the warmest sympathy. It was shame and sheer despair. In every line of the boy's drawn face—in his haggard eyes and trembling lips—in his dejected air—even in his dishevelled appearance (as Sir Archibald sadly thought)—failure was written. What the nature of that failure was Sir Archibald did not know. How it had come about he could not tell. But it was failure. It was failure—and there was no doubt about it. Sir Archibald's great fatherly heart warmed towards the boy. He did not resent the brusque greeting; he understood. And Sir Archibald came at that moment nearer to putting his arms about his big son in the most sentimental fashion in the world than he had come in a good many years.

"Father," said Archie, abruptly, "please sit down."

Sir Archibald sat down.

"I owe you a thousand dollars, sir," Archie went on, coming close to his father's desk and looking Sir Archibald straight in the eye. "It is due to-day, and I can't pay it—now."

Sir Archibald would not further humiliate the boy by remitting the debt. There was no help for Archie in this crisis. Nobody knew it better than Sir Archibald.

"I have no excuse, sir," said Archie, with his head half-defiantly thrown back, "but I should like to explain."

Sir Archibald nodded.

"I meant to be back in time to realize on—well—on those things you have given me—on the yacht and the boat and the pony," Archie went on, finding a little difficulty with a lump of shame in his throat; "but I missed the mail-boat at Ruddy Cove, and I——"

The pale little clerk once more put his sharp little face in at the door.

"Judd," said Sir Archibald, sternly, "be good enough not to interrupt me."

"But, sir——"

"Judd," Sir Archibald roared, "shut that door!"

The pale little clerk took his life in his hands, and, turning infinitely paler, gasped:

"Skipper of the Spot Cash to see you, sir."

"WHAT!" shouted Archie.

Judd had fled.

"Skipper—of—the—Spot—Cash!" Archie muttered stupidly.

Indeed, yes. The hearty, grinning, triumphant skipper of the Spot Cash! And more, too, following sheepishly in his wake: no less than the full complement of other members of the trading firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, even to Donald North, who was winking with surprise, and Bagg, the cook, ex-gutter-snipe from London, who could not wink at all from sheer amazement. And then—first thing of all—Archie Armstrong and his father shook hands in quite another way. Whereupon this same Archie Armstrong (while Sir Archibald fairly bellowed with delighted laughter) fell upon Bill o' Burnt Bay, and upon the crew of the Spot Cash, right down to Bagg (who had least to lose), and beat the very breath out of their bodies in an hilarious expression of joy.

* * * * *

"Dickerin'," Bill o' Burnt Bay explained, by and by.

"Dickering?" ejaculated Archie.

"Jus' simon-pure dickerin'," Bill o' Burnt Bay insisted, a bit indignantly.

And then it all came out—how that the Jolly Harbour wreckers had come aboard to reason; how that Bill o' Burnt Bay, with a gun in one hand, was disposed to reason, and did reason, and continued to reason, until the Jolly Harbour folk began to laugh, and were in the end persuaded to take a reasonable amount of merchandise from the depleted shelves (the whole of it) in return for their help in floating the schooner. It came out, too, how Billy Topsail had held the candle over the powder-keg. It came out, moreover, how the crew of the Spot Cash had set sail from Jolly Harbour with a fair wind, how the wind had providentially continued to blow fair and strong, how the Spot Cash had made the land-fall of St. John's before night of the day before, and how the crew had with their own arms towed her into harbour and had not fifteen minutes ago moored her at Sir Archibald's wharf. And loaded, sir—loaded, sir, with as fine a lot o' salt-cod as ever came out o' White Bay an' off the French Shore! To all of which both Sir Archibald and Archie listened with wide open eyes—the eyes of the boy (it may be whispered in strictest confidence) glistening with tears of proud delight in his friends.

There was a celebration. Of course, there was a celebration! To be sure! This occurred when the load of the Spot Cash had been weighed out, and a discharge of obligation duly handed to the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, and the balance paid over in hard cash. Skipper Bill was promptly made a member of the firm to his own great profit; and he was amazed and delighted beyond everything but a wild gasp—and so was Billy Topsail—and so was Jimmie Grimm—and so was Donald North—and so was Bagg—so were they all amazed, every one, when they were told that fish had gone to three-eighty, and each found himself the possessor, in his own right, free of all incumbrance, of one hundred and thirty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents. But this amazement was hardly equal to that which overcame them when they sat down to dinner with Archie and Sir Archibald and Lady Armstrong in the evening. Perhaps it was the shining plate—perhaps it was Lady Armstrong's sweet beauty—perhaps it was Sir Archibald's jokes—perhaps it was Archie Armstrong's Eton jacket and perfectly immaculate appearance—perhaps it was the presence of his jolly tutor—perhaps it was the glitter and snowy whiteness and glorious bounty of the table spread before them—but there was nothing in the whole wide world to equal the astonishment of the crew of the Spot Cash—nothing to approach it, indeed—except their fine delight.

THE END



* * * * *



The Works of

NORMAN DUNCAN

THE SUITABLE CHILD

Illustrations by Elizabeth Shippen Green. Popular Edition. Half Boards, Illustrated. Net .60. Decorated Edition, net $1.00.

THE ADVENTURES OF BILLY TOPSAIL

15th thousand. 12mo, Illustrated, 1.50.

It's a boy's book, but it's "a book to be chummy with"—that includes everybody. "A marvelously vivid and realistic narrative. There was no need to invent conditions or imagine situations. It is this skill in portraying actual conditions in Newfoundland that makes Mr. Duncan's work so wonderful."—Brooklyn Eagle.

DOCTOR LUKE OF THE LABRADOR

30th thousand. 12mo, Cloth, 1.50.

"Norman Duncan has fulfilled all that was expected of him in this story; it established him beyond question as one of the strong masters of the present day."—Brooklyn Eagle.

DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH

Fifth Edition. Illustrated, Cloth, net 1.00.

"He tells vividly and picturesquely many of the things done by Dr. Grenfell and his associates."—N. Y. Sun.

THE MOTHER

A Novelette of New York Life. Second Edition. 12mo, Cloth, 1.25. de Luxe, net 2.00.



DILLON WALLACE

UNGAVA BOB

A Tale of the Fur Trappers.

12th Thousand. Illustrated, $1.50.

This tale of Bob, the young fur trapper in the far frozen North has all the excitement and thrilling adventure that any boy could wish. Bob's experiences on the trail, in the Indian's camp, on the abandoned ship which he sailed into port, make fascinating reading. Moreover there is a strict adherence to fact which proves the author to have been thoroughly familiar with the events of which he writes. The story is heart stirring for young or old from beginning to end.



"The story is told with the greatest simplicity and naturalness, and the author has put into it his own warm feeling toward the people of the frozen northland, whites, Indians and Eskimos alike."—Pittsburg Post.

"Should bring the sparkle to many a lad's eye and make him wish in his day-dreams that he, too, might battle with dangers of cold and forest depth and heaving ice field."—Chicago Post.

"A thrilling story full of exciting incidents and holding the interest of reader at highest pitch to its very close. Adventures and dangers and hairbreadth escapes."—Westminster.

"A strong, virile book. The mystery of this most obscure corner of the frozen north pervades the pages."—Plain Dealer.

THE END