But now that the time had come for bravery, she found herself sorely afraid. A chill swept through her,—a weakening chill that took away her strength and left her trembling from head to foot. The crisis was at hand,—the great, surpassing crisis. She found herself hazily, tremulously wondering what the next minute in her life would be like? What would be said in it, what would happen to her? Would she be in his arms, would his lips be upon hers,—all in the minute to come? Was the whole of her life to be altered in the brief space of a minute's time?

A warm glow suddenly drove off the chill. It came with the realization that he was building the fire for her,—that his thoughts were of her,—that he had stolen into the building to make it warm and comfortable long before she was due to arrive,—and that he would steal away again as soon as the "chores" were done.

He arose to his feet and stood over the fire for a moment or two, watching its lively progress. Apparently satisfied with his efforts, he turned and started toward the door. She was standing in his path, a shy, wavering smile on her lips.

He halted, and after an instant's hesitation, stammered:

"I—I never dreamed you'd be around so early. I thought I'd run in as I was passing and build a fire for—for the kiddies. Get the place warmed up a bit before—"

"Will you let me say something, Mr. Percival?" she broke in, hurrying the words.

He fumbled for his hat. "I am sorry if you are annoyed, Miss Clinton. Please believe me when I tell you I hoped to get out before you came. I came early so that you would not find me—"

"You are not letting me say what I want to say."

She came toward him, her hand extended. "Oh, I don't want to thank you for lighting the fire and putting the room in order. I want to tell you that I surrender."

"Surrender?" he exclaimed, staring.

"I cannot fight you any longer," she said breathlessly.

He looked dumbly first at her hand and then into her eyes. She was an arm's length away.

"Fight me?" he mumbled, uncomprehending.

"You—you said we could not be friends. I knew what you meant. If—if you love me,—oh, if you do love me, we need not be friends. But I know you love me. If I did not know it I could not have come to you like this and—"

"Do I love you?" he cried out. "My God, I—I worship you."

She held out both arms to him. "Then, we will try no more to be friends," she murmured very softly. "Here are my arms. I surrender."

A long time after he said to her as they sat before the jubilant, applauding fire,—the only witness to their ecstasy:

"Now I understand why we have never really been friends. It wasn't what God intended. Even in the beginning we were not friends. We thought we were,—but we weren't. We were lovers, Ruth,—from the start."

"I tried very hard to hate you," she sighed, drawing a little closer in the crook of his encircled arm. "How wonderful it all is,—how wonderful!"

"I never believed it could come true. I hoped, God, how I hoped,—but it didn't seem possible that this could ever happen. I've wanted to hold you in my arms, to kiss your dear lips, to kiss your eyes, to touch your hair, to press you tight against my heart. And here I am awake, not dreaming, not longing,—and I have done all these things. Lord! I wonder if I can possibly be dreaming all this for the thousandth time."

"I was thinking of you when I came into this room,—not ten minutes ago,—and suddenly I saw you. I was terrified. I knew then that my dreams were coming true,—I knew it, and I don't know why I did not run away. Any self-respecting, modest girl would have done so. But what did I do? I, a supposedly sensible, well-brought-up—"

"You caught me trying to run away," he broke in. "I give you my word, my heart was in my throat all the time I was working over that fire,—scared stiff with the fear that you would come in and bayonet me with one of those icicle looks of yours. And see what really happened!"

They were silent for some time, staring into the fire. Suddenly his arm tightened; he drew a sharp breath. She looked up quickly.

"Why are you frowning?"

"I was just thinking," he replied after a moment's hesitation.

He gave a queer little jerk of his head, as if casting off something that bothered him. Into his paradise had slipped the memory of a night not long since when he held the yielding, responsive form of another woman in his arms, and felt the thrill of an ignoble passion surging through his veins. The kiss of the sensualist had burned on his lips for days; even to this hour it had clung to them; he was never free from the fire it had started in his imagination. And always on Olga's red, alluring lips lurked the reminder that she had not forgotten; in her eyes lay the light of expectancy.

"Of whom?" asked Ruth, not coyly, but with a directness that startled him. She seemed to have divined that his thoughts were not of her in that brief, flitting instant.

"Of myself," he answered, quite truthfully.

She laid her hand on his. "I forbid you to think of any one but me," she said.

He was silent for a moment. "I shall never think of any one but you, Ruth Clinton," he said earnestly. "You have nothing to fear."

"I believe you," she said, and pressed his hand tightly. After a slight pause, she went on, looking straight into his eyes: "I might have lost you, dear,—and I could have blamed no one but myself. She—she is very alluring."

He shook his head. "I've always been of the opinion that Samson's hair needed trimming. His mother probably brought him up with Fauntleroy curls, poor chap. If he'd had his hair cut regularly, he wouldn't have looked such an ass when Delilah got through with him."

"I don't quite follow the parable."

"In other words, it's what a man's got in his head and not so much what he's got on it that makes him strong," he explained, still more or less cryptically.

"I am beginning to see. You made good use of what you have in your head, is that it?"

"I made use of what you put into it a good many months ago, dear heart. You have been in my head and in my heart all these months, and so it was you who made me strong. Without you in there, I might have been as weak as Samson was before he had his hair cut. No sensible man blames Delilah. In fact, men are rather strong for her. When you stop to think how long old Samson got away with it, and what a shock it must have been to her after she trimmed him and found there wasn't anything left to speak of, you've just got to feel sorry for her. She took one good look at his head and understood why he let his hair grow. He was like the fellow who wears long whiskers to develop his chin. If Samson had had room enough in his head for a thought of anything except himself, Delilah wouldn't have been able to catch him napping."

She could not help laughing. "You take a most original way of evading the point. Still, I am satisfied. You did not have room in your head for any one else but me,—and that's all there is to it. I can't help feeling tremendously complimented, however. She is quite capable of turning any man's head."

"She plays fair, Ruth," he said seriously. "She keeps the danger signal up all the time. That's more than you can say for most women."

"Yes," said she; "she plays fair. She is a strange woman. She has given me a lot of advice,—and I am just beginning to take it."

"If I had believed what she told me three months ago," said he, "this glorious hour would have been advanced just that length of time."

Ruth stiffened. "What did she tell you?"

"She told me I was a fool and a coward; that all I had to do was to walk up to you and say 'Here, I want you,' and that would have been the end of my suspense. She told me something I didn't know and couldn't believe."

"Indeed! I like her impudence! She—"

"She told me you were as much in love with me as I was with you. Honest,—was she right?"

Ruth sighed. "I suppose she was right."

"And would you have come to me if I had said 'I want you '?"

"If you had said it as you say it now, I—listen! Good gracious! There are the children!"

She sprang to her feet, blushing furiously. The door opened and three small children were fairly blown into the room,—three swarthy, black-eyed urchins who stared in some doubt at the "boss" and the adored "teacher."

"Good morning, children," she cried out jerkily, and then glanced at each of the windows in quick succession. "You don't suppose,—" she began under her breath, turning to Percival with a distressed look in her eyes.

"I wouldn't put it above 'em," said he, cheerfully.

"We should have thought of the windows."

"Thank God, we didn't," he cried.

He went out into the storm with the song of the lark in his heart.

"God, what a beautiful place the world is!" he was saying to himself, and all the while the sleet was stinging his radiant face with the relentlessness of angry bees.



CHAPTER XIII.

As he swung jauntily down the road in the direction of his "office," all the world might have seen that it was a beautiful place for him. He passed children hurrying to school, and shouted envious "hurry-ups" to them. Men and women, going about the morning's business, felt better for the cheery greetings he gave them. Even Manuel Crust, pushing a crude barrow laden with fire-wood, paused to look after the strutting figure, resuming his progress with an annoyed scowl on his brow, for he had been guilty of a pleasant response to Percival's genial "good-morning." Manuel went his way wondering what the devil had got into both of them.

Olga Obosky was peering from a window as he passed her hut. He waved his hand at her,—and then shook his head. He had passed her three dancing-girls some distance down the road, romping like children in the snow.

Buck Chizler was waiting for him outside the "office." The little jockey had something on his mind,—something that caused him to grin sheepishly and at the same time look furtively over his shoulder.

"Can I see you for a coupla minutes, A. A.?" he inquired, following the other to the door.

"Certainly, Buck,—as many minutes as you like."

Buck discovered Randolph Fitts and Michael Malone seated before the fire. He drew back.

"I'd like to see you outside," he said nervously.

"Well, what is it?" asked Percival, stepping outside and closing the door.

Buck led him around the corner of the hut.

"It ain't so windy here," he explained. "Awful weather, ain't it?"

"What's troubling you, Buck? Put on your cap, you idiot. You'll take cold."

"Plumb nervousness," said Buck. "Same as if I was pulling up to the start with fifty thousand on the nag. I want to ask your advice, A. A. Just a little private matter. Oh, nothing serious. Nothing like that, you know. I just thought maybe you'd—Gosh, I never saw it snow like this up home, did you? Funny, too, when you think how tropical we ought to be. There was a bad blizzard a coupla years ago in Buenos Aires, but—"

"Come to the point, Buck. What's up?"

Buck lowered his voice. "Well, you see it's this way. I'm thinking of getting married. Tomorrow, if possible. Don't laugh! I don't see anything to laugh at in—"

"I beg your pardon, old chap. I couldn't help laughing. It's because I'm happy. Don't mind me. Go ahead. You're thinking of getting married, eh? Well, what's to prevent?"

"Do you approve of it? That's what I want to know."

"Sure. Of course, I approve of it."

"I just thought I'd make sure. You see, nobody's ever got married here before, and I didn't know what you'd think of me—er—sort of breaking the ice, don't you see."

"She's finally said 'yes,' has she? Good girl! Congratulations, old chap,—thousands of 'em'—millions."

"Well, that takes some of the load off my mind," said Buck, as they shook hands. "Now, there's one or two things more. First, she says she won't come and live in a hut where five men besides myself are bunking. I don't blame her, do you? Second, she says if we ever get rescued from this island, she won't let me go to the war,—not a step, she swears. I put up a holler right away. I says to her I was on my way to the war before I ever met her, and then she says I ain't got anything on her. She was going over to nurse. But she says if she gets married she's going to claim exemption, or whatever they call it, and she says I got to do the same,—'cause we'll both have dependents then. Then I says the chances are the war's over by this time anyhow, and she says a feller in the Argentine told her on his word of honour it wouldn't be over for five years or more. But that's a minor point. What's rusting me is this: how am I going to get rid of them five guys in my cabin?"

"Have you told them you're going to be married?"

"Oh, hell, they're the ones that told me."

"It's pretty rough weather to turn men out into the cold, unfeeling world, Buck."

Buck scratched his ear in deep perplexity. "Well, it's got me guessing." He slumped into an attitude of profound dejection. "What we'd ought to have done, A. A., was to build a hotel or something like that. If we had a hotel here, there'd be so blamed many weddings you couldn't keep track of 'em. That's the only thing that's holding people back. Why, half the unmarried fellers here are thinking about getting married. They're thinking, and thinking, and thinking, morning, noon and night. And they've got the girls thinking, too,—and most of the widders and old maids besides. I don't see how a smart feller like you, A. A., happened to overlook the possibility of just this kind of thing happening."

"Good Lord, what have I got to do with it?"

"Why, darn it all, you'd ought to have put up a few huts with 'For Rent' signs on 'em, or else—"

"By George, Buck! I've got it," cried Percival excitedly. "Have you thought of a wedding journey?"

"A what?"

"Wedding trip,—honeymoon."

"Well, we might walk up and down the main street here a coupla times," said Buck sarcastically. "Or take a stroll along the beach or something like that."

"What's the matter with a nice long sea voyage?"

"Say, I'm not kidding about this thing," exclaimed Mr. Chizler, bristling. "I'm in dead earnest."

"Has it occured to you that the Doraine is lying out there in the harbour—Here! Look out! I don't like being hugged by—"

"My gosh, A. A! Oh, my gosh!" barked the ecstatic bridegroom-apparent. "How did you happen to think of such a beautiful, wonderful—"

"How did I happen to think of it?" shouted Percival, just as ecstatically. "Why, darn your eyes, why shouldn't I think of it? Why did old Noah think of the Ark? Why, I ask you?"

"He didn't," said Buck succinctly. "The feller that wrote the Bible thought of it."

"What time is it? Oh, Lord, nearly three hours yet before school is out."

"Say, are you off your base,—lemme smell your breath. You act like—Wait a second! There's something else I want to speak to you about. Is it—is it all right for me to get married? She says I'll have to get your O. K. before she'll move an inch. She says nobody can do anything around here without you say so. So I—"

"You tell her I give my consent gladly, Buck, my boy. Give her a good kiss for me, and say I'll speak to Captain Trigger this afternoon about passage on the Doraine. By George, I—I think I'll go and speak to him about it now."

"Much obliged, boss. By gosh, you are a brick. There ain't anything you won't do for a friend, is there?"

Percival blushed and stammered. "I—I've got to see him anyhow, Buck,—so don't thank me. By the way, while I'm about it, I suppose I might as well speak to Parson Mackenzie, eh? Or is it to be Father Francisco? And that reminds me, I'll have to see Malone and find out about the legality,—got to have the law on our side, you see, Buck. Something in the form of a license,—United States of America and all that,—and also see about fixing up desirable quarters on board the Doraine. I may have to transfer quite a lot of—er—furniture and so forth from my hut to the ship, and—"

"Gee whiz, A. A., you mustn't go to so blamed much trouble for me," gasped the delighted Buck.

"Eh? What? Oh, the devil take you! Beat it now. I'm going to be mighty busy this morning."

"I'll do as much for you, A. A., if you ever get married," cried Buck, once more wringing the other's hand. Then he was off up the road like a schoolboy.

Shortly before the noon recess, Percival returned from the Doraine. By this time, the news had spread through the camp that there was to be a wedding. Every one he met hailed him with the excited question:

"Say, have you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"There's going to be a wedding."

"Good Lord!" said Percival to himself. "They must have been peeping through those windows after all."

Finding that he had ten minutes to spare before school was out, he decided to call upon Mrs. Spofford. That lady received him with icy politeness.

"I have been expecting you," she said. "Your friend Mr. Shay honoured us with a visit yesterday. My niece is at the school. Will you sit down and wait for her, or—"

"I beg your pardon. What was that you said about Shay?"

"I said he came to see us."

Percival stared, "He did?"

"Please sit down, Mr. Percival. Do not ask me to tell you anything more about Mr. Shay," she went on hurriedly, and in some confusion. "I don't believe he would like it,—and as he is a dangerous character, I beg of you not to—"

"If Soapy Shay dared to intrude—"

"I implore you, do not think anything more about it. He was most courteous and polite and all that."

He remained standing, his gaze fixed upon her face. Somehow, he guessed the nature of Soapy's visit.

"I suppose he came as a tale-bearer."

"I must decline to discuss the matter, Mr. Percival."

"Mrs. Spofford," he began, with all the dignity of a courtier, "I have come to request the hand of your niece in marriage. I have loved her from the very—"

"Oh, God!" groaned the trembling lady. "It has come at last! It has come,—just as I feared. For pity's sake, Mr. Percival, spare her! She is—"

"I beg your pardon," he broke in, flushing. "I think you misunderstand me. I am asking your consent to marry her. I believe it is still customary among gentlemen to consult the—"

"Permit me to interrupt you, Mr. Percival," said she, regaining her composure and her austerity. "What you ask is quite impossible. My niece is,—ah,—I may say tentatively engaged. I am sorry for you. Perhaps it would be just as well if you did not wait for her to come in. She will be—"

"Mrs. Spofford, I am obliged to confess to you that I have already spoken to Miss Clinton, and I may add that she is not tentatively engaged. She has promised to be my wife."

She drew back as if struck. She was silent for many seconds.

"It would appear that my consent is not necessary, Mr. Percival," she said at last, "Why do you come to me?"

"Because, while you may not suspect it, I was born a gentleman," said he stiffly.

She received this with a slight nod of the head and no more.

"My niece, no doubt in her excitement, has neglected to ask you one or two very important questions," she said levelly. "First of all, have you any means of convincing us that you do not already possess a wife?"

He started. "You are right," he said. "That is an important question, and she has not asked it. I have no means of convincing you that I have never been married, Mrs. Spofford. My word of honour is the only thing I can offer."

She regarded him narrowly. "Do you consider that sufficient, Mr. Percival?"

"I do," said he simply. She waited for him to go on, and was distinctly impressed by his failure to do so. So far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to be added.

"How are we to know what your past life contains? You may have left your homeland in disgrace, you may even have been a fugitive from justice. We have no means of knowing. You were a stowaway on board the Doraine. That much, at least, we do know. We know nothing more. You are smart, you are clever. Surely you must see yourself that under other circumstances, under normal conditions, my niece would not have condescended to notice you, Mr. Percival. We are on an undiscovered island, remote from the environment, the society, the—"

"Permit me to remind you, Mrs. Spofford," he interrupted, a trifle coldly, "that you just remarked that you know nothing whatever about me. Isn't it barely possible that my life may contain something desirable in the shape of family, position and environment?"

"I recall that Mr. Gray did speak of knowing the Percival family. My niece never allows me to forget it."

"Mr. Gray did not know my family. He knew of my family, Mrs. Spofford, if that conveys anything to you. Not that they would not have been proud to have known him, for he was a gentleman. As for my own case, I can only say that I am not a fugitive from justice, nor have I done anything more disgraceful than the average young man who has been through college and who, ignoring the counsel of his father, proceeds to find out for himself the same things that his father had found out a great many years before,—and his father before him, and so on back to the beginning of man. My great-great-grandfather on my mother's side was a comparatively recent settler in America. He didn't come over from Scotland until about 1750. My father's people came over in the days of Lord Baltimore. Most of my remote ancestors were very wicked men. You will find that one of them was executed in the Tower of London the same week that Lady Jane Grey went to her death, and another was openly in love with Mistress Nell Gwyn, thereby falling into disgrace with a monarch named Charles. I admit that I come of very bad stock."

A fleeting twinkle lurked in her eyes.

"You are very adroit, Mr. Percival."

"Which is as much as to say that I have an agreeable and interesting way of lying. Is that what you wish to imply, Mrs. Spofford?"

"Not at all. I say you are adroit because you place me in an embarrassing position. If I believe your confession that you come of bad stock, I must also believe that you come of an exceedingly good old Maryland family." He bowed very low. "My niece, Mr. Percival, is an orphan. I am and have been her protector since she was fourteen years of age. She is the possessor of a large fortune in her own right. Her father,—who was my brother,—gave her into my care when he was on his death-bed. I leave you to surmise just what were his dying words to me. She was his idol. I have not failed him in any respect. You ask me to give my consent to your marriage. I cannot do so. No doubt you will be married, just as you have planned. She loves you. I have known it for months. I have seen this day and hour coming,—yes, I have seen it even more clearly than she, for while she struggled desperately to deceive herself she has never been able to deceive me. You are a strong, attractive man. The glamour of mystery rests upon you. You have done prodigious deeds here, Mr. Percival. All of this I recognize, and I should be unfair to my own sense of honour were I to deny you my respect and gratitude. I must be fair. Fear has been the cause of my attitude toward you,—not fear of you, sir, but fear for my niece. Now I am confronted by the inevitable. The thing I have tried so hard to avoid has come to pass. In these circumstances, I am forced to confess that I have not been without a real, true admiration for you. I admit that I have felt a great security with you in command of our camp. But, even so, you are not the man I would have chosen to be Ruth's husband. The time is surely coming when we will be delivered from this island prison, when we will return to the life and the people and the conditions we knew before catastrophe made a new world for us. I am thinking of that time, Mr. Percival, and not of the present. I fear my niece is thinking only of the present and not of the future."

He had listened with grave deference. "Forgive me if I appear impertinent, Mrs. Spofford, but is it not, after all, the past you are thinking about?"

She did not answer at once. His question had startled her.

"Youth does not live in the past," he went on quietly. "It deals only with the present. I love Ruth Clinton,—I love her with the cleanest love a man can feel for a woman. It will not alter when we leave this island. If we are fated to spend the rest of our lives here, it will endure to the end."

"You are speaking for yourself," she said. "Can you speak for Ruth?"

"No, I cannot," he admitted. "Nor can you," he added boldly. "That is what I meant when I asked if you were not thinking chiefly of the past. I cannot say that Ruth will love me always, but I can say this: she loves me now, as I love her, and in her heart she has said just what I said to you a moment ago,—that her love will endure."

"I daresay I do think more of the past than of the present, Mr. Percival. You are right about the future. It is a blank page, to be glorified or soiled by what is set down upon it. Fate has thrown you two together. Perhaps it was so written in the past that you despise. A single turn of the mysterious wheel of fortune brought you into her life. Half a turn,—the matter of minutes,—and you would never have seen each other, and you would have gone your separate ways to the end of time without even knowing that the other existed. No doubt you both contend that you cannot live without each other. It is the usual wail of lovers. But are you quite as certain in your minds that you would have perished if you had never seen each other?"

The note of irony did not escape him. He smiled. "In that case, Mrs. Spofford, we should not have existed at all."

She shook her head despairingly. "You are too clever for me," she said. "I warn you, however, that I shall do everything in my power to persuade Ruth to reconsider her promise to you."

"Nothing could be fairer than that," said he, without rancor. "If she comes to me this afternoon and says she has changed her mind and cannot marry me, I shall not ask her again. Will you be kind enough, Mrs. Spofford, to include that in your argument? It may spare her a lot of worry and anxiety."

He bowed ceremoniously and took his departure. She went to the window and, drawing aside the curtain, watched him until he disappeared down the road. Then, as the curtain fell into place, she said to herself:

"Their children will be strong and beautiful."



CHAPTER XIV.

A fortnight later, Ruth and Percival were married. He was now governor of Trigger Island.

The ceremony took place at noon on the Green in front of the Government Building,—(an imposing name added to the already extensive list by which the "meeting-house" was known),—and was attended by the whole population of the island. His desire for a simple wedding had been vigorously, almost violently opposed by the people. Led by Randolph Fitts and the eloquent Malone, they demanded the pomp and ceremony of a state wedding. As governor of Trigger Island, they clamoured, it was his duty to be married in the presence of a multitude! A general holiday was declared, a great "barbecue" was arranged—(minus the roasted ox),—and when it was all over, the joyous throng escorted the governor and his lady to the gaily decorated "barge" that was to transport them from the landing to the Doraine.

Olga Obosky made the bride's bonnet and veil, and draped the latter on the morning of the wedding day. Like the fabled merchants of the Arabian Nights she appeared to the bride-elect and displayed her wares. From the depths of her theatre trunks she produced a bewildering assortment of laces, chiffon, silks, and the filmiest of gauzes.

"You must not be afraid zat they will contaminate you," she explained, noting the look of dismay in Ruth's eyes. "Zey have never adorned my body, zey have never been expose to the speculating eye of the public, zey have not hid from view these charms of mine. No, these are fair and virtuous fabrics. It is you who will be the first to wear them, my friend. Take your choice. See! Zis piece, is it not wonderful? It comes from Buda Pesth. One day it would perhaps have caressed my flesh in the Dance of the Sultan's Dream,—but, alas,—zat is not to be. Feel, my friend,—take it in your hand. See? You could hide it in the palm of one of them,—and presto! Throw it outspread,—and it is like a blanket of mist filling the room. It is priceless. It is unobtainable. None except Obosky can afford to dance in such imperial stuff as this. Take it,—it is yours. It is my pleasure that you should have it. Better far it should be your bridal veil than to drape these abandoned legs of mine."

And so it was that the scant costume of the Sultan's Dream became the bridal veil of the governor's lady.

If Olga Obosky was sore at heart, she gave no sign. On the contrary, she revealed the sprightliest interest in the coming nuptials. Percival himself had told her the news within the hour after his interview with Mrs. Spofford. In his blind happiness, he had failed to notice the momentary stiffening of her body as if resisting a shock; he did not see the hurt, baffled look that darkened her eyes for a few seconds, and the swiftly passing pallor that stole into her face and vanished almost instantly. He saw only the challenging smile that followed close upon these fleeting signs, and the mocking gleam in her eyes.

"So?" she had said. "So the citadel is yours, my friend. Hail to the chief! I salute you. But consider, O conqueror, what it is you are about to do. You are setting a woeful example. There will be a stampede, a panic. People will trample each other under foot in ze mad rush for captivity. The wedding bell will crack under ze strain of so much ringing. Everybody will be getting married, now zat they find it is so easy and so simple. I congratulate you, my friend. You have been very slow,—I have said she was yours for the asking, you will remember. She is good, she is beautiful, she is pure gold, my friend. I am her friend. Do not ever forget, my Percivail, I am her friend."

He flushed warmly. He could not misinterpret her meaning. She spoke slowly, deliberately. It was renunciation on her part.

"I understand, Olga," he said.

She smiled, and shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, but you do not understand!" she cried. "You are so very much perplexed. It is enough for me that you are perplexed. I am content. I am the puzzle you will never solve. So! La la! You will never cease to wonder. Look!"

She pointed her finger at a man who was crossing the Green below them.

"I am a puzzle to zat man also. He thought that he understood."

"Landover? What do you mean?"

A spasm of fury transformed her features. She hissed out the words:

"I did spit in his face last night,—zat is all."

The thirteenth of April, 1918, came on Saturday. Defying superstition, Ruth selected it as her wedding day. It was a bright, warm autumn day, bestowed by a gallant sun, and there was great rejoicing over this evidence of God's approval. It came as a winter's whim, for that night the skies were black and thunderous; the winds roared savagely between the lofty walls of Split Mountain and whined across the decks of the slanting Doraine, snug in the little basin, while out on the boundless deep the turmoil of hell was raging.

And so began the honeymoon of the stowaway and the lady fair, even as the "voyage" of the jockey and his bride had begun a fortnight before. They sat at the Captain's table in the ghostly, dismantled saloon. Above them hung two brightly burnished lanterns, shedding a mellow light upon the festal board. Outside, the whistling wind, the swish of the darkened waters, the rattle of davits and the creak of the straining timbers.

Up from his place at the head of the table rose the gray and gallant skipper.

"Up, gentlemen," said he, his face aglow. "I give you the health, the happiness and the never diminishing glory of the governor's lady."

"May she never be less," added the gaunt First Officer, who spent his days ashore watching the growth of a new Doraine and his nights on board with the failing master of the older one.

And in the rare old port from the Captain's locker they pledged the radiant bride.

"A long voyage and a merry one!" cried Mr. Codge, the purser, as he drained his goblet dry.

Mr. Furman Nicholas Chizler bowed very gravely to the lady on the Captain's right, and then to the one at his left.

"What care we which way we sail so long as the wind's behind us?" quoth he.



BOOK THREE

CHAPTER I.

In the far-off Northland it is winter again,—the winter of 1919-20. Trigger Island is bright and clean with the furbishings of summer. It is January,—January without its coat of white,—January as green as the tender gourd.

There are a dozen graves or more on Cape Sunrise; Betty Cruise no longer lies alone out on the windswept point. Crudely chiseled on the rough headstones are names that have not been mentioned in this chronicle, still not the less enduring. One name is there, however, chipped in a great black slab from the face of Split Mountain, that will never be forgotten as long as Trigger Island exists: it is that of Captain Weatherby Trigger.

The master of the Doraine died aboard-ship in the second winter. After his death the ship was abandoned. Mr. Codge and the half-dozen old mariners who had made their home in the dismal hulk came ashore.

Grim and ugly and as silent as the grave, save for the winds that moan through her portholes and corridors, she lies rusting in sun and storm, a gloomy presence that fills the soul with awe. Even the birds of the air shun her barren decks; less fastidious bats have taken up their abode in the heart of her, and spiders great and small are at work on a sickly shroud.

Twenty months have passed. Christmas and New Year's day have twice been celebrated and another Easter Sunday has found its way into the faithful journal of Peter Snipe, and with them two amazing Fourths of July when there was coasting on the long slopes and winter sports on the plains. There has been one bountiful harvest and seed has been sown for yet another. The full length of the sunny plain is under cultivation. The bins in the granaries are well-filled with the treasures of the soil; the gardens have increased and flourished; the warehouse is stacked with fresh and dried fruits, vegetables, honey, and row upon row of preserves! Great earthen jars, modeled with all the severity of the primitive cave-dweller, serve as receptacles. The grist-mill on Leap Frog River is busy from dawn till dusk; the forge rings with the music of hammer and anvil; a saw-mill in the heart of Dismal Forest hums its whining tune all day long. A noisy, determined engine, fashioned by mechanics out of material taken from the engine and boiler room of the Doraine provides the motive power for the saws and the means to produce ponderous, far-reaching blasts on the transferred "fog-horn."

New and more commodious huts have gone up, roads have been blazed through the forests, a logging ferry plies between the opposite shores of Mott Haven, and a ship is on the ways above the landing "stage."

At the top of Split Mountain stands a lofty wireless tower. For months it has been spitting vain messages to the four winds. Out of the great silences at rare intervals come faint flickers of radio calls, jumbled, indistinct, undecipherable,—but, for all that, definite pulse beats of a far-off life.

Trigger Island went mad with joy when the first of these aerial mutterings was reported down from the mountain-top. "Only a question of time now," they cried in their delirium. But weeks went by before another sound was heard. Now the report of feeble, long-separated manifestations, like vague spirit-rappings, no longer caused excitement or enthusiasm,—only a rueful shaking of heads.

Lieutenant Platt's station at the top of the mountain is a rude, elementary affair, notwithstanding the many weary, puzzling, disheartening months spent in its construction. The damaged, almost useless dynamo from the Doraine had to be repaired and conveyed to the crest of the eminence; what seemed to be fruitless ages were consumed in devising an engine with power sufficient to produce even the feeble results that followed. And when the task of installing the plant was completed, the effective radius was far short of a hundred miles. Constant efforts were being made to develop greater sending power, but the means at hand were inadequate, the material unobtainable.

The firing of the Doraine's gun had long since been discontinued. The supply of shells being greatly reduced, Lieutenant Platt decided to waste no more of them, but to wait for some visible evidence that a vessel was within signalling distance: a shadowy plume of smoke on the far horizon or the white tip of a sail peeping over the rim of the world.

Frugality is the watchword. The days of plenty are sternly guarded so that their substance may not be squandered; always there is the thought of the lean year that may come, the year when the harvests fail and famine stalks naked through the land.

The first law, therefore, is thrift. Not thrift in its common, accepted sense, based on the self-denial of the individual, but a systematic shoulder-to-shoulder stand for the general welfare of the community. There is no such thing as waste on Trigger Island. The grim spectre of want and privation treads softly behind every mortal there, and there is none who treats its invisible presence with disdain. Even the wood-ashes from stoves and fireplaces are carefully hoarded in hoppers, for the alkaline solution obtained by treating them with water is lye. This lye is being used chiefly in the production of a soap not unlike that made by thrifty farmers' wives in the Argentine, experimentation with the pulpy fruit of a tree belonging to the variety known as Sapindus marginatus bringing about rather astonishing results.

For many months of the year the people wear sandals on their bare feet. Only those who toil in the forests don the uncouth boots turned out by the firm of cobblers known as Block & Nicklestick. Shoes, boots and slippers of another day are zealously guarded by their owners, in anticipation of still another day,—the day of deliverance. "Waste not, want not," is the motto of Trigger Island.

The second winter brought a double catastrophe, and for days thereafter deepest gloom prevailed. Even the stout-hearted Percival drooped under the weight of it.

Fire wiped out the work of months in the space of a few bleak, bitter hours. The sturdy little ship that was so well along toward completion was destroyed.

Months of faithful, patient, dogged toil had resulted in the construction of a stout hull which stood proudly on the ways to be admired and glorified by the eager, confident supporters of the determined little band of builders. Six weeks more would have seen the vessel off the ways and floating gaily on the surface of the snug little basin, ready for the final touches, the provisioning and the ultimate departure of the hardy company that was to take her out into the open stretches in quest of the helping hand. For weeks a devoted, one-minded community had been preparing food, raiment and comforts for the men who were to go forth in the new Doraine. The masts and spars were in place, the forecastle and cabin were almost ready for occupancy, the galley was nearing completion,—and then came swift, relentless disaster.

The night was cold and windy. Down at the water's edge, almost under the bulging side of the ship, two men had their quarters at one end of the low, rambling carpenter shop. At the other end was located the forge. The very thing they were there to guard against happened on this miserable night. Fire broke out in the forge.

The man on watch had fallen asleep. His name was Smiley. It is mentioned here for the only time in this narrative.

Shortly before midnight, his companion was awakened by the smell of smoke. He scrambled out of his blankets on the floor,—and cursed the man who still slept in his chair beside the smoke-befogged lantern on the end of a carpenter's bench. Flames were creeping along the wooden partition separating the forge from the shop. Half a mile away three hundred men were sleeping,—but half a mile is half a mile. Before the watchmen could sound the alarm, after their first courageous efforts to subdue the blaze, the building was a roaring mass of flames and a gleeful wind had carried tongues of fire to the side of the vessel where they licked shapeless black patterns at first and then swiftly turned them to red.

Stark-eyed, shivering people stood far back among the trees throughout the rest of the night and watched the work of months go up in flame and smoke. Nothing could be done to save the ship. Hewn from the hardiest trees in the forest, caulked and fortified to defy the most violent assaults of water, she was like paper in the clutch of flames. In the grey of early morn the stricken people slunk back to their cabins and gave up hope. For not only was their ship destroyed but the priceless tools and implements with which she had been built were gone as well. It was the double catastrophe that took the life, the spirit, out of them.

And while the day was still breaking, the man who had slept at his post, stole off into the forest and cut his throat from ear to ear.

But now, months afterward, another ship is on the ways. Indomitable, undaunted, the builders rose above disaster and set to work again. New tools were fashioned from steel and iron and wood,—saws, chisels, sledges, planes and hammers—in fact, everything except the baffling augurs. Resolute, unbeaten hands toiled anew, and this time the humble craft was not to be given a luckless name.

Superstition was rife. All save Andrew Mott saw ill-omen in the name "Doraine." Steadfastly he maintained that as the Doraine had brought them safely to the island, guided by a divine Providence, a Doraine could be trusted to take them as miraculously away. And as for changing the name of his prattling ward, he fairly roared his objection; though an uncommonly mild man for a sailor, he uttered such blasphemous things to a group of well-meaning women that even Sheriff Soapy Shay was aghast.

After the dreary period that followed the disaster, there came a sharp awakening as from a dream filled with horrors. Something lying dormant in the com-mon breast had stirred. It was the unbeaten spirit that would not die. These men and women lifted up their heads and beheld the star of hope undimmed. In a flash, the aspect changed.

"We must start all over again," was the cry that awoke them, and from that time on there was no such word as fail in the lexicon of Trigger Island.

Slowly, laboriously out of the ashes rose a new hull, a stauncher one than its ill-fated predecessor. The year wasted in the building of the first ship was lamented but not mourned. Cheerfulness, even optimism, prevailed throughout the village. No man, no woman lifted the voice of complaint. Resignation took the form of stoicism. A sort of dogged taciturnity was measurably relieved by the never-failing spirit of camaraderie. There was even a touch of bravado in the attitude of these people toward each other,—as of courage kept up by scoffing. Even Death, on his sombre visits, was regarded with a strange derision by those who continued to spin. They had cheated him not once but many times, and they mocked him in their souls.

"I'm not afraid of Death," was Buck Chizler's contribution. "I've just discovered that Death is the rottenest coward in the world. He either waits till you get too blamed old to fight, or else he jumps on you when you ain't looking, or when you're so weak from sickness you don't care what happens. I used to be afraid of Death. And why? Because I wasn't onto the old bum; Why, look at what he does. He jumps onto weeny little babies and feeble old women and—and horses. Now, I'm onto him, and I ain't got any use for a cheap sport,—not me."

The little community had taken to religion. As is invariably the case, adversity seeks surcease in some form of piety. Men who had not entered a church since the days of their childhood, men who had scoffed at the sentimentality of religion, now found consolation in the thing they had once despised. They were abashed and bewildered at first, as one after another they fell into the habit of attending services. They were surprised to find something that they needed, something that made life simpler and gentler for them, something uplifting.

"We're a queer mess of Puritans," reflected Randolph Fitts. "You know that parrot of old Bob Carr's? Well, he took it out and wrung its neck last night,—after all the time, and trouble, and patience he spent in giving her a swell private education. There never was a bird that could swear so copiously as that bird of Bob's. He taught her every thing she knew. He worked day and night to provide her with an up-to-date vocabulary. He used to lie awake nights thinking up new words for old Polly to conquer. Now he says the blamed old rip was deceiving him all the time. She began springing expletives on him that he'd never heard of before in all his forty years before the mast. She first began using them a couple of months ago when he undertook to reform her. He started in to teach her to say 'good gracious' and 'goodness me' and 'hoity-toity' and all such stuff, and she cursed so loud and so long that he had to throw a bucket of water on her.

"Every time he came home from church, that redheaded harridan would open up on him with such a string of vituperation that he had to hold his ears so's not to forget himself and backslide. Well, it got so that Bob couldn't live with her any longer. She simply wouldn't puritanize. The nearest he ever got her to saying 'good' was when she said it with only one 'o,' and then as prefix to 'dammit.' So he decided the only way to reform her was to murder her. She managed to nip a piece out of his hand while he was doing it, however, and he's had the hump all day because he fell from grace and said something he'd oughtn't to. Yes, sir; we're a queer mess of Puritans. Look at us. Catholics, Presbyterians, Baptists, Methodists, Jews, infidels, Theosophists,—even Christian Scientists,—all rolled up into one big bundle labeled: 'Handle with Prayer.' We know nearly all the Ten Commandments by heart, and the Beatitudes flow from us in torrents. My wife was saying only the other night that if Sheriff Shay didn't arrest that bird for using profane language, she'd start a petition to have—Hello, Soapy! I didn't know you were present."

"What was she going to do?" demanded the Sheriff of Trigger Island.

"There's no use telling you now. It's too late. Polly has gone to a place I don't dare mention, so what's the use talking about it?"

"I can't go 'round pinchin' fallen parrots," growled Soapy. "Besides, I'm the feller that learned her most of the cuss-words old Bob never heard before. I never saw a bird that was so anxious to improve. She used to set there with her ear cocked, just simply crazy to learn something new. Every time she'd see me coming she'd begin to hop up and down on her perch and call me names, figurin' I'd lose my temper and give her a tongue lashin'. Gosh, I'm glad she's dead. It was gettin' to be an awful nuisance chasing parrots out of the trees back of Bob's house. They got so's they'd come down there and set around all day pickin' up things she said. Somebody told me the other day he heard a parrot 'way up in the woods swearin' like a sailor. He fired a club at it, and what do you think it said to him?"

"If you weren't such an ungodly liar, Soapy, I'd ask you," said Chief Justice Malone.

Soapy regarded him sorrowfully.

"If you keep on sayin' things like that, Judge, I'll have to tell your wife you ain't true to her," said he.

"And that would be the most prodigious lie you ever told," exclaimed Mr. Malone.

"Sure. You and me know it's a lie, but you'd ketch hell, just the same."



CHAPTER II.

The population of Trigger Island has increased. Following the example of Buck Chizler and the Governor himself, scores of dubious lovers took heart. They succeeded in dispelling certain misgivings—and doubts lurking in the hearts,—not to say consciences,—of approximately three-fourths of the unmarried women on the island, with the result that Father Francisco and Parson Mackenzie were kept exceedingly busy for a number of weeks.

The "state," guided by the newly elected Chief Justice, extracted vows even more severe than those incorporated in the marriage service. And yet, despite the emphatic declarations of certain candidates,—principally male,—there remained in the minds of all,—including brides,—a lingering doubt. On the other hand, several ardent and undoubtedly honest gentlemen were unable to marry the objects of their affection for the simple reason that too many people were able to recall the lamentations of the ladies themselves, in the early days when it was customary to suffer because of the suspense and agony their poor husbands were enduring at home.

The case of Joe Hooker and Matilda Larson was particularly distressing, and ultimately led to the passage of a rather drastic law by the Council. Judge Malone was the father of this law. It provided for the automatic annulment of all previous marriages at the expiration of two years,—provided, however, the absent husband or wife didn't turn up to contest the matter. This law also granted absolute freedom to the absent husband or wife, who was thereby authorized to remarry without further notice,—or words to that effect. It was, declared Randolph Fitts, a perfectly just and equable law, and would no doubt ease the minds of quite a number of people in far-off lands,—if they ever heard of it.

Joe and Matilda had been married nearly two months when, in the thick of a connubial row, he demanded her passport. He even went so far as to threaten her with his if she didn't produce it at once. Matilda's temper was no milder than Joe's. She not only dug up her passport but a marriage certificate as well, while all he could show was a passport. It was a very unfortunate contretemps, in view of the fact that they shortly afterwards kissed and "made up." It so happened that there were quite a number of witnesses to the flaunting of these damaging documents, and as Trigger Island was then in the first stages of a religious upheaval, it was impossible to overlook this definite instance of iniquity. Despite the recantations of the chagrined couple,—and, it must be added, the surreptitious disappearance of the incriminating papers,—the matter was brought before the tribunal of justice. Chief Justice Malone was equal to the emergency. Indeed, he had been expecting something of the sort, and was prepared. He ordered both of the interested parties to bring suit for divorce from their legal spouses, one for "failure to provide," the other for "desertion," and promptly granted decrees, service by publication having been obtained through the medium of the Trigger Island Pioneer, printed monthly by Peter Snipe, editor and publisher, limited to an edition of one, owing to the scarcity of paper, and posted conspicuously for all subscribers on the bulletin board in front of the "government building." Additional spice was lent to the affair by the surprising reluctance of Joe and Matilda to re-enter the paradise from which they had been ejected. Apparently they had had enough of each other. Moreover, they had both "got religion" and insisted on repenting at leisure, separately and alone. But people took a very decided stand in the matter. They could repent in any manner they liked after Matilda's baby was born, but not before. And so they were married once more, and, strange to relate, lived happily and contentedly thereafter.

Now, while all this may strike the reader as footless and trivial, it really has a distinct place in the chronicles of Trigger Island. If, perforce, the writer has succeeded in treating the situation facetiously, it should not be assumed that the people of Trigger Island had any desire or inclination to be funny about it. On the contrary, they took it very seriously, and quite naturally so, if one stops to consider the narrow confines by which their very existence was bounded. There were no such things as "trifles" in the daily life of Trigger Island. The smallest incident took on the importance of an event, the slightest departure from the ordinary at once became significant. In other circumstances, these people would have been vastly amused by the quixotic settlement of the affairs of Joe and Matilda; they would have grinned over the extraordinary decree of Justice Malone, and they would have taken it all with an indulgent wink. As a matter of fact, they were stern-faced and intense. They had made laws of their own, they had established a code. The violation of either was not to be countenanced. It was of no consequence to them that Judge Malone's methods were without precedent, that they were not even a travesty in the true light of the law.

No one was more soberly in earnest than Michael Malone himself. The proceedings were carried out with the utmost dignity and formality. There were no smiles, no jocose comments.

Nothing will serve more clearly to illustrate the sense of isolation to which the people of Trigger Island had resigned themselves than the fact that they accepted the Judge's decision and the subsequent marriage as absolutely unassailable, either from a legal or an ethical point of view.

The town itself was flourishing. Traffic and commerce were carried on in the most systematic, organized manner. Everybody was busy. The utter impossibility for one man or set of men to profit at the expense of others naturally put a curb upon ambitions, but it did not subdue the spirit of enterprise.

There is a baby in the Governor's Mansion,—a lusty boy with blue eyes and an engaging smile. He is four months old, and his name is already a household word on Trigger Island. It is not Algernon, nor is it Adonis. It is John;—John Clinton Percival.

The Governor's Mansion is a pretentious structure. It has four rooms and a bath! A wide porch extends along the full front of the house, with a steeply pitched awning protecting it from the rain and sun. At one end of the porch is a very cosy arrangement of hand-wrought chairs and a commodious swinging seat. The other end, just off the parental bed-chamber, has been converted into an out-door sleeping-room for John C. Percival. The Governor's lady has no nursemaid. She does her own housework, her own washing and ironing, and she takes care of her own baby. (There is no such thing on Trigger Island as a servant. More than one woman who reads this tale will sigh and murmur something about Paradise.) Ruth still teaches in the little school. Though she is the first lady of the land, she supports herself, she earns her daily bread. It is the law irrevocable. There are no distinctions. Nor would she have it otherwise.

The "Mansion," as it was universally called, stands alone at the upper end of the Green, facing the meeting-house. The nearest hut is at least two hundred yards away. Work on its construction was begun the day after the wedding. For weeks men had toiled eagerly, enthusiastically, voluntarily, and in the first gay days of spring it was completed. Since then, the same hands, the same thoughts, the same interests were constantly employed in improvements,—not only to the house itself but to the grounds about it. The Governor's "Mansion" became the plaything of the people. Percival's protests were received with amiable grins.

"It's our house, boss,—not yours," explained Buck Chizler, whose spare time was largely expended in the development,—you might almost say, the financing,—of a flower-bed on the lawn. It was to be the finest flower-bed of them all, he swore. "This is government property and we, the people, are going to do what we please with it."

"That's all very fine, Buck, but don't you think you ought to be spending your spare hours with your wife, instead of puttering around here?"

"Do you know who the boss of this job is? My wife. I'm nothing but an ordinary day-laborer, a plain Mick, a sort of a Wop, obeying orders. Good gosh, you don't think I've got brains enough to design this flower-bed, do you? No, sirree! It takes an artist to think up a design like this. When I get all these rocks in place according to plans you'll see what I mean. It'll be a hum-dinger, A. A. This here thing running off this way is the tail. Come over here and look at it from this side,—it's upside down from where you're standin'."

"Tail? Tail of what?"

"Tail of a horse. This is going to be a horse when it's finished."

"My God!"

Buck was not above being irritated by the dismay in Percival's voice.

"Minnie's got her heart set on it, A. A.," he explained. "It's going to be a sorrel horse, you see,—with a blue tail and a red head. Mustard, hollyhocks and geraniums is what she's going to plant here when I get the bed fixed. Socrates,—he was the best horse I ever straddled,—he was a sorrel. I took him down the—"

"As far as you've got, Buck, it looks more like a dachshund than a horse," observed Percival.

Buck eyed his work deprecatingly. "That's because there ain't space enough. I had to either saw his legs off or else have him layin' down. Minnie had him kneelin' in her first sketch, but gosh, it was the funniest thing you ever saw. It ain't possible for a horse to kneel with his hind legs, but she had him doin' it all right,—kneeling forward, at that, with his tail stickin' straight up so's it wouldn't be in the way of his heels. It's all Jack Wales's fault. He simply would put that blamed sun-dial of his right in the middle of this plot,—and these doggoned gravel-walks running every which way give me the blind-staggers. Why, A. A., you got more gravel walks here than they've got in Central Park. And all these scrubby hedges, stone walls, fountains, flower-beds, cedar freaks,—my God, Perce, I'd hate to come home a little squiffed if I lived in that house of yours, 'specially at night. Look at old Pedro and Philippa over there, setting out that stuff that looks like sparrowgrass. And that prize job of Ed Keller's,—my God, A. A., what good is a dog kennel on this island? There ain't a dog inside a thousand miles. The only one we ever had was that poodle old Mrs. Velasco had, and it died before—"

"That isn't a kennel, Buck."

"It ain't? Well, what is it?"

"It's a Swiss chalet."

"What does Ed Keller know about Swiss chalets?"

"Nothing,—absolutely nothing, Buck," admitted Percival forcibly.

A tall, perfectly straight flagpole graced the extensive "front-yard," and from its peak floated the flag of Trigger Island,—a great white pennon with a red heart in the centre, symbolic of love, courage, fidelity. But on the tip of Split Mountain the Stars and Stripes still waves from sunrise to sunset.

The new cabins are farther up the slope of the mountains, overlooking what is now called the "old" town. There is something fairy-like in the picture one sees at night from the Green below. Dozens of lighted windows gleam softly through the foliage, for all the world like witches' lamps. The day reveals thin, blue plumes of smoke stealing out of the tops of the trees to be wafted off into nothingness; they come from invisible chimneys far down in the leafy fastnesses. Up here are the huts of the newly married. Almost without exception, they are tiny affairs, scarcely larger than the metaphorical bandbox. Each contains two rooms.

During the very hot weather in January and February, the long, curving beach is alive with oddly dressed bathers and idlers. This is at midday only, when the sun is so hot and fierce that all work ceases for two hours or more. Though the sun is hot, the water is never warm. A dip in the surf is all that any one save the hardiest cares to take. They loll on the cool white sands, under improvised shelters made of boughs, or indulge in spirited games on the long level stretches. This is the play-hour of the people throughout the hot months of summer. They "knock off" work of all sorts, and seek relief from the stifling heat of the woodland in the cool wet sands along the shore.

The costumes are strange and varied; some are pretty, others almost ludicrous. Small children appear in a scant breech-cloth; women of all ages and proportions wear a sort of one-piece "jumper," arms bare and legs uncovered up to the knees. The men affect nothing except trunks made from coffee sacks. The few real bathing-suits belong to such experienced travellers as Nicklestick, Shine and the Blocks,—regular and persistent patrons of the hotels at Atlantic City, Palm Beach and Rockaway. They never travel without a full and complete equipment. Mr. Nicklestick, very superior in his red two piece "costume," goes so far as to contend that a man never should be without a bathing-suit, because, says he, "it takes up no room in your trunk, and if you leave it at home some one else is sure to stretch it so's you can't use it yourself again."

Olga Obosky and her three dancing-girls, Careni-Amori, and several of the Brazilian ladies possess Ostend costumes in which they disport themselves with complacent disregard for public opinion, favourable or otherwise.

"She's got 'em all skinned a mile," was Morris Shine's comment upon Olga's lithe, graceful figure. "Ain't that so, Abey?"

The remark was addressed to Abel Landover.

"Even so," returned that gentleman, glaring at the offender, "it doesn't give you the right to call me Abey. You've got to cut it out, Shine. Understand?"

"Sure," said the affable Morris. "Only I've got a brother named Abraham, and that was my father's name too. It comes natural to me to—Why, by gracious, she's got the Venus Belvedere lashed to the mast. Did you ever see—"

"I've never had the pleasure of seeing the Venus Belvedere," interrupted Landover coldly.

"You haven't?" exclaimed Morris, amazed. "The armless wonder? You ain't seen her? Why, she's supposed to have the most perfect figger in the world. Maybe you've seen her without knowing what her name is. They never put the name on it, simply because every school boy and girl is supposed to know who it is without being told. Funny you don't know—Oh, she ain't alive, you know,—she ain't real. She's a statue,—thousands of 'em turned out every year. Gee, the feller that designed that statue must have cleaned up a pile. But, as I was saying, our little old Olga has got her—Say, did you ever see a figger like that?"

"Yes," broke in Landover shortly, "thousands of them."

Mr. Shine looked sceptical. "Well," he said after a moment's reflection, and with studied politeness,—having already offended at the outset, "all I got to say is, you talk like a woman, that's all I got to say."

Landover was a greatly changed man in these days. There had come a crisis in the affairs of Trigger Island, not many weeks before the second annual election in April, when he was obliged to show his true colours. The banker suddenly realized with a shock that he was actually involved in a well-organized, though secret plot to overthrow the so-called "government." He had been completely deceived by the wily Manuel Crust and several of his equally wily friends. They professed to be organizing an opposition party to oust the dictatorial Percival and his clique from office at the ensuing election,—a feat, they admitted, that could be accomplished only by the most adroit and covert "educational" campaign, "under the rose" perforce, but justifiable in the circumstances. They had led Landover to believe that he was their choice for governor. They went among the people, insidiously sowing the seeds of discontent, hinting at the advantages to be obtained by the election of an entirely new set of officers, mostly from among the people themselves, but headed by the ablest man on the island,—Abel T. Landover. They argued that as treasurer and comptroller of currency he had shown himself to be the only man qualified to direct the affairs of the people.

And Landover believed them. Despite his superior intelligence and his vaunted ability to size up his fellow man, he was as blind and unsuspecting as a child when it came to penetrating the real motives of the conspirators. Vain, self-important, possessed of an abnormal conceit, men of his type go ahead ruthlessly, ignoring the details, bent only on achieving the ultimate. In Landover's case, he made the fatal error of underestimating the craftiness of Manuel Crust; he looked upon him as a blatant, ignorant ruffian of the stripe best known to him as a "beer saloon politician,"—and known only by hearsay, at that. He regarded himself as the master-politician and Crust as a contemptible necessity.

As a matter of fact, Crust was using him to very materially advance his own ends. The big Portuguese had a very definite purpose in mind. He had no more intention of making Landover the chief man of the island than he had of flying to the moon. He,—Manuel Crust,—was to have that distinction! He despised Landover and all that he represented. He hated him because he was rich, educated, favoured by fortune,—and given to washing himself with unnecessary frequency and thoroughness. Manuel was foul of body as well as foul at heart. He bitterly resented the sanitary rules set up and enforced by the Council because those rules interfered with what he was pleased to call his personal liberty. Why should he be required to wash himself if he didn't want to do so? And why should he do a great many silly things that Dr. Cullen ordered, just because a lot of aristocrats were in the habit of doing them?

His hatred of Landover, however, was impersonal. The banker merely represented a class. On the other hand, he hated Percival as an individual; he hated him with every drop of blood in his black, venomous heart. He had a certain grudging regard,—it might even be called respect,—for the class to which Landover belonged; he was sometimes conscious of a strange but quite positive sense of his own inferiority. But he did not for an instant put Percival in the class with Landover. He looked upon the young American as being no better than himself, and yet the people from the Doraine had showered honours upon him, had made him their chief, had suffered him,—a vagabond without a penny to his name,—to marry the fairest and rarest woman of them all. What right had this interloper to everything that was worth having, while he, an honest fellow who always had paid his way, was denied even the smallest place in the councils of the land? What right had he, a tramp, to sit upon a throne?

Landover was an unwitting, but thoroughly self-satisfied dupe. He fitted in very nicely with Manuel's plan to gain control of the island. There were certain people who regarded the great banker as an apostle, a man to follow, to be imitated,—such men as Block, Nicklestick and a few others. Was he not one of the great financial geniuses of the day? Was he not a power, a tremendous power, in the banking world? Was he not a man who understood how to transform a dollar into a business block almost over-night? For a time, sentiment had played tricks with their boasted astuteness. Swept along by the current, they had failed to appreciate the true conditions. They began to realize that it had been a mistake to keep such men as Percival in power; behind the hand they went about convincing each other that it was high time to rectify the original error. These, in addition to the ignorant, easily persuaded rabble from the steerage,—who, by the way, could give ample testimony as to Percival's ability to "bluff,"—provided Crust with a decidedly formidable following. The steerage people had but to be reminded of the time when Percival tricked them so successfully.

Crust contended that if the American could fool them once, he would do so again,—in fact, he went so far as to say that he had been doing it all the time.

There was nothing open and above board about the methods of Manuel Crust. He proceeded about the business of fomenting dissatisfaction and strife with an artfulness surprising in one of his type. At no time did he openly denounce the "government." He was very careful about that. A jesting word here, a derisive smile there, a shrug of the shoulders,—and in good time others less politic than himself began to do the talking. Others began to complain of the high-handed, dictatorial manner in which Percival and his friends ruled the community.

The secret, stealthy opposition grew apace; it assumed sinister proportions,—all the more sinister because it was masked by every outward sign of submission. Crust had won friends right and left among the very people who would have killed him not so many months before but for the very man he was planning to destroy.

Outwardly he had changed,—not subtly, it is true,—from a sullen, threatening bully into a hearty, smiling, sympathetic comrade who laid himself out to be obliging. Even Percival was puzzled, if not deceived, by this surprising transformation.



CHAPTER III.

It was Olga Obosky who discovered and exposed the plot. A young Spaniard had fallen hopelessly, madly in love with her. He was a good-looking, hard-eyed boy from the pampas,—a herder who was on his way to visit his mother in from Rio. He was a "gun-slinger" bearing close relationship to the type of cowboy that existed in the old days of the Far West but who is now extinct save for pictorial perpetuation on the moving-picture screens.

Down in his wild young heart smouldered a furious jealousy of Percival. Crust played upon this jealousy to fine effect. He did not hesitate to feed the flame with sly speculations, innuendos and even tales concerning Percival and Olga.

One day the Spaniard, in the midst of his violent protestations and pleadings, became reckless with promises to Olga. He swore that if she would have him he would make her the first lady of the land in place of the stupid American girl who now held the honour. Then, having loosed his tongue, he poured out the whole of the ugly scheme which was to alter every existing condition on the island. The wiping out of the dictator and his swell-headed gang of "intellectuals"; the seizure of all firearms, ammunition and stores; the complete subjugation of the people, even to the point of slavery; the elevation of Manuel Crust and his followers to a state of absolute power; the confiscation of all property,—including women! He naively advised her to jump at the chance offered her,—the chance to avoid the most unpleasant feature of the new regime.

"As my woman," he said, "you will be safe. It is understood. It is all arranged. If you belong to me, nothing can happen to you. We shall be of the elect. I am to be of the council. I am to be one of the masters, the—"

"But," she cried, scarcely able to believe her ears, "how is all this to be accomplished? How will the few overcome the many? You say there are scarcely more than a dozen of you, my friend. What can a dozen men do to—"

"It will be simple," cried he, his eyes flaming. "How is it that Percival and his little gang hold all of us in bondage? It is because they have the guns, the revolvers, the bullets. Well, we shall have the guns, and everything. When the time comes, when the people have voted in the election and a new party is in control, then we will have our chance. We will have the upper hand. To hell with the people, Olga. They will count for nothing once we have charge of the guns and stores. This Percival he has ordered the election. He insists that the people be given a chance to vote once a year, to elect some one to take his place if they feel like it. He says it is only fair. Faugh! He laughs in his sleeve. Come! Your promise! I love you. I must have you for my woman. I cannot live without you. I will give you power to spit in the face of that woman down there—that American aristocrat! We will be rich, we will be happy, we will have everything. Diamonds and pearls and rubies and all the gold there is on this island. We will be the ones to go away in the ship, and we will have jewels to shame the richest of them."

"We—you and Manuel and the rest—are to go away in the ship?" she cried, cold to the marrow of her bones.

"Sure. Why not? Are we not to be the owners of that ship? It is your chance to go back to the world again,—with me! Oh, and I agree to this also: If you do not want me any longer after you are in Rio or Buenos Aires or anywhere out there,—if you would rather be free again,—I promise to release you. What could be fairer than that? Nothing! I shall kill myself, of course, when you leave me,—but still I promise, and I never break a promise. But I shall love you so much that you will never leave me. You are my queen. Hell, how I love you—how I love you!" His face darkened, then slowly paled. He realized that he had gone too far. Leaning close to her, his frightened eyes not a foot from hers, he said: "You cannot deny me now. I have told you everything. I do not know why I have told you. I must be crazy with love of you. Ah,—the look in your beautiful eyes! God, how it takes the weight off my mind. You will love me,—you will be mine,—I see it in your eyes. When? When?"

She affected a bantering smile. She knew how to play with such fools as he.

"Do you think I am a fool? How do I know you are not lying to me about all this? It may be a trick to influence me. No, no! I am not such a simpleton. You promise me diamonds, and gold, and much love. You promise to take me away from this dreadful place on a ship, back to the world I worship. But you may be lying. I must have something better than your word, my friend."

"But I am telling you the truth. I swear it!" he cried eagerly.

"Keep your hands off of me,—do you hear! Don't touch me! Not yet, not yet. I must have some proof that you can give me all these things you offer. Will you have Manuel Crust guarantee that—"

"My God,—Manuel,—he must not know I have spoken to you. He must never know," he gasped. "Take my word,—believe me, beloved one. It is the God's truth I tell you. Within the month I will lay diamonds, pearls,—everything,—at your feet. I—"

"Leave me now. Come again,—tomorrow. I must think. I must—"

"But you will love me? You will come to me? You—"

"You are a very handsome boy," she said softly, "and I should like to believe you."

He followed her for a few steps, trouble in his eyes.

"It is not enough. I must have your promise," he said.

She looked at him coldly. "You will have it when I am ready to give it," she said, and his face lightened for a moment, only to darken again.

"I will cut your heart out if you breathe a word of this to any one," he whispered hoarsely.

"Is that the way for a lover to speak?" she returned.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "It is the way,—with me."

"Come to me tomorrow and tell me exactly what my share of the treasure is to be,—and then I will let you know whether it is to be you—or Manuel Crust, my friend. Oh, you see, I am greedy,—and I can love Manuel quite as easily as I can love—"

"I will cut his heart out if you—"

"There—there! It will not be necessary. Come tomorrow."

That same afternoon she went to Percival with the Spaniard's story.

"Well, we'll nip that in the bud," said he, setting his jaw. "The first thing to do is to warn Landover."

"Warn Landover!" cried the Russian. "He is all mix up in it,—he is one of ze ringleaders."

"No, he isn't. He's not that kind of a man. He doesn't know a thing about all this, I'll stake my life on it."

"But, Olga," cried Ruth, white-faced and troubled; "Fernandez will kill you. He will,—Good heaven, girl, did he not swear to cut your heart out if you—"

"Poof!" cried the other, snapping her fingers. "He will not do zat, my dear. I am not afraid. Do you know what happens to informers in my country? They vanish. No one ever sees them again, and no one ever asks where they have gone. They are here today—tomorrow they are not. It is the same the world over."

"You mean,—Manuel's men will make way with him? How horrible!"

"Do not waste your sympathy on zat Fernandez. He is no good. You would see what kind of man he is if this plot should succeed."

"But you will have to give him your answer tomorrow," cried Ruth.

Olga shot a keen glance at Percival's face.

"It is for you to say, Percivail, what my answer shall be," said she, after, a slight pause. A queer pallor spread over her face.

"For me to say?" he exclaimed.

"Are you not the governor? If it suits your plans for me to give myself to zat man—"

"My God, Olga! What the devil are you driving at?"

"—to satisfy him until you are prepared to nip zis revolution in the bud, as you say,—I shall—"

"Thunderation!" he gasped. "You mean you would sacrifice yourself—Great Scot! What do you think I'm expecting to do? Go to sleep for a month or so? Bless your heart, my dear Olga, if you are even thinking of getting married to Fernandez, you'll have to be pretty spry about it. Because I'm going to nip the business in the bud before tomorrow morning."

"Zat is what I thought," said she, the colour rushing back to her face.

That evening Percival called a meeting of the "cabinet,"—as the council was now called. They were asked to come to his home, instead of to the meetinghouse. This, of itself, was surprising. Landover had never set foot inside the "governor's mansion." While his attitude toward the "governor's lady" was studiedly courteous, he made no effort to resume the intimate and friendly relationship that existed before her marriage to his enemy. Contact with Percival was unavoidable. They met frequently in "cabinet" conferences, but avoided each other at all other times.

He came to this hastily called meeting, however, and Percival was the only man present who was not dumbfounded. Sheriff Shay, in summoning the members to this secret meeting, had delivered a message that Landover could not well afford to ignore.

Seventeen men were crowded into the little sitting-room of the house. Each one of them bore a high-sounding title. There were present, besides Percival, State Treasurer Landover, Chief Justice Malone, Minister of War Platt, Minister of Marine Mott, Minister of Agriculture Pedro Drom, State Clerk Flattner, Surgeon General Cullen, Lord High Sheriff Shay, and the following members of the Executive Council: Snipe, Block, Jones, Fitts, Knapendyke, Calkins, Ruiz' and Alvara. Ruiz was a Chilean merchant and Alvara a Brazilian coffee grower. Calkins was an English cattle buyer.

Percival, with his customary abruptness, announced that there was a plot on foot to destroy the present government and turn the island over to the mercy of a gang of desperadoes headed by Manuel Crust.

Landover was on his feet in an instant.

"I am in a position, gentlemen, to declare that there is not a word of truth in that statement. It is true there is a very definite movement on foot to organize a new party to contest the election of many of us who are gathered here tonight. The people want a change. They are dissatisfied. They have a right to vote as they please, to choose their own—"

"We are not here to discuss the election, Mr. Landover," broke in Percival. "Before we go any farther, however, I wish to state that if you are chosen Governor of Trigger Island, you will find no one more willing and ready to serve you than I. But, that is beside the question. If you will listen to me, I will tell you exactly what it is that confronts us. The election next month is to be the signal for all kinds of hell. You may be elected governor, Mr. Landover,—but you will not be allowed to serve. Now, here is the story that came to me today,—and I can vouch for it. I am authorized,—in fact I am commanded to reveal to you the name of my informant. You may be sure I did my best to prevail upon her to remain unknown, for the present, at least, but she threatened to go forth and shout her story from the housetops if I did not do as she wished."

The conference ended an hour later, and Abel Landover had shown his true colours at last. He stood up, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes ablaze, his voice husky, and addressed the group.

"Gentlemen, I have been wrong. I am grateful to Mr. Percival for his generosity in warning me of the danger into which I was rushing. We have not been friends. He could have left me to my fate. I would not have blamed him. He has played fair,—and I have not. I ask you all to bear witness to that humiliating admission. I have argued here tonight against all of you,—when down in my heart I had the sickening fear that this damnable story is true. I now believe it to be true. I now see through the whole devilish game.

"I give you my word of honour as a gentleman and an American, I did not realize the true conditions until tonight. Perhaps I might have found out in time to upset their plans,—but that is doubtful. These men are smart. They are natural born plotters. They are dark men with dark souls. This fellow Fernandez has fooled me completely. He is a gay, smiling boy, but now that I have heard Madame Obosky's account of him, I recall many little traits in his make-up that go far to substantiate my new opinion of him. I never quite understood till now why he hated you, Percival. Frankly, I knew that he had it in his heart to kill you. Crust has told me of his difficulty in keeping him from running a knife into you. I thought it was all talk, boyish bravado,—but now I know he meant it."

He lifted his head and set his jaw. "Gentlemen, I have a shameful confession to make. Ever since I can remember, my sole thought has been to rule. I did not know what it was to take orders from another man until I came to this island. My whole being has been in revolt. The thought uppermost in my mind for two years has been to re-establish myself as a dominating force. To that end, I have played pretty bad politics. I have worked upon the credulity and cupidity of these men, promising them positions of authority if I were chosen by vote to govern the affairs of this island. But, I am sure you all will believe me when I say that it was my purpose to administer those affairs honestly, fairly and as capably as I knew how. I was not only deceived by these men, but by myself as well. I have played, like a blundering fool, into their hands. My chagrin is beyond words. I can only say to you now that you may count upon my unfailing support in any action you may decide to take. My forebears were honest, loyal, law-abiding Americans. I—I think I may say without fear of contradiction that it is impossible for me to run otherwise than true to form.