Green Eyes

by Roy J. Snell

  "Yes," she mused, "it is priceless; and these gamblers have it."

  Once more she paused to stare at the fire.

  "Do you know," she said at last, "that the finest impulses in life oftenlead to ruin? Take that one desire for change, for risking something wehold dear for some other thing that lies beyond us. If it is not properlydirected, it may ruin us.

  "No habit ever formed is so hard to break as the habit of gambling; noteven the habit of excessive drinking. Go ask some man who has battledboth habits after each has become his master. He will tell you.

  "And yet, in our cities to-day, boys and girls, some of them in theirearly teens, are frequenting the worst type of gambling houses andrisking all: money, jewels, their very honor, on the turn of a wheel, theflip of a card.

  "Strangest of all, they allow some crooked scoundrel to spin the wheel orflip the card.

  "There was a girl," she stared hard at the fire, "a very beautiful girl,from a rich and cultured family, who gambled once and lost. To-day, inher own sight at least, she stands disgraced.

  "And because I know her, because she is kind and good in spite of herfather's wealth, I am striving to help her. For, after all, what mattersmost in life is our own estimation of ourselves. If you feel that yourlife is ruined, that you face everlasting disgrace, what does it matterthat the world bows, or even applauds? It is the judgment handed downfrom the throne of one's own soul that counts most of all.

  "This girl--she is hardly sixteen, a mere slip of a thing with wistfulblue eyes--as I said, belongs to a rich family. They have a cottage uphere on this very bay, I am told, and she is here now. Yet I have notseen her. She does not know I am pulling for her, that I have resolved toretrieve that priceless trinket and return it to her.

  "Life is often that way. While we work, or play, even as we sleep, thereare those in the world who are thinking of us, striving to help us,acting the part of fairy godmothers to us. Is it not wonderful?"

  "But these rubies?" Florence asked in a puzzled tone. "If those peopleare so very rich, cannot they forgive the loss of one valuable plaything?And did it not belong to the girl, after all?"

  "No," replied Miss Weightman, "it did not belong to the girl. There's therub. And you misjudge rich people if you think they do not prize theirleast possessions. Perhaps they prize them more than do the poor or themoderately rich. That is why they are rich. Their bump of ownership iswell developed. Their hands and hearts were shaped to grasp and hold. Attimes this grows into selfish greed and thousands of poor people sufferfor it.

  "The three rubies, set in the strangest manner, were part of a rarecollection gathered from the corners of the earth only after years ofsearch. It is little wonder that the owner was indignant when it wasbroken into.

  "The collection was in the girl's home. She had access to it. In a momentof bravado, at her chum's suggestion, she slipped about her neck a chain,to which the jewels were attached by a sort of pendant.

  "Some other fancy seized her and she promptly forgot the jewels stillgleaming at her throat. A telephone rang. She answered it, consented tojoin a party of her school friends, and was whirled away into one ofthose wild nights that too often end in disaster.

  "The gambling place they entered was Oriental. At least those whoappeared to run it were Japanese men. Back of them was an American, aprofessional gambler."

  She paused.

  "Last night I saw that man."

  "On--on that island!" Florence stared.

  "I am sure he is the man. But I want him less than the jewels. I am noton duty. This is my vacation. I am doing this on my own time."

  "Why?"

  "Desire for a professional triumph, perhaps. Besides, as I said, I likethe girl."

  "Getting back to that night," the lady cop went on after a pause, "theplace that girl and her friends entered was one of those that are quitetypical in some big cities. Secret passages, peculiar knock, and allthat. And then bright lights, whirling wheels, gleaming balls. Alldazzling, and dangerous.

  "The little girl gambled with the rest. She won. The narrow eyes of anOriental had spied that priceless pendant. He knew its value; resolved toplay for it.

  "For a long time the girl won. Her pockets bulged with money. Hercompanions applauded. She would break the bank. Her eyes shone. Hercheeks were flushed. Her hands trembled as she placed her wagers.

  "But she didn't break the bank." The lady cop sighed as she stared at thedying fire. "They never do, except in cheap fiction. Instead, she beganto lose. She lost rapidly. Soon all her money was gone. Still the madgambling craze was upon her. She borrowed and lost again. She offered herI.O.U. It was accepted. Once more she lost.

  "At last she gave up in despair. Then the Oriental's eyes became mereslits as he demanded:

  "'Pay.'

  "'But how am I to pay?' she asked in despair.

  "His slim brown finger pointed to the three rubies that gleamed likethree red eyes at her throat.

  "It was the first time she had thought of them for hours. Scarcelyknowing what she did, she unhooked the chain and left the rubies as apledge.

  "There were other places to visit. There was dancing far into the night.

  "She awoke at ten o'clock the next morning with a sense of guilt andfear. She thought of the pendant.

  "In horror, she phoned her friends. They promised to go to the place andredeem the pledge.

  "There was no longer such a place. In the night the gamblers had foldedtheir tents like the Arabs and silently stolen away. They were inpossession of a priceless bauble. They would make the most of it.

  "That," she concluded, "was the last seen of the three rubies in theirOriental setting. Where are they now? A reward was offered for theirreturn. No answer. The police and highly paid private detectives havebeen on the trail. They have found nothing. Only last night I saw the manI suspect. I must make the most of a great opportunity. I must return thejewels. Then I will get that man!"

  Those words sounded strange, coming as they did from a woman's lips. Yet,as Florence looked into those flaming eyes she did not doubt that thelady cop would make good.

  "But how?" she asked herself. "How?" She was destined to ask thatquestion many times in the days that were to come.

  Miss Weightman threw fresh fuel on the fire and hung a pot of water overit to boil. Soon they were sipping tea and munching strangely deliciousbiscuits.

  As they sat listening to the steady beat of the rain on the skylight ofthat mysterious cabin, Florence allowed her eyes to wander from corner tocorner of the place as she speculated upon the possible motives thatmight induce one to erect such a home.

  "May belong to old Indian days," she told herself. "Or, since we are nearthe border, it may have been a smuggler's cabin."

  Neither of these solutions satisfied her. She was about to ask the ladycop what she knew concerning its history, when she heard the sound of avoice, rising above the storm.

  "Rollin' along. Just rollin' along." It was the voice of a girl. "Justrollin' along. Just singin' a song."

  "That," said Florence, "is Sun-Tan Tillie."

  "And who is Sun-Tan Tillie?" asked her hostess with evident interest.

  "She is Turkey Trot's sister."

  "And who is Turkey Trot?" The young lady seemed amused.

  "They are native people here--run a tourist camp; rent boats; catchminnows, and all that. Tillie's a dear."

  "What is she doing in the rain?"

  "I'll ask her." Springing to the door, she threw it open.

  "Yoo-hoo!" she shouted. "Yoo-hoo! Tillie! What are you doing?"

  "Just rollin' along," Tillie came back with a laugh.

  That expressed it. She was out rowing in the rain. To her inevitablebathing suit had been added a yellow slicker and a black rubber hat.

  "Tell her to come in and get warm," said Miss Weightman, joining Florenceat the door.

  Florence obeyed instructions. Tillie acquiesced readily, so the three ofthem might soon have been seen sitting before the fire.
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  They had not talked long before Florence discovered the motive behind thelady cop's interest in Tillie.

  Tillie had lived here all her life. She knew every nook and cranny of theislands, points and bays. More than that, she knew a great deal about theinhabitants of Gamblers' Island and Erie Point. It was plain to see thatthis information was given out freely enough, and would prove of greatservice to the lady cop in her future movements.

  But Miss Weightman was not, as you may have learned, a totally selfishperson. A friendship to her was never one-sided.

  There was born in that strange cabin, on that rainy afternoon, a loyallittle club of three friends: the lady cop, Florence and Tillie, whichwas to lead to many a secret meeting, for the most part in this verycabin, and many an undertaking which in the end was to result in benefitto all.

  CHAPTER XIII CHARMED DAYS

  For Florence, the days that followed were filled with glorious adventure.The wind, the sun, the forest and the water of that north country havemoods for every hour. Florence, the strong, healthy, joyous child ofnature, had a mood to match each change.

  There were days when sky and water were gray, and the forest full ofshadows. At such times Florence wandered far into the forest's depths tosit and wonder about many things. What was this world she lived in? Whohad created it? What were these creatures called human beings that hadbeen allowed to wander for a time upon its surface? Why were they notlike horses and dogs and monkeys? Or were they very different from these,after all?

  "Yes, yes!" she would cry out to the trees that appeared to ask thequestions. "They are different! They think! Think! Do you think, youtrees? Do you think?" she would demand of a whisking chipmunk. The answernever came except in that still small voice that was never far away. Thatvoice whispered, "Only men think."

  When the sky cleared and the waters sparkled, she was another person. Noproblems came to her then. Enough that she was alive; that all the worldlay spread out before her. Then all her being called for action.

  And to Florence, as long as water was near, action meant oars and a boat.To her the very touch of an oar, the lift and fall of a tossing wave,imparted a magic charm. Her splendid muscles responded to the touch ofwater on the tips of her oars as the robin responds to the first beam ofthe morning sun.

  Oars, a boat, and away. Sometimes they entered little land-locked bayswhere spotted perch lay fanning the water among the pike weed. Again,they sought out a great submerged rock, beneath whose shadows the blackbass lurked.

  Often, too, they left rod and reel untouched to watch a mother duck andher young busy themselves at the task of gathering the day's supply ofyoung frogs, bugs and snails.

  There were wild, windy days, too, that seemed to shout at the wantonspirit of youth that was hers. This seemed always a challenge. LeavingPetite Jeanne to sit by the fire and dream of her beloved France, shewould push her frail craft off from the shore to battle winds, waves andfoam for hours on end.

  As the wind rose and screamed at her, she would turn her face to it, lether hair fly wildly out, and scream back in wild defiance.

  At such times as these, it seemed to her that she must have lived before,that for years on end she had battled winds and waves.

  There are those who believe that we live our lives many times; that insome new form we return to earth to face life's problems anew. Florenceknew of this belief. As she battled the elements, it pleased her toassume the role of a Norseman's bride. In fancy, riding at the head ofsome sturdy crew, she faced the battling waves of the fierce Atlantic andentered dark caves at night, to sit by a great roaring fire munching hardbread and venison roasted over the coals.

  Florence Huyler's love of nature amounted almost to a religion. And whowill say that she might not have found a less desirable subject fordevotion?

  What is sweeter and finer than the heart of the forest, what purer thanthe soul of a crested wave?

  For Petite Jeanne, too, woods and water held a great charm. Only hermanner of responding to it differed. She lay for hours on the warm, sandybeach beneath a great umbrella, half asleep, dreaming. She, too, wanderedin the forest. From these wanderings she returned in a pensive mood.These trees, these winding paths, reminded her of the forests of France.They whispered all too loudly of many happy days spent on the edge ofthose forests with the gypsies.

  On a certain day Florence learned in a forceful manner just what thelittle French girl's feelings were toward the strange people of heradoption. They were rowing past the end of a private dock which extendedsome distance into the waters of the bay, when Petite Jeanne suddenlycried out:

  "Oh look! Look! Stop! Let me read it!"

  Florence looked in the direction indicated, then stared at her inastonishment. She saw before her only a large post, part of the dock,which rose some three feet above the water. On the post was no note, signor any other manner of writing that might be read.

  Yet Petite Jeanne seized an oar to turn them about and bring their boatup close to the post.

  Then for the first time Florence saw what had attracted her companion'sattention--three twigs pinned together by a small nail and fastenedsecurely to the post.

  To the uninitiated this would have seemed the work of a playful child. ToJeanne it spoke volumes. Even Florence understood enough of its meaningto cause her worry.

  "Now she will know," she whispered to herself.

  The three sticks were a gypsy "patteran," a part of the sign languageleft by these wandering people at every crossroad.

  "See!" exclaimed Jeanne. "There are gypsies about. And oh! they areFrench gypsies!" She clapped her hands. "Only in France do they make apatteran like that.

  "See! I will read it. They say they are three; a man, a woman and alittle girl. They have gone up the bay and will stay to-night at a smallisland."

  Florence marveled that so much could be told by three crossed sticks.Still, she did not doubt the French girl's reading.

  Yet more astonishing was Jeanne's attitude toward the whole matter. Sheappeared bubbling over with joy. Such a smile illumined her face as hadnot been there for weeks.

  "But, Jeanne," said Florence, "do you not fear the gypsies? Once you werekidnapped and nearly killed by them."

  "Oh--" Jeanne spread her hands, then pretended to blow a feather from herfingers. "That is all long ago. In spirit I am still a gypsy. And thegypsies live, not for the past, not for to-morrow, but for this day only.This day is quite enough.

  "Besides," she added after a moment, "I do not know fear as many do.Gypsies are not afraid. They love life so much that danger, even deathitself, is forgotten. See! I must tell you a story; then you willunderstand."

  CHAPTER XIV THE DANCE OF DEATH

  "In France, at one time," Jeanne began, as she settled back in her placeand Florence rested on her oars, "the gypsies were treated as outlaws.They were hunted from province to province. Many were hanged on trees.Perhaps--" She shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps this was their own fault.They may have behaved badly.

  "All this did not rob them of their love for life. They danced and sangall the same.

  "Sometimes they had rifles and bullets. One time they had none. A companyof soldiers were stealing upon them through the forest. They wereexpected at midnight, when a young man, Bratu Vaicu, who was in love withthe old chief's daughter, said to him:

  "'This is the time Tinka promised to marry me.'

  "'Spoken like a brave gypsy!' exclaimed the chief. 'Let the wedding goon.'

  "Danger meant nothing to these gypsies when a bridal feast and a dancewere at hand. They kindled fires. The women prepared the feast.

  "Stan and Marga decided to be married, too. Two other couples joinedthem. Four couples, four weddings in all. What a night of joy for a gypsycamp!

  "They cleared a space among the trees. Old Radu took down his fiddle. Hebegan to sing. They all started dancing, doing the tarantella, the mostbeauti
ful dance in the world."

  "Yes, the most beautiful," Florence agreed.

  "Shots sounded in the distance," Jeanne went on, in a tone that wasmusical, dramatic. "The shots did not disturb the gypsies. Bullets meantdeath. But what was death? Were they not living now as they had neverlived before?

  "The dance grew wilder. Shots came closer. Bullets whizzed by. Still theydanced.

  "A soldier peered through the branches. He expected to see grim faces andmuzzles of rifles. Instead, he saw laughing eyes and flashing heels. Whatdid it mean? He did not understand.

  "He was joined by another, another, and yet another. A beautiful gypsygirl saw them. She seized one soldier and drew him into the dance. Othersfollowed. Soon all the soldiers were dancing.

  "Morning found the soldiers without swords or rifles. Who cared? They hadfound true happiness. They would join the gypsies. And they did.

  "So you see," Jeanne ended with a sigh, "by their very love of life,their disregard for danger and death, they won more abundant life. Butsurely you can see, too, that gypsies are not really afraid.

  "Neither am I. If there are gypsies from France in these forests, I wishto see them, to speak their language, to hear them speak my own belovedtongue. In this strange land we have a bond of brotherhood."

  "So that is the way she feels about it!" Florence thought in somesurprise. "Then I must find her some gypsies."