Green Eyes

by Roy J. Snell

  They reached Gull Rock Point. Still they discovered nothing. They begancircling the deep bays between points of land. One wide circle passedwithin their view, a second and a third.

  Then, all of a sudden, Turkey Trot, whose eyes were familiar with everydetail of those shores, uttered a low exclamation. Turning sharply, heheaded straight for a log-strewn, sandy beach.

  Petite Jeanne had seen only logs. Turkey Trot had seen that which set hisblood racing.

  * * * * * * * *

  In the meantime, on their bleak and barren island, Tillie and Florencewere not idle. The fish shanty which they had found was composed of alight frame of wood and an outer covering of fibre board. Tillie seizedthe edge of the roof, Florence the bottom. Thus, in the half darkness,stumbling over stumps and stones, but cheered by the thought that here atlast was shelter and a degree of warmth, they made their way to thebeach.

  There, with the aid of the axe, they split a dry cedar stick into smallsplints. They next lay down side by side in order to break the force ofthe wind, and Tillie struck a match. It flickered and flashed, thenblazed up. Another moment, and the dry cedar was crackling like corn in apopper.

  "A fire!" Florence breathed. "A fire! Oh, Tillie, a fire!"

  For the moment she was as emotional as her companion.

  Soon they had a roaring fire of driftwood. The lake level had risen threefeet that spring. Great quantities of dead timber, to say nothing of logsand planks from docks, had been carried away. There was no scarcity offuel.

  The dance they did that night beneath the moon while their clothes weredrying was a thing of wild witchery. But what of that? There was none towitness save the stars. The island was all their own.

  When at last their clothes were dry, with a fire of hot coals beforethem, they packed themselves like two very large sardines into the fishshanty, which lay side down on the beach with its door open to the fire.In ten minutes they were both sound asleep.

  CHAPTER XXV A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT

  The object that had caught Turkey Trot's eye as he skirted the log-strewnbeach was a rowboat that, bumping on the beach now and then as if in afutile attempt to drive itself ashore, lifted its prow in the air.

  "It's Tillie's!" he breathed as they came close.

  "It is." Jeanne's tone was low.

  "The anchor's gone. Painter cut." The boy's trained eye took in everydetail. The oars, too, were gone. But within the boat, on a stout cord,mute testimony to Florence's afternoon of perch fishing, lay a dozen ormore dead perch.

  "They fished," said Turkey Trot.

  "How long?"

  The boy shrugged.

  "Is fishing good in this bay?"

  "We never come here. Tillie never does. Sand and small rocks. No weeds inthe bay. They didn't fish here."

  "Then why did they come?"

  For a time Turkey Trot did not answer. Then suddenly his face brightened."Lots of raspberries back there." He nodded toward the fringe of forestthat skirted the shore. "Clearing, back a little way. Lots of trails.Might have gone back there and got lost."

  "But the anchor? The cut painter? The dead fish?"

  Once more the boy shrugged. "All I know is, we might find something backthere. We can't find anything more here."

  To this argument Jeanne found no answer. They silently grounded theirboat on the sand. Turkey Trot drew it up on the beach. He did the samefor Tillie's light craft.

  "It's funny," he murmured, as he gazed at the painter. "Brand new rope.Looks like it had been chawed off."

  Turning, he put out his hand for the flashlight, then led the way intothe timber.

  What can be more spooky than following a woodland trail far from thehomes of men at the dead of night? Nor was this particular trail devoidof sad ruins telling of other days. They had not followed the narrow,winding, tree-shadowed trail a hundred rods when they came to the ruinsof what had once been a prosperous logging camp.

  Years had passed since the last sound of axe, the last buzz of saw, thelast shout of teamster had died away. The roof of the cook shack hadfallen in. A score of bushes had lifted their heads through its rottingfloor.

  The bunk house, proudly displaying its roof, still stood. Its door, whichhung awry, was wide open. Into this door, from off the shadowy trail, adark spot dashed.

  Petite Jeanne started, then drew back. Was it a wolf, a wandering dog, orsome less formidable creature? Without glancing back, she at last ploddeddoggedly on. Since Turkey Trot carried the torch, she was obliged tofollow or be left in the dark.

  Once more they were lost in the shadows of cedars and birches as thetrail wound up a low hill. And then they came upon the most mournfulsight of all, an abandoned home.

  Standing as it did at the center of a grass-grown clearing, with doorajar and broken windows agape, the thing stared at them as a blind mansometimes appears to stare with sightless eyes. To make matters worse,three tall pines with mournful drooping branches stood in agraveyard-like cluster near the door, while beneath them, shining white,some object seemed a marble slab.

  "Boo!" Turkey Trot's stolid young soul at last was stirred. "We--we won'tpass that way!"

  He turned down a trail that forked to the right.

  Hardly had he done this than Petite Jeanne gripped his arm.

  "Listen!" Her voice was tense.

  Turkey Trot did listen, and to his ears came the sound of music.

  "It--it's a banjo or somethin'," he muttered. "And--and singin'."

  He turned a startled gaze toward the deserted cabin. The sound appearedto come from there. His feet moved restlessly. He appeared about to flee.

  "'Tain't them," he said in a near whisper. He spoke of Florence andTillie. "They didn't have no banjo. And besides, they wouldn't."

  "Of course not." Petite Jeanne had him by the arm. "All the same, we mustsee. They may know something. Many things."

  They moved a few steps down the trail they had chosen. At once they wereable to see more clearly. Behind the cabin, and within its shadows, was ahalf burned-out camp fire. And about the fire people sat.

  "Who can these be?" Jeanne asked.

  Turkey Trot did not reply. Instead, he took her by the hand and led herfarther down the trail.

  In time this trail, after circling the narrow hill, came up again, thusbringing them nearer the camp fire.

  At last the boy dropped on hands and knees and began to crawl. Followinghis example, Jeanne lost herself in the thick bed of tall ferns.

  They had crept silently forward to a point where it seemed that a partingof the ferns would show them the camp of the strangers, when suddenly ablood curdling scream rent the air.

  Instantly Turkey Trot flattened himself to the earth. As Jeanne did thesame, she found her heart beating like waves on a rocky shore.

  She thought of Tillie and Florence. The tiller of their boat had beencut. She recalled this. Their boat was adrift. Had they been kidnappedand carried here?

  Instantly she was on her feet and darting forward. Knowing nothing of herthoughts, anxious only for her safety, the boy seized her foot. She fellheavily, then lay there motionless, as if dead.

  The boy was in a panic. But not for long. She was only stunned. Presentlyshe sat up dizzily.

  They listened. Then they rose to their feet. A strange sound had come tothem. They guessed its origin.

  When they reached the camp fire no person was there. Old Tico stoodgrunting with satisfaction over a box of berries spilled in someone'shurried departure.

  "Tico!" exclaimed Jeanne. "We forgot him!"

  It was true. In their excitement they had forgotten the bear. Havingsmelled refreshments, he had taken a direct course to the strangers'camp. Beyond doubt he had poked his nose over the shoulder of some fairyoung lady. A scream, panic, and hasty retreat had followed.

  But who were these people that indulged in an after midnight feast in solonely a spot? To this question the boy and girl immediately sou
ght ananswer.

  They were not long in forming a partial answer. It was Jeanne who criedout:

  "See this handkerchief. Only a gypsy, a French gypsy, wears one like it.

  "And this cigarette case!" she added a moment later. "See! It is fromFrance, too!

  "Gypsies, French gypsies!" A note of sorrow crept into her voice. "Theyhave been here. Now they are gone. I wanted to see them, only to hearthem speak!"

  How little she knew.

  "Listen!" The boy held up a hand.

  From the nearby shore came the thunder of a speed boat leaving the beach.

  "Do gypsies have speed boats?" Jeanne asked in surprise.

  "Who knows?" was the boy's wise answer.

  "But where are our friends?"

  "We won't find them here."

  Little Turkey Trot was now fully convinced that his sister and Florencehad been taken captive by these strange dark people. He knew little ofgypsies. He had heard that they carried people away. He did not wish todisturb Petite Jeanne, so he said not a word. Such was the big heart ofthe village boy.

  "Might as well go home," was his conclusion.

  Jeanne did not question this. They passed around the staring cabin anddown the trail toward the ruins of the lumber camp.

  Turkey Trot walked rapidly. Jeanne, who was afraid of tripping in thedark, was a little way behind him, when she came abreast of the blackbunk house that gloomed in the dark. She stole one glance at it. Then herheart stood still. From the depths of that darkness two eyes gleamed ather.

  "Green eyes!" She barely missed crying aloud.

  With three bounds she was at Turkey Trot's side.

  Even then she did not speak. The boy had not seen the things. Why disturbhim? Perhaps she had seen nothing. Those eyes may have been a creation ofher overwrought imagination. So she reasoned, and was silent.

  Turkey Trot was firm in his belief that the missing girls had beencarried away. He fastened a rope to the remains of Tillie's painter, andtook the boat in tow.

  "They won't be back for it," he muttered. "Big seas come in here. Smashit up."

  At that he started his motor and they went pop-popping toward home in thedeep darkness that lay just before dawn.

  CHAPTER XXVI "A BOAT! A BOAT!"

  The sun was high when Florence and Tillie woke on the island where for atime they were Crusoes. Their first thought was of food. To Tillie, GooseIsland was no unknown land. She had been here often in winter. The timehad been when wild geese laid their eggs here. They came no more. Therewould be no eggs for breakfast.

  "Fish for breakfast," Tillie declared. "It's our only chance."

  "No line," said Florence.

  "Yes. Here's one." Tillie produced one from the pocket of her knickers.

  "Got a can of worms in your pocket, too?" Florence asked with a laugh. Toher the affair was becoming a lark. The sun was bright and cheering, thesea a glorious blue. There was not a cloud in the sky.

  "Someone will find us," she declared hopefully.

  "We're a long way off the ship channel," said Tillie. "We may be here fordays. They'll search the shores for our boats and our bodies." Sheshuddered. "They'll beat the forest for miles before they think oflooking on Goose Island. And you may be sure enough that those villains,whoever they were, will never whisper a word of it. They think we are atthe bottom of the lake. That's what they hope, too.

  "Florence." Her tone became quite solemn. "It's not whether you are richor poor that counts. It's whether you are honest and loyal and kind. TakeDaddy Red Johnson. He was poor. But he was square and kind. Once when hewas fishing for trout he caught a ninety pound sturgeon. Mighty nearpulled him through the hole. He got over ten dollars for it. He calledthat Providence. Said God sent the sturgeon so he could help out a poorIndian who was sick and had only dried fish to eat.

  "He was poor. But he was good and kind. Then there's the Eries. They'vegot millions; yacht worth a hundred thousand, big cottage up here,sailboats, speed boat, everything. But they're just as square as any poorfolks.

  "Wait till we get back!" she exclaimed. "Somebody'll suffer for this!Cedar Point has had enough of that sort of thing. Crooks rob city folksin the winter. Then they come up here to try and have a good time likereal people. Do you think they ever can? Not much! Man with a black heartnever has a good time anywhere. Cedar Point has had enough badness.

  "But there's the question of breakfast!" she exclaimed. "Plenty ofminnows if we can catch 'em. Pull off your shoes."

  For half an hour they labored on the sandy beach, in shallow water,constructing a minnow trap of stones and sticks. They made a narrow pondthat could be closed quickly. After corralling a school of sand minnows,they closed them in. One of them was soon flopping on Tillie's hook.

  "Have to swim for my breakfast," she explained, rapidly disrobing. "Somebig old rock bass out there beneath that rock, I'll bet."

  She plunged into the water, swam thirty yards, then mounted the rock.

  Standing there in the morning sunshine, she seemed a statue of bronze.

  The statue became a thing of great animation shortly after her minnow hitthe water. She had hooked a fish.

  "He's a whopper!" she shouted back. "We'll get more, too."

  They did. Half an hour later four plump rock bass, spiked to a broadplank, were roasting to a delicious brown.

  "Nothing better than planked fish," said Tillie, as she cleaned up thelast morsel and sucked her fingers. "Next problem is one oftransportation."

  "Tickets for two," replied Florence, "and no return tickets, please."

  "Oh, I don't know," said Tillie philosophically. "This isn't half bad;not near so bad as what was intended for us."

  "No," Florence's tone was a sober one, "it's not."

  "Well," Florence's voice took on a more cheerful tone, "this appears tobe our island. We'd better explore it. There may be some 'Man Friday'just around the corner."

  They started out along the pebbly beach. Here and there they came uponbits of wreckage from cottagers' docks that had been carried away by thehigh water. Two posts joined by cross pieces, long planks very full ofspikes, short bits of broken boards--such was the driftwood thatobstructed their path.

  "Enough planks and nails to build a house," was Tillie's comment.

  "Why not?" Florence became enthusiastic at once. "At least we could builda three-sided shelter with one side open to the fire. That's good soundlumber." She struck one plank a thwack with the small axe she carried inher hand.

  "We might," admitted Tillie. "We'd better go farther. Find the bestplace."

  They trudged on. Then, quite unexpectedly, as they turned a corner, theysaw something looming in the distance.

  "A boat! A boat!" Florence fairly shrieked this as she went racing away.

  She was not wholly wrong. It was a boat. But one of those heavy, flatbottomed affairs, used only by commercial fishermen, it lay bottom up,displaying three stoved-in planks.

  "Let's turn her over." Tillie's tone was wholly practical. She had beenbrought up in a boat.

  They put their shoulders to the craft, and over it went.

  Tillie tapped it here and hacked at it there with the axe. "Not so bad,"was her final judgment. "Sides are sound. Stern, too. Have to give herthree new planks in her bottom. We can calk up the seams with moss androsin. Make some oars out of cedar poles, and there you are. It'll be astiff pull. All of two miles to shore. But we'll make it."

  "How long will all that take?"

  "Maybe two days."

  At once Florence became downcast. She was beginning to think of PetiteJeanne. She had come to this place for rest. "Little rest she'll getwhile I am missing!" she thought gloomily. "We ought to get away fromhere at once. But how can we?"

  "All right," she spoke in as cheerful a tone as she could command. "Let'sget to work at once."

  They did get to work, and made famous progress, too. Lunch forgotten,supper forgotten, they toiled on until, just as
the sun was dropping low,Tillie declared the clumsy craft would float.

  "No oars," objected Florence.

  "Can pole her close to shore," replied Tillie. "Try to take her down toour camp."

  This proved a Herculean task. The boat was clumsy and hard to steer.Three times she filled and all but sank. Bailing with a small wooden boxthey found was slow work. They reached camp at last, tired, soaked to theskin, and ravenously hungry.

  "Ought to have caught some fish," Tillie said remorsefully. "Too latenow. Only bullheads bite in the dark. They stay in the bullrushes. Nonehere."

  They made a fire, dried their clothes, then heated some water in a hollowstone. To this water they added bitter willow leaves. As they sipped thisthey pretended they were drinking tea.

  "To-morrow," said Tillie with a sigh, "I'll catch a lot of fish."

  "To-morrow I would like to go home."

  "Well, maybe," replied Tillie thoughtfully. "All depends on that oldboat. If she only soaks up so she don't leak like a gill net, we might."

  There was nothing left for it but to attempt to round out the night withsleep. They were tired enough for that, beyond question.

  After building a hot fire, they curled up in their herring box shelterand prepared to sleep.