Green Eyes

by Roy J. Snell

  Florence had all but drifted off to the land of dreams, when she fanciedshe heard the throb of a motor. The impression was half real, half dream.Reality struggled for a time with dream life. Dream life won, and sheslept.

  CHAPTER XXVII THE "SPANK ME AGAIN"

  Florence awoke with a start. She sat up abruptly, rubbing her eyes in afutile attempt to remember where she was.

  "I am--" she muttered. "This is--"

  A dull red glow met her eyes. Like a flash she knew. She and Tillie hadstarted their second night on Goose Island. The red glow was their campfire, burned low. She had been asleep for some time.

  "But that sound!" She was now fully awake. A loud throbbing beat in uponher eardrums.

  "It's a boat! Some sort of motor boat!" she fairly screamed. "Tillie!Tillie! Wake up! There's a boat!"

  Tillie did wake up. She sprang to her feet to stare into the darkness ata spot where a dot of red light was cutting its way through the night.

  "He's passing!" she exclaimed. "It's that boy in the 'Spank Me Again.' Hehas not seen our fire. We must scream."

  Scream they did, fairly splitting their lungs. And with the mostastonishing results.

  The crazy little craft gave vent to a series of sharp sput-sput-sputs.Then suddenly it went dead; the light disappeared. Night, dark and silentas the grave, hung over all.

  "We--we frightened him," Tillie gasped. "He--he--went over. He may behurt, may drown. We must save him!"

  "How?"

  "Swim." Tillie was kicking off her shoes.

  Florence followed her example. Together they entered the chilling waterto begin one more long swim, to the spot where the strange little motorboat had last been seen.

  "He's hurt," Tillie panted between strokes, "or he'd yell for help."

  Florence thought this probable, and her heart chilled. In their eagernessfor deliverance, had they caused another to lose his life? She redoubledher efforts.

  A dark bulk, lying close to the water, appeared before them.

  "The boat," thought Florence, "it did not sink. There is hope."

  She was right. As they reached the overturned boat, they found the Erieboy, in a semi-conscious condition and with a bad cut on his temple,clinging feebly to the stern.

  To assist him to a position across the boat's narrow hull, then to pushand pull the small craft ashore, was the work of an hour.

  By the time they reached the beach, the boy had so far regained hisstrength that he was able, with their assistance, to walk to their camp.

  A great fire was soon busy dispelling the cold, while clouds of steamrose from their drenched clothing.

  Florence bandaged the boy's head; then, with all the skill of a trainednurse, she brought him fully back to life by chafing his hands and feet.

  "So--so that's who it was?" he found words to gasp at last.

  "I thought it was--well, mebby I didn't think at all. I just lost controland she went over. Good thing you were here."

  "It was." There was conviction in Tillie's tone. "I always knew thatthing would kill you. And it's pretty near done it."

  "Mighty close," he agreed.

  "But why are you here?" he asked in some amazement, as he took in theircrude accommodations.

  "Because we can't get away. We're marooned," Florence explained.

  She proceeded to relate in a dramatic manner their strange adventure.

  "The beasts!" exclaimed the boy. "How could they?"

  "Guess that gets asked pretty often these days," said Florence soberly.

  "Question is," mused the boy, "how are we to get away?"

  "Your boat--" began Florence.

  "Soaked. Engine dead. Besides, she carries only one person. Positively.Couldn't even hold one of you on my lap."

  "We've fixed up a sort of boat, wreck of an old dory," suggested Tillie.

  "Will she float?"

  "I think so."

  "Fine! Give you a tow.

  "Tell you what!" The boy stood up. "We'd better get my motor and bring itto the fire. Dry it out by morning. Got a three gallon can of gas. Beaway with the dawn."

  The motor was soon doing its share of steaming by the fire.

  "Got some rations?" the boy asked. "Of course you haven't. But I have.Regular feast, all in cans. Always carried 'em for just such a time asthis. Boiled chicken in one can, chili con carne in another, and a sealedtin of pilot biscuits."

  He brought this unbelievable feast to the place before the fire. When thechicken and the chili had been warmed, they enjoyed a repast such as eventhe millionaire's son had seldom eaten.

  "Well," he sighed, as the last morsel disappeared, "as it says in 'TheCall of the Wild,' 'He folded his hands across his feet before the fire,allowed his head to drop forward on his breast and fell fast asleep.'"

  "Oh no!" exclaimed Tillie. "Let's not try to sleep. Let's tell ghoststories till morning."

  "Agreed!" the boy seconded with enthusiasm. "And the one who tells thebest one wins this." He laid a shining gold piece before them on a rock.

  The contest was carried forward with spirit and animation. But Sun-TanTillie, with her weird stories of that north country was easily winner.

  "Now we shall see how it performs," said the boy, rising stiffly as daybegan to dawn.

  He lifted his motor from its place before the fire, and carried it to hisboat. Five minutes had not elapsed before it began to sput-sput merrily.

  "Have you home for breakfast," he predicted.

  He made good his word. Just as Jeanne and Turkey Trot, after one morenight of fruitless search, sat down to their oatmeal, bacon, and coffee,two well soaked girls broke in upon them. By dint of diligent bailingthey had forced their crazy dory, towed by the equally crazy "Spank MeAgain," to carry them home.

  CHAPTER XXVIII GLOWING WATERS

  There were dark looks on many faces as the story of the kidnapping of thetwo girls and the atrocious attempt at their lives spread about thevillage. The native population of this Northland is intensely loyal toits own people. The summer sojourners, too, had come to have a great lovefor the happy, carefree Tillie, who caught their minnows and helped tolaunch their boats.

  "Something will come of this," was the word on many a tongue.

  As for Florence, after receiving Jeanne's open-hearted and joyous welcomehome, her first thought was of the lady cop.

  "We must tell her at once," she said to Tillie. "Our experience may fitinto the task she has before her."

  "Yes," replied Tillie, "we must."

  They rowed at once to the lonely cabin among the cedars.

  But what was this? As they made their way up from the dock, they spied awhite paper fluttering at the door.

  "Gone!" was Florence's intuition.

  She was right. On the paper, written in the round hand of the lady cop,were these words:

  _They are gone. I must follow. Good-bye, girls. And thank you. I hope to meet you in another world._

  _The Lady Cop._

  For a moment they stared in silence.

  "Gone!" Florence repeated at last. "They have gone! She means thegamblers."

  "Another world," Jeanne read in a daze.

  "And we have her trunk!" Florence exclaimed suddenly.

  "Her trunk?" Jeanne's eyes opened wide in astonishment. She had not beentold of this episode.

  "Sit down." Florence eased herself unsteadily to a low railing. Then shetold the story of the trunk.

  "And now," she concluded, "we have that mysterious trunk, which waswanted by the gamblers, though why, not even the lady cop could guess, onour hands. They want it. She wants it. We have it. And we do not know herreal name. She implied the Miss Weightman was an assumed name. What apickle!"

  "What a sour pickle indeed!" agreed Jeanne.

  "And to-morrow we leave for Chicago."

  "To-morrow! It does not seem possi
ble." The little French girl's heartwent into a flutter. This meant that ten days from this time she would beat the center of a great stage strewn with broken instruments of war, andlighted only by an artificial moon, doing the gypsy tarantella while avast audience looked on and--

  Applauded? Who could say? So much must come of this crowded quarter of anhour. Her heart stood still; then it went racing.

  "Ah, well," she sighed, "only time can tell."

  "I guess that's true," Florence agreed, thinking of quite another matter."We may be able to find her in Chicago and return her trunk.

  "And now--" She closed her eyes for a moment. "Now I must go to our cabinand sleep."

  The remainder of that day was uneventful. But night set all the villageagog.

  After a good sleep, Florence had assisted Jeanne with the packing inpreparation for the morrow's departure. They had said their sad farewellto night and the stars, a farewell that night and stars were not toaccept as final. They had crept beneath their blankets and had fallenfast asleep.

  Florence awoke some time later with the glow of an unusual light in hereyes.

  Springing out of bed, she rushed to the window. The next instant she wasshaking Jeanne as she exclaimed excitedly:

  "Jeanne! Jeanne! Wake up! There is a fire! A big fire somewhere on thebay!"

  After struggling into their outer garments, they rushed to the water'sedge and launched their boat.

  They had not gone far before they discovered the location of the fire.

  "It's on Gamblers' Island." Her voice was tense with emotion. "It's thegamblers' cottage. It will burn to the ground."

  This last seemed certain. Already the flames were mounting high. Even inthe village there was scant fire protection. On the smaller islands therewas none.

  Florence seemed to hear the beating of her own heart. Here was swiftrevenge for a cowardly crime.

  But was it revenge? The lady cop had said the gamblers were gone. Perhapsthey were not all gone. One might have remained behind to light theblaze, to cover some evil deed. Who could tell?

  Then again, the fire might have been accidental, a mouse chewing a match.

  All this time Florence was rowing sturdily. They were approaching thescene of the fire. Other boats were coming. Rowboats, motor boats, speedboats, like particles of steel attracted by the magnet, they came nearerand nearer to a common center, the fire.

  At a certain distance all paused. The night was very nearly still. Afaint breeze carried the soaring sparks away from the tiny island forestand out toward the water.

  As the scores of craft came to rest they formed a semi-circle.

  It was strange. The quiet of the night, the flames rushing silentlyupward. The light on the water, the faces of two hundred people, tense,motionless, lighted red by the flames. And above it all a million stars.

  Florence had seen something akin to this pictured in a book. She searchedher mind for that picture and found it; a circle of gray wolves sittingin a circle about a half burned-out camp fire, beside which a lonewanderer slept.

  "Only these are not wolves," she told herself. "They are people,kind-hearted people. It is the home of wolves that is going up in flames.May they never return!"

  "And they never will." She started at the sound of a voice at her elbow.Unconsciously she had spoken aloud. Tillie, who had slipped up beside herin her rowboat, had answered.

  "That is not their island," Tillie explained. "They only leased it. Nowthey will not be allowed to rebuild."

  "You should thank God for that."

  "I have," Tillie replied frankly.

  Once more there was silence.

  Some time later Tillie spoke again. "We have her trunk, the lady cop's.You are goin' to-morrow. Will you take it?"

  "I believe not," Florence said thoughtfully. "I haven't her true name. Itwill be safer here. If I find her I will send for it."

  After that for a space of a full half hour silence reigned supreme. Not aboat left that unbroken circle. What held them there? There was nothingthey could do. What is the dread, all-potent charm that holds a throng tothe scene of a fire until the last shingle has flared up, the last rafterfallen? Does it hark back to days when our ancestors knew no homes, butslept by camp fires in the forest? Who can say?

  As the last wall crumbled in and the chimney came down with a crash, asif touched by a magic wand the circle melted away into the night.

  Half an hour later Florence and Jeanne were once more sleeping soundly.Such is the boundless peace of youth.

  CHAPTER XXIX FADING SHORE LINES

  The following night found Florence seated on the after deck of a largelake steamer bound for Chicago. Strange and varied were the thoughts andemotions that stirred her soul as she watched the dark shoreline of theNorth Peninsula fade in the distance.

  There was a moment when she sprang to her feet and stretched her arms farout as she cried, "I want to go back! Oh, I want to go back!"

  At this moment the woods and the water, the sunsets, the moon atmidnight, the fish, all the wild forest creatures were calling her back.

  Yet, even as this yearning passed, she felt the smooth comfort of silkstockings, caught the bright gleam of red and blue in her dress and knewthat here, too, was joy. In her imagination she heard the rush and feltthe thrill of a great city, experienced again the push and pull of it,and once more accepted its challenge.

  "I am strong!" she cried aloud. "The summer, this wild life, has renewedmy powers."

  But Jeanne? Ah, there was the question. She had accepted a mission. Shehad agreed to take the little French girl into the north woods and seethat she had rest. Had she performed this mission well or ill?

  To this question she could form no certain answer. Life in thisout-of-the-way place had so pressed in upon her, adventure and mysteryhad so completely taken possession of her, that she had found too littletime to think of Jeanne.

  "What if I have failed?" Her heart sank. "What if the doctor says I havefailed?"

  Jeanne was asleep in her stateroom. She seemed well and happy, quiteprepared for the great testing which lay just before her. But who couldtell?

  "So often," she thought to herself, "we are led away from the mainpurpose of our lives by some surprising affair which springs straight upbefore our eyes and for the moment blinds us."

  Yet, as she reviewed the events of the past weeks she experienced fewregrets. She had been working, not for her own glory, but that othersmight find success and happiness.

  "But what came of it all?" she asked herself. "What mysteries did wesolve?"

  The problems that had perplexed her now passed, like soldiers on parade,before her mind's eye. Who had run them down and all but drowned them onthat first night? The gamblers? The gypsies? Green Eyes and her richfriends? She had found no answer.

  Where were the three priceless rubies? Did they lie among the ashes ofthe gamblers' cottage? Had the gamblers taken them when they departed?Had the lady cop regained possession of them? Where was the lady cop, andwhat was her real name? Again no answer.

  What of the lady cop's trunk? Why had the gamblers turned the cabinupside down in search of an empty trunk? How were Tillie and she ever toreturn it now?

  The problem that stood out in her mind strongest of all was this: Who hadtaken them for that terrible ride out into the night waters of LakeHuron?

  "The gamblers, to be sure!" Tillie would have said at once. It seemedprobable that the villagers thought the same.

  "And perhaps they burned the gamblers' cottage for that reason," she toldherself. Yet, of this there was no proof.

  Turkey Trot and Jeanne had surprised gypsies in a feast near Tillie'sabandoned boat. Jeanne believed these gypsies had taken them on that allbut fatal ride. Had they?

  "If they did," she told herself, "they were striking at Jeanne. They maystrike again."

  The conclusion she reached at the end of this review of affairs was thatshe must keep a close watch on Petite Je
anne until the first night'sperformance was over.

  "They kidnapped her on the eve of her other great success," she murmured."They may repeat.

  "And yet, that was France. This is America."

  At that she rose and walked away to their stateroom.

  CHAPTER XXX THEIR CROWDED HOUR

  Petite Jeanne's one big night was at hand. Already the shadows weregrowing long in her modest little sitting room. To-night, for one briefhour at least, she was to be an actress. How the thought thrilled her! Anactress for an hour. And then?

  True, she had acted once upon the stage of the famous Paris Opera. Butthat was but a fete, an affair of a single night. To-night much was to bedecided. Would the play go on? Night after night would she dance thegypsy tarantella under the stage moon? Would these Americans applaud?

  "Americans," she said aloud, as she sat looking away into the gatheringdarkness. "After all, how little I know about them."

  "Americans are like all the rest of the world," Florence replied. "Theylove laughter, dancing and song. Then, too, they can feel a pang of pityand shed a tear. Just dream that you are on the stage of the Paris Opera,and all will be well."

  Petite Jeanne was not sure. She had suddenly gone quite cold, and was nota little afraid.

  "Green Eyes will be there. She hates me, I fear," she murmured.

  "On the stage, when the great act comes, there will be only Tico and you.The night, the broken cannons and the moon."