Blue Envelope

by Roy J. Snell

  THE BLUE ENVELOPE

  CHAPTER I

  A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

  At the center of a circular bay, forming a perfect horseshoe with asandy beach at its center and a rocky cliff on either side, two girlswere fishing for shrimps. The taller of the two, a curly-haired,red-cheeked girl of eighteen, was rowing. The other, short and ratherchubby, now and again lifted a pocket net of wire-screening, and,shaking a score or more of slimy, snapping creatures into one corner ofit, gave a dexterous twist and neatly dropped the squirming mass into atin bucket.

  Both girls had the clear, ruddy complexion which comes from cleanliving and frequent sallies into the out-of-doors. Lucile Tucker, thetall one of curly hair, was by nature a student; her cousin, MarianNorton, had been born for action and adventure, and was something of anartist as well.

  "Look!" exclaimed Lucile suddenly. "What's that out at the entrance ofthe bay--a bit of drift or a seal?"

  "Might be a seal. Watch it bob. It moves, I'd say."

  Without further comment Lucile lifted a light rifle from the bow andpassed it to her cousin.

  Marian stood with one knee braced on the seat and steadied herself fora shot at the object which continued to rise and fall with the low rollof the sea.

  Born and reared at Nome on the barren tundra of Alaska, Marian hadhunted rabbits, ptarmigan and even caribou and white wolves with herfather in her early teens. She was as steady and sure a shot as mostboys of her age.

  "Boat rocks so," she grumbled. "More waves out there, too. Watch thething bob!"

  "It's gone under!"

  "No, there it is!"

  "Try it now."

  Catching her breath, Marian put her finger to the trigger. For asecond the boat was quiet. The brown spot hung on the crest of awavelet. It was a beautiful target; Marian was sure of her aim.

  Just as her finger touched the trigger, a strange thing happened; asomething which sent the rifle clattering from nerveless fingers andset the cold perspiration springing to her forehead.

  A flash of white had suddenly appeared close to the brown spot, a slimwhite line against the blue-green of the sea. It was a human arm.

  "Who--who--where'd you suppose he came from?" she was at last able tosputter.

  "Don't ask me," said Lucile, scanning the sea. Never a mist nor acloud obscured the vision, yet not a sail nor coil of smoke spoke ofnear-by craft. "What's more important is, we must help him," she said,seizing the oars and rowing vigorously. Marian, having hung the shrimptrap across the bow, drew a second pair of oars from beneath the seatsand joined her in sending the clumsy craft toward the brown spot stillbobbing in the water, and which, as they drew nearer, they easilyrecognized as the head of a man or boy. Lucky for him that he hadchanced to throw a white forearm high out of the water just as Marianwas prepared unwittingly to send a bullet crashing into his skull.

  Realizing that this person, whoever he might be, must have drifted inthe water for hours and was doubtless exhausted, the two girls now gaveall their strength to the task of rowing. With faces tense andforearms flashing with the oars, they set the boat cutting the waves.

  The beach and cliffs back of the bay in which the girls had beenfishing were part of the shore line of a small island which on thisside faced the open Pacific Ocean and on the other the waters of PugetSound, off the coast of the state of Washington.

  Nestling among a group of giant yellow pines on a ridge well up fromthe beach, two white tents gleamed. This was the camp of Marian andLucile. The rock-ribbed and heavily wooded island belonged to Lucile'sfather, a fish canner of Anacortes, Washington. There was, so far asthey knew, not another person on the island. They had expected amaiden aunt to join them in their outing. She was to have come downfrom the north in a fishing smack, but up to this time had not arrived.Not that the girls were much concerned about this; they had lived muchin the open and rather welcomed the opportunity to be alone in thewilds. It was good preparation for the future. They had pledgedthemselves to spend the following winter in a far more isolated spot,Cape Prince of Wales, on Bering Straits in Alaska. Lucile, who, thoughbarely eighteen years of age, had finished high school and had spentone year in normal school, was to teach the native school and tosuperintend the reindeer herd at that point. Marian had lived thegreater part of her life in Nome, Alaska, but even from childhood shehad shown a marked talent for drawing and painting and had now justfinished a two-year course in a Chicago art school. Her drawings ofAlaskan life and the natives had been exhibited and had attracted theattention of a society of ethnology. In fact, so greatly had they beenimpressed that they had asked Marian to accompany her cousin to CapePrince of Wales to spend the winter sketching the village life of thatvanishing race, the Eskimo.

  So this month of camping, hunting and fishing was but a preparatory oneto fit them the more perfectly for the more important adventure.

  When they reached the mysterious swimmer they were surprised to findhim a mere boy, some fourteen years of age.

  "What a strange face!" whispered Marian, when they had assisted thedripping stranger into the boat.

  They studied him for a moment in silence. His hair and eyes wereblack, his face brown. He wore a single garment, cleverly piecedtogether till it seemed one skin, but made of many bird skins,eiderduck, perhaps. This garment left his arms and legs free forswimming.

  He said nothing, simply stared at them as if in bewilderment.

  "We must get him ashore at once," said Lucile. "He must have swum along way."

  Fifteen minutes later, after tying up the boat, Lucile came upon Marianpicking the feathers from a duck they had shot that morning.

  "Goin' to make him some broth," she explained, tossing a handful offeathers to the wind. "Must be pretty weak."

  Lucile stole a glance at the stranger's face.

  "Do you think he's oriental?" she whispered.

  "Might be," said Marian. "You don't have to be so careful to whisperthough; he doesn't speak our language, it seems, nor any other that Iknow anything about. Very curious. I tried him out on everything Iknow."

  "Chinese, trying to smuggle in?"

  "Maybe."

  "He doesn't seem exactly oriental," said Lucile, looking closely at hisface.

  With his eyes closed as if in sleep, the boy did not, indeed, seem toresemble very closely any of the many types Lucile had chanced to meet.There was something of the clean brown, the perfect curve of theclassic young Italian; something of the smoothness of skin native tothe Anglo-Saxon, yet there was, too, the round face, the short nose,the slight angle at the eyes which spoke of the oriental.

  "He looks like the Eskimos we have on the streets of Nome," suggestedMarian, "only he's too light-complexioned. Couldn't be, anyway."

  "Not much likelihood of that," laughed Lucile. "Come two thousandmiles in a skin kiak to have his craft wrecked in a calm sea. Thatcouldn't happen."

  "Whoever he is, he's a splendid swimmer," commented Marian. "When wereached him he was a mile from any land, with the sea bearingshoreward, and there wasn't a sail or steamer in sight."

  The two of them now busied themselves with preparing the evening meal,and for a time forgot their strange, uninvited guest.

  When Lucile next looked his way she caught his eyes upon her in awondering stare. They were at once shifted to the kettle from whichthere now issued savory odors of boiling fowl.

  "He's hungry all right," she smiled.

  When the soup was ready to serve they were treated to a slight shock.The bird had been carefully set on a wooden plate to one side. Theirguest was being offered only the broth. This he sniffed for a moment,then, placing it carefully on the ground, seized the bird and holdingit by the drumsticks began to gnaw at its breast.

  Marian stared at him, then smiled. "I don't know as a full meal isgood for him, but we can't stop him now."

  She set a plate of boiled potatoes before him. The boy paused tostare, then to point a finger at them, and exclaimed somethi
ng thatsounded like: "Uba canok."

  "Do you suppose he never ate potatoes?" exclaimed Lucile in surprise."What sort of boy must he be?"

  She broke a potato in half and ate one portion.

  At once a broad smile spread over the brown boy's face as he proceededto add the potatoes to his bill of fare.

  "Guess we'll have to start all over getting this meal," smiled Lucile;"our guest has turned into a host."

  When at last the strange boy's hunger was assuaged, Lucile brought twowoolen blankets from one of the tents and offered them to him.Wrapping himself in these, he sat down by the fire. Soon, with handscrossed over ankles, with face drooped forward, he slept.

  "Queer sort of boy!" exclaimed Lucile. "I'd say he was an Indian, ifIndians lived that way, but they don't and haven't for somegenerations. Our little brown boy appears to have walked from outanother age."

  Night crept down over the island. Long tree shadows spread themselveseverywhere, to be at last dissolved into the general darkness. Stillthe boy sat by the fire, asleep, or feigning sleep.

  Not feeling quite at ease with such a stranger in their camp, the girlsdecided to maintain a watch that night. Marian agreed to stand thefirst watch until one o'clock, Lucile to finish the night. In themorning they would take their small gasoline launch, which was at thismoment hidden around the bend in a small creek, and would carry the boyto the emigration office at Fort Townsend.

  They had worked and played hard that day. When Lucile was wakened atone o'clock in the morning, she found herself unspeakably drowsy. Abrisk walk to the beach and back, then a dash of cold spring water onher face, roused her.

  As she came back to camp she thought she caught a faint and distantsound.

  "Like an oarlock creaking," she told herself, "yet who would be outthere at this time of night?"

  She retraced her steps to the beach to scan the sea that glistened inthe moonlight. Not hearing or seeing anything, she concluded that shehad been mistaken.

  Back at the camp once more, she glanced at the motionless figure seatedby the bed of darkening coals. Then, creeping inside the tent, shedrew a blanket over her shoulders and sat down, lost at once in deepthought.

  As time passed her thoughts turned into dreams and she slept. How longshe slept she could not tell. She awoke at last with a start; she feltgreatly disturbed. Had she heard a muffled shout? Or was that part ofa dream?

  Lifting the flap of the tent, she stared at the boy's place by thefire. It was vacant. He was gone!

  "Marian," she whispered, shaking her cousin into wakefulness. "Marian!He's gone. The brown boy's gone!"

  "Let him go. Who wants him?" Marian murmured sleepily.

  At that instant Lucile's keen ears caught the groan of oarlocks.

  "But I hear oars," she whispered hoarsely. "They've come for him.Someone has carried him away. I heard him try to cry for help. Wemust stop them if we can find a way."

  Catching up their rifles they crept stealthily from their tents.Nothing was to be seen save the camp and the forest.

  "Think we better try to follow them?" asked Lucile, as she struggledinto her shoes, wrapping the laces round and round her ankles for thesake of speed.

  "I don't know," said Marian. "They're probably rough men and we'reonly girls. But we must try to find out what has happened."

  In a moment they were creeping stealthily, rifles in hand, toward thebeach. As they paused to listen they heard no sound. Either theintruders had rounded the point or had stopped rowing.

  Lucile threw the circle of her flashlight out to sea.

  "Stop that!" whispered Marian in alarm. "They might shoot."

  "Look!" exclaimed Lucile suddenly; "our boat's gone!"

  Hastening down the beach, they found it was all too true; the rowboathad disappeared.

  "There weren't any men," exclaimed Marian with sudden conviction."That boy's taken our boat and rowed away."

  "Yes, there were men," insisted Lucile. "I just saw a track in thesand. There it is." She pointed to the beach.

  An inspection of the sand showed three sets of footprints leading tothe water's edge where a boat had been grounded. These same footprintswere about the spot where the stolen boat had been launched.

  "There's one queer person among them," said Lucile, after studying themarks closely. "He limps; one step is long and one short, also oneshoe is smaller than the other. We'd know that man if we ever saw him."

  "Listen!" said Marian suddenly.

  Out of the silence that ensued there came the faint pop-pop-pop of amotorboat.

  "Behind the point," said Lucile.

  "Our motorboat!" whispered Marian.

  Without a word Lucile started down the beach, then up the creek. Shewas followed close by Marian. Tripped by creeping vines, torn at byunderbrush, swished by wet ferns, they in time arrived at the pointwhere the motorboat had been moored.

  "Gone!" whispered Lucile.

  "We've been deceived and robbed," said Marian mournfully. "Deceived bya boy. His companions left him swimming in the sea so we would findhim. As soon as we were asleep, he crept away and towed the schoonerdown the river, then he flashed a signal and the others came in forhim. Probably Indians and half-breeds. They might have left us arowboat, at least!" she exclaimed in disgust.

  With early dawn streaking the sky they sat down to consider. The lossof their motorboat was a serious matter. They had but a scant supplyof food, and while their aunt might arrive at any moment, again shemight not. If she did not, they had no way of leaving the island.

  "We'd better go down the beach," said Marian. "They might have enginetrouble, or something, and be obliged to land, then perhaps we couldsomehow get our boat."

  "It's the only thing we can do," said Lucile. "It's a good thing wehad our food supply in our tent, or they would have taken that."

  "Speaking of food," said Marian, "I'm hungry. We'd better have ourbreakfast before we start."