Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  She hesitated, flushing perhaps at her own suspicions; but nevertheless she said:

  “You would not attempt to take it if I put it down, would you?”

  “I don’t intend to snatch it,” he said with dignity. “Men don’t snatch.”

  So they went inland a few paces where the sand was hot and loose and deep; and there they knelt down and put the puppy on the sand.

  “‘I am in possession of the dog and you merely claim possession.’”

  “Scrub him thoroughly,” she suggested, pouring heaping handfuls of hot, silvery sand over the little creature.

  Gray did likewise, and together they rubbed and scrubbed and rolled the puppy about until the dog began to roll on his back all by himself, twisting and wriggling and waving his big, padded paws.

  “What he wants is water,” asserted Gray, unstrapping his haversack and bottle. From the one he produced an aluminum pannikin; from the other he filled it with water. The puppy drank it all while Gray and the brown-eyed girl looked on intently.

  Then Gray produced some beef sandwiches, and the famished little creature leaped and whirled and danced as Gray fed him cautiously, bit by bit.

  “Do you think that is perfectly fair?” asked the girl gravely.

  “Fair?” repeated Gray guiltily.

  “Yes. Who first feeds a strange dog is recognised as the reigning authority.”

  “Very well, you may feed him, too. But that does not alter the facts in the case.”

  “The facts,” said the girl, taking a sandwich from Gray, “are that I am in possession of the dog and you merely claim possession.”

  They fed him alternately and in silence — until their opinion became unanimous that it was dangerous, for the present, to feed him any more.

  The puppy begged and pleaded and cajoled and danced — a most appealing and bewitching little creature, silvery white and blue-ticked, with a tiny tan point over each eye and a black and tan saddle.

  “Lavarack,” observed Gray.

  “English,” she nodded.

  It wagged not only its little, whippy tail, but in doing so wriggled its entire hind quarters, showing no preference for either of its rescuers, but bestowing winning and engaging favours impartially.

  The girl could endure it no longer, but snatched the puppy to her with a soft little cry, and cuddled it tight. Gray looked on gloomily. Then, when she released it, he took it and caressed it in masculine fashion. There was no discernible difference in its affectionate responses.

  After the dog had lavished enthusiasm and affection on its saviours to the point of physical exhaustion, it curled up on the hot sand between them. At first, when they moved or spoke, the little, silky head was quickly lifted, and the brown eyes turned alertly from one to the other of the two beings most beloved on earth. But presently only the whippy tail stirred in recognition of their voices. And finally the little dog slept in the hot sunshine.

  XVIII

  For a long while, seated on either side of the slumbering puppy, they remained silent, in fascinated contemplation of what they had rescued.

  Finally Gray said slowly: “It may seem odd to you that I should be so firm and uncompromising concerning my right to a very small dog which may be duplicated in the North for a few dollars.”

  She lifted her brown eyes to his, then let them fall again on the dog.

  “The reason is this,” said Gray. “The native dogs I dislike intensely. Dogs imported from the North soon die in this region. But this little pup was evidently born on shipboard and on tropical seas. I think he’s very likely to survive the climate. And as I am obliged to reside here for a while, and as I am to live all alone, this pup is a godsend to me.”

  The girl, still resting her eyes on the sleeping puppy, said very quietly:

  “I do not desire to appear selfish, but a girl is twice as lonely as a man. And as I fortunately first discovered the dog it seems to me absolutely right and just that I should keep him.”

  Gray sat pouring sand through his fingers and casting an occasional oblique glance at the girl. She was not sunburned, so she must be a recent arrival. She spoke with a northern accent, which determined her origin.

  What was she doing down here on this absurd island? Why didn’t she go back to St. Augustine where she belonged?

  “You know,” he said craftily, “I can buy a very nice little dog indeed for you in St. Augustine.”

  “I am not stopping in St. Augustine. Besides, there are only horrid little lap-dogs there.”

  “Don’t you like lap-dogs — Pomms, Pekinese, Maltese?” he inquired persuasively.

  “No.”

  “You are unlike the majority of girls then. What sort of dog do you like?”

  “Setters,” she explained with decision.

  And as he bit his lip in annoyed silence she added:

  “Setter puppies are what I adore.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said bluntly.

  She added, not heeding his observation: “I am mad about setter puppies, particularly English setter puppies. And when I try to realise that I discovered a shipwrecked one all by myself, and rescued it, I can scarcely believe in such an adorable miracle.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to purchase the pup, but a quick glance at the girl checked him. She was evidently perfectly sincere, and the quality of her was unmistakable.

  Already, within these few minutes, her skin had begun to burn a delicate rose tint from the sun’s fierce reflection on the white sands. Her hair was a splendid golden brown, her eyes darker, or perhaps the long, dark lashes made them seem so. She was daintily and prettily made, head, throat, shoulders, and limbs; she wore a summer gown so waistless and limp that it conformed to the corsetless fashions in vogue, making evident here and there the contours of her slim and supple figure.

  From the tip of her white shoe to the tip of her hat she was the futile and exquisite essence of Gotham.

  Gray realised it because he lived there himself. But he could not understand where all her determination and obstinacy came from, for she seemed so young and inexperienced, and there was about her a childish dewiness of eye and lip that suggested a blossom’s fragrance.

  She was very lovely; and that was all very well in its way, but Gray had come down there on stern business, and how long his business might last, and how long he was to inhabit a palmetto bungalow above the coquina quarry he did not know. The coquina quarry was as hot as the infernal pit. Also, snakes frequented it.

  No black servant — promised him faithfully in St. Augustine the day before — had yet arrived. A few supplies had been sent over from St. Augustine, and he was camping in his little house of logs, along with wood-ticks, blue lizards, white ants, gophers, hornets, and several chestnut-colored scorpions.

  “I wouldn’t mind yielding the dog to you,” he admitted, “if I were not so horribly lonely on this miserable island. When evening comes, you will go back to luxury and comfort somewhere or other, with dinner awaiting you and servants to do everything, and a nice bed to retire to. That’s a pleasant picture, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” she replied, with a slight shrug.

  “Now,” he said, “please gaze mentally upon this other picture. I am obliged to go back to a shack haunted by every species of creature that this wretched island harbours.

  “There will be no dinner for me except what I can scoop out of a tin; no servants to do one bally thing for me; no bed.

  “Listen attentively,” he continued, becoming slightly dramatic as he remembered more clearly the horrors of the preceding night — his first on Ibis Island. “I shall go into that devilish bungalow and look around like a scared dog, standing very carefully in the exact centre of the room. And what will be the first object that my unwilling eyes encounter? A scorpion! Perhaps two, crawling out from the Spanish moss with which the chinks of that miserable abode are stuffed. I shall slay it — or them — as the case may be. Then a blue-tailed lizard will frisk over the ceiling — or per
haps one of those big, heavy ones with blunt, red heads. Doubtless at that same instant I shall discover a wood-tick advancing up one of my trousers’ legs. Spiders will begin to move across the walls. Perhaps a snake or two will then develop from some shadowy corner.”

  He waved his arm impressively and pointed at the sleeping puppy.

  “Under such circumstances,” he said pathetically, “would you care to deprive me of this little companion sent by Providence for me to rescue out of the sea?”

  She, too, had been steadily pouring sand between her white fingers during the moving recital of his woes. Now she looked up, controlling a shudder.

  “Your circumstances, with all their attendant horrors, are my own,” she began. “I, also, since last night, inhabit a picturesque but most horrid bungalow not very far from here; and every one of the creatures you describe, and several others also, inhabit it with me. Do you wonder I want some companionship? Do you wonder that I am inclined to cling to this little dog — whether or not it may seem ill bred and selfish to you?”

  He said: “I suppose all the houses in this latitude harbour tarantulas, centipedes, and similar things, but you must remember that you do not live alone as I do — —”

  “Yes, I do!”

  “What?”

  “Certainly. I engaged two black servants in St. Augustine, but they have not arrived, and I was obliged to remain all alone in that frightful place last night.”

  “That’s very odd,” he said uneasily. “Where is this bungalow of yours?”

  She started to speak, checked herself as at a sudden and unpleasant thought, looked up at him searchingly; and found his steel-grey eyes as searchingly fixed on her.

  “Where is your bungalow?” she asked, watching him intently.

  “Mine is situated at the west end of a coquina quarry. Where is yours?”

  “Mine,” she answered unsteadily but defiantly, “is situated on the eastern edge of a coquina quarry.”

  “Why did you choose a quarry bungalow?”

  “Why did you choose one?”

  “Because the coquina quarry happens to belong to me.”

  “The quarry,” she retorted, “belongs to me.”

  He was almost too disgusted to speak, but he contrived to say, quietly and civilly:

  “You are Constance Leslie, are you not?”

  “Yes.... You are Johnson Gray?”

  “Yes, I am,” he answered, checking his exasperation and forcing a smile. “It’s rather odd, isn’t it — rather unfortunate, I’m afraid.”

  “It is unfortunate for you, Mr. Gray,” she returned firmly. “I’m sorry — really sorry that this long journey is in vain.”

  “So am I,” he said, with lips compressed.

  For a few moments they sat very still, not looking at each other.

  Presently he said: “It was a fool of a will. He was a most disagreeable old man.”

  “I never saw him.”

  “Nor I. They say he was a terror. But he had a sense of humour — a grim and acrid one — the cynic’s idea of wit. No doubt he enjoyed it. No doubt he is enjoying this very scene between you and me — if he’s anywhere within sight or hearing — —”

  “Don’t say that!” she exclaimed, almost violently. “It is horrible enough on this island without hinting of ghosts.”

  “Ghosts? Of course there are ghosts. But I’d rather have my bungalow full of ’em than full of scorpions.”

  “We differ,” she said coldly.

  Silence fell again, and again was broken by Gray.

  “Certainly the old fellow had a sense of humour,” he insisted; “the will he left was one huge joke on every relative who had expectations. Imagine all that buzzard family of his who got nothing to amount to anything; and all those distant relatives who expected nothing and got almost everything!”

  “Do you think that was humourous?”

  “Yes; don’t you? And I think what he did about you and me was really very funny. Don’t you?”

  “Why is it funny for a very horrid old man to make a will full of grim jokes and jests, and take that occasion to tell everybody exactly what he thinks of everybody?”

  “He said nothing disagreeable about us that I recollect,” remarked Gray, laughing.

  Pouring sand between her fingers, she said:

  “I remember very well how he mentioned us. He said that he had never seen either one of us, and was glad of it. He said that as I was an orphan with no money, and that as you were similarly situated, and that as neither you nor I had brains enough to ever make any, he would leave his coquina quarry to that one of us who had brains enough to get here first and stake the claim. Do you call that an agreeable manner of making a bequest?”

  Gray laughed easily: “I don’t care what he thought about my intellectual capacity.”

  “I suppose that I don’t either. And anyway the bequest may be valuable.”

  “There is no doubt about that,” said Gray.

  She let her brown eyes rest thoughtfully on the ocean.

  “I think,” she said, “that I shall dispose of it at once.”

  “The dog?” he asked politely.

  Her pretty, hostile eyes met his:

  “The quarry,” she replied calmly.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Do you think also that you arrived at the quarry before I arrived?”

  “You will find my stake with its written notice sticking in the sand on the eastern edge of the quarry, about a hundred yards south of my bungalow!”

  “My notice is very carefully staked on the western edge of the quarry about the same distance from my bungalow,” he said. “I placed it there yesterday evening.”

  “I also placed my notice there yesterday evening!”

  “By what train did you come?”

  “By the Verbena Special. It arrived at St. Augustine yesterday at four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “I also came on that train.”

  “I,” she said, “waited in St. Augustine only long enough to telephone for servants, and then I jumped into a victoria and drove over the causeway to the eastern end of the quarry.”

  “I did exactly the same,” he insisted, “only I drove to the western end of the quarry. What time did you set your notice?”

  “I don’t know exactly. It was just about dusk.”

  “It was just about dusk when I drove in my stake!”

  After a moment’s idling in the sand with her slim fingers, she looked up at him a trifle pale.

  “I suppose this means a lawsuit.”

  “I’m afraid it does.”

  “I’m sorry. If I wasn’t in such desperate need of money — —” But she said no more, and he also remained silent for a while. Then:

  “I shall write to my attorney to come down,” he said soberly. “You had better do the same this evening.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s got to be settled, of course,” he continued; “because I’m too poor to concede the quarry to you.”

  “It is that way with me also. I do not like to appear so selfish to you, but what am I to do, Mr. Gray?”

  “What am I to do? I honestly believe that I staked the quarry before you did.... And my financial situation does not permit me to relinquish my claim on the quarry.”

  “What a horrid will that was!” she exclaimed, the quick tears of vexation springing into her brown eyes. “If you knew how hard I’ve worked, Mr. Gray — all these years having nothing that other girls have — being obliged to work my way through college, and then take a position as governess — and just as it seemed that relief was in sight — you come into sight! — you! — and you even try to take away my little dog — the only thing I — I ever really cared for since I have — have been alone in the world — —”

  Gray sprang up nervously: “I’m sorry — terribly sorry for you! You may keep the dog anyway.”

  She had turned away her face sharply as the quick tears started. Now she looked around at him in unfeigned
surprise.

  “But — what will you do?”

  “Oh, I can stand being alone. I don’t mind. There’s no doubt about it; you must have the dog — —” He glanced down at the little creature and caught his breath sharply as the puppy opened one eye and wagged its absurd tail feebly.

  The girl rose lightly and gracefully from the sand, refusing his assistance, and stood looking down at the puppy. The little thing was on its clumsy feet, wagging and wriggling with happiness, and gazing up adoringly from Gray to Constance Leslie.

  The girl looked at the dog, then at Gray.

  “It — it seems too cruel,” she said. “I can’t bear to take him away from you.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll get on very well alone.”

  “You are generous. You are very generous. But after the way you expressed yourself concerning the dog, I don’t feel that I can possibly take him.”

  “You really must. I don’t blame you at all for falling in love with him. Besides, one adores what one rescues, above everything in the world.”

  “But — but I thought that you thought you had rescued him?” she faltered.

  “It was a close call. I think perhaps that you arrived just a fraction of a second sooner than I did.”

  “Do you really? Or do you say that to be kind? Besides, I am not at all sure. It is perfectly possible — even, perhaps, probable that you saw him before I did.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think he’s your dog, Miss Leslie. I surrender all claim to him — —”

  “No! I can not permit you to do such a thing! Forgive me. I was excited and a little vexed.... I know you would be very unhappy if I took the little thing — —”

  “Please take him. I do love him already, but that is why it gives me a p-p-peculiar pleasure to relinquish all claims in y-your favour.”

  “Thank you. It is — is charming of you — exceedingly nice of you — but how can I accept such a real sacrifice?... You would be perfectly wretched to-night without him.”

  “So would you, Miss Leslie.”

  “I shall be wretched anyway. So it doesn’t really matter.”

  “It does matter! If this little dog can alleviate your unhappiness in the slightest degree, I insist most firmly that you take him!”