by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XVII A BATTLE IN THE NIGHT
"Oh, brace up!" exclaimed Florence, a note of impatience creeping intoher voice. "We'll get out of this place some way. Perhaps the boat wasn'ttaken. Perhaps it has--"
She stopped to stare away across the water.
"I believe it's out there away down the beach. Look, Lucile. Look sharp."
The moon had gone behind a small cloud. As it came out they could seeclearly the dark bulk of the boat dancing on the water, which was by nowroughening up before the rising storm.
"It's out there," exclaimed Florence. "We failed to pull it ashore farenough. There is a side sweep to the waves that carried it out. We mustget it."
"Yes, oh, yes, we must!" the child exclaimed. "It wasn't mine; it wasborrowed."
"You borrow a lot of things," exclaimed Florence.
"Oh, no, indeed. Not many, not hardly any at all."
"But, Florence, how can we get it?" protested Lucile.
"I'm a strong swimmer. I swam a mile once. The boat's out only a fewhundred yards. It will be easy."
"Not with your clothes on."
Florence did not answer. She threw a glance toward the millionaire'scottage. All was dark there.
"Here!" Lucile felt a garment thrust into her hands, then another andanother.
"Florence, you mustn't."
"It's the only way."
A moment later Florence's white body gleamed in the moonlight as sheraced away down the beach to gain the point nearest the boat.
To the listening ears of Lucile and the child there came the sound of asplash, then the slow plash, plash, plash of a swimmer's strokes.Florence was away and swimming strong. But the wind from off a point hadcaught the boat and was carrying it out from shore, driving it on fasterthan she knew.
Confident of her ability to reach the goal in a mere breath of time, shestruck out at once with the splendid swing of the Australian crawl.Trained to the pink of perfection, her every muscle in condition, shelaughed at the wavelets that lifted her up only to drop her down againand now and again to dash a saucy handful of spray in her face. Shelaughed and even hummed a snatch of an old sea song. She was as much athome in the water as in her room at the university.
But now, as she got farther from the shore, the waves grew in size andforce. They impeded her progress. The shore was protected by a rockypoint farther up the beach. She was rapidly leaving that protection.
Throwing herself high out of the water, she looked for the boat. A littlecry of consternation escaped her lips. She had expected to find it closeat hand. It seemed as far away as when she had first seen it.
"It's the wind off the point," she breathed. "It's taking it out to sea.It--it's going to be a battle, a real scrap."
Once more she struck out with the powerful stroke which carries one farbut draws heavily upon his emergency fund of energy.
For three full moments she battled the waves; then, all but breathless,she slipped over on her back to do the dead man's float.
"Just for a few seconds. Got to save my strength, but I can't wastetime."
Now for the first time she realized that there was a possibility that shewould lose this fight. The realization of what it meant if she did lose,swept over her and left her cold and numb. To go back was impossible; thewind and waves were too strong for that. To fail to reach the boat meantdeath.
Turning back again into swimming position, she struck out once more. Butthis time it was not the crawl. That cost too much. With an easy,hand-over-hand swing which taxed the reserve forces little more thanfloating, she set her teeth hard, resolved slowly but surely to win herway to the boat and to safety.
Moments passed. Long, agonizing moments.
Lucile on the shore, by the gleam of a flare of lightning, caught now andthen a glimpse of the swimmer. Little by little she became conscious ofthe real situation. When it dawned upon her that Florence was in realperil, she thought of rushing to the cottage and calling to herassistance any who might be there. Then she looked at the bundle ofclothing in her arms and flushed.
"She'd never forgive me," she whispered.
Florence, still battling, felt the spray break over her, but still kepton the even swing. Now and again, high on the crest of a wave, she sawthe boat. She was cheered by the fact that each time it appeared to looma little larger.
"Gaining," she whispered. "Fifty yards to go!"
Again moments passed and again she whispered, "Gaining. Thirty yards."
A third time she whispered, "Twenty yards."
After that it was a quiet, muscle-straining, heart-breaking, silentbattle, which caused her very senses to reel. Indeed at times sheappeared conscious of only one thing, the mechanical swing of her arms,the kick, kick of her feet. They seemed but mechanical attachments run bysome electrical power.
When at last the boat loomed black and large on the crest of a wave justabove her she had barely enough brain energy left to order her arms intoa new motion.
Striking upward with her right hand, she gripped the craft's side. Thenext instant, with a superhuman effort, without overturning it she threwherself into the boat, there to fall panting across a seat.
"Wha--what a battle!" she gasped. "But I won! I won!"
For two minutes she lay there motionless. Then, drawing herself stifflyup to a sitting position, she adjusted the oars to their oarlocks and,bending forward, threw all her magnificent strength into the business ofbattling the waves and bringing the boat safely ashore.
There are few crafts more capable of riding a stormy sea than is aclinker-built rowboat. Light as a cork, it rides the waves like aseagull. Florence was not long in finding this out. Her trip ashore wasone of joyous triumph. She had fought a hard physical battle and won.This was her hour of triumph. Her lips thrilled a "Hi-le-hi-le-hi-lo"which was heard with delight by her friends on land. Her bare arms workedlike twin levers to a powerful engine, as she brought the boat around andshot it toward shore.
A moment for rejoicing, two for dressing, then they all three tumbledinto the boat to make the tossing trip round the wall to shore on theother side.
For the moment the book tightly pressed under the child's arm wasforgotten. Florence talked of swimming and rowing. She talked of plansfor a possible summer's outing which included days upon the water andweeks within the forest primeval.
As they left the boat on the beach, they could see that the storm waspassing to the north of them. It had, however, hidden the moon. The paththrough the forest and across the river was engulfed in darkness.
Once more the child prattled of haunts, spooks, and goblins, but for onceLucile's nerves were not disturbed. Her mind had gone back to the oldproblems, the mystery of the gargoyle and all the knotty questions whichhad come to be associated with it.
This night a new mystery had thrust its head up out of the dark and anold theory had been exploded. She had thought that the youngmillionaire's son might be in league with the old man and the child incarrying away and disposing of old and valuable books, but here was thechild coming out to this all but deserted cottage at night to take a bookfrom the young man's library.
"He hasn't a thing in the world to do with it," she told herself. "He--"
She paused in her perplexing problem to grip her companion's arm andwhisper, "What was that?"
They were nearing the plank bridge. She felt certain that she heard afootstep upon it. But now as she listened she heard nothing but theonrush of distant waters.
"Just your nerves," answered Florence.
"It was not. I was not thinking of the child's foolish chatter. I wasthinking of our problem, of the gargoyle's secret. Someone is crossingthe bridge."
Even as she spoke, as if in proof of her declaration, there came a faintpat-pat-pat, as of someone moving on the bridge on tiptoe.
"Someone is shadowing us," Lucile whispered.
"Looks that way."
"Who is it?"
"Someone from the cotta
ge perhaps. Watching to see what the child doeswith the book. She must take it back."
"Yes, she must."
"It might be," and here even stout-hearted Florence shuddered, "it mightbe that someone had shadowed us all the way from the city."
"The one who followed me the night I got caught in that wretched woman'shouse, and other times?"
"Yes."
"But he couldn't have gone all the way, not up to the cottage. Hecouldn't get through the fence and there was no other boat."
"Well, anyway, whoever it is, we must go on. Won't do any good standinghere shivering."
Once more they pressed into the dark and once more Lucile resumed herattempt to disentangle the many problems which lay before her.