Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 154: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

epg 624° a bus. They didn’t seem able to weigh things, consider. Illogical, that was it. Let Della do housework, toil for him? Not much! Mechanically he squared his shoul- ders, adjusting them to his burden. II. For two days he was content to sit on the porch of a fisherman’s cottage and let the Maine sunlight seep into his veins. He was more tired than he had realized. It was hard to forget the law offices of Whit- ney, Blaine & Carson; hard to forget the sheafs of legal papers, the work ahead—the work ahead! That difficult year which he must win through! But at the end of it he would be in a position to marry Della Forsythe. However, being a perfectly normal and well-balanced young man, Worthington found by the third morning he could, tem- porarily, put away disturbing thoughts. ‘Land o’ me, you rusticators do sleep Mrs. Epps greeted him when he came down- stairs. ‘“ They ain’t hardly nothin’ lef’ fer breakfast ‘cept some coffee an’ eggs an’ corned hake. I'll make ye some hot toast right away, though.” “T don’t see what else I could have, unless you fry the cat,’ Worthington laughed. ‘It certainly is wonderful how one can sleep in this sea air!” Mrs. Epps smiled pityingly, her glance plainly conveying sympathy for one who, through force of circumstances, did not live on the Maine coast. Breakfast over, Worthington stepped out ofi the porch and lit his pipe. Uncle John Epps sat rocking leisurely in the sunlight, his shirt well open at the throat to let as much heat as possible penetrate his ancient body. Between puffs the younger man let his eyes roam over the calm expanse of blue- green water before him. Casco Bay spar- kled in the morning light, dotted with is- lands clothed in spruce and balsam—emer- ald-green jewels set in a matrix of turquoise sea. One island repeatedly drew his eyes. It was called Far Island, Mrs. Epps had told him, and differed from the others only in the ring of foam that seemed always to $9? ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. encircle it. There was no reason why he should be interested in it. The other is- lands had their traditions: Big Wood had once harbored a counterfeiting gang; gulls nested on Little Wood, and an old seal haunted its seaward side; Wallace Island was still held, under the original grant from King George, by direct descendants of Sir William Wallace. Far Island alone seemed to have no story. It suddenly occurred to him that the fisher folk had been unusually reticent about it. Worthington stirred impatiently. How silly to keep thinking about it! He looked out across the bay, his eyes resting on a round of rocks, fringed with foam and crowned with the dull green of stunted spruce trees. Confound it! There was something unusual about the island—un- usual and—well, mysterious. ‘* What is there queer about Far Island?” he asked, turning suddenly to the older man. Uncle John gave the question some thought before replying. ‘“ Reckon thar ain’t nothin’ queer "bout it,” he said at length, then lapsed into silence. Worthington tried again. “ Any one live there?” “Not fer some time.” Uncle John paused, then went on as if prompted by memory: ‘“ Ol’ woman lived thar wunst. Lone woman. Died "bout twenty year back.” “ Lived alone!” Worthington repeated in surprise. “‘ What on earth was a woman doing there alone?” Uncle John shook his grizzled head du- biously. ‘TI don’t rightly know. She was queer. Right peart at fishin’ an’ lobsterin’, I’ve heared tell.” He rose to his feet and went creakingly toward the door. ‘“‘She was queer,” he repeated, and stepped into the house. ‘“Mr. Worthington!” came a voice from the water. “‘ D’ye want to go out to-day whilst I haul my lobster traps?” ‘Sure do,” Worthington answered, and ran down the steps of the little dock. The able little gasoline craft put-putted from one lobster buoy to another, and 9A COMIC NOOKS.COMN