The Argosy, September 1915 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

232 Well, rather.” * How much? ” “Ten dollars.” “Ten dollars!” cried Miss Chal- mers. “For what happened? After all that— Why, it's—” She snapped her purse open and handed him a bill with an angry ges- ture. In fact she flung it at him. Any- thing to be rid of him, she thought. He pocketed the money with a chuckle. “My name is Sam,” he remarked as he stepped back into the boat. “ Any time you need a launch, why—” “ T’ll know who not to engage,” said Miss Chalmers, finishing the sentence. The boatman laughed, started the engine, and headed across an open space in the river. Miss Chalmers glanced about her with a sigh of weary satisfaction. It was past one o’clock, but she had arrived! CHAPTERSAL PAJAMAED VULGARIANS. THAT particular insular possession owned by Mrv Stephen Witherbee was, indeed, a dark corner of the earth. It was also insistently quiet and l1fe- less. Just which one of the insuff- ciently enumerated Thousand Islands it was did not concern Miss Chalmers in the least, any more than it concerns the reader. All she sought was shelter and a couch. She walked the length of the little wharf and stared in among the trees that came down to meet it. Somewhere beyond was a house, she knew—a house that contained Mr. and Mrs. Witherbee, Miss Gertrude Witherbee, perhaps Mr. Tom Witherbee, and various other persons who constituted a Witherbee house-party. There was not the least doubt that they were all asleep. Miss Chalmers could not hear a sound save the ever- diminishing thump-thump of the one- cylinder launch. ‘Asleep they are, certainly,” she observed aloud. “ I’ve done a ridicu- b THE ARGOSY. lous thing, of course. It serves me right for coming a day ahead of time. That boatman—ugh! '“ Where the house is I haven’t the least idea. But I can’t stay here. I must find a place to sleep. Perhaps— just perhaps—somebody is up, after all.” She returned to the end of the wharf and surveyed her six trunks. “They'll do until morning,” said Miss Chalmers as she picked up her. grip and started in search of the Witherbee house. There was a gravel path, beginning where the wharf met the shore, and Miss Chalmers followed it. Even in the gloom of the trees this was not dif- ficult, for the gravel was white, and lay before her like a ghostly streak. Be- sides, it crunched under the twenty- dollar shoes. Miss Chalmers was displeased with herself. She felt foolish. Something had gone wrong with her poise; some- thing seemed to have been subtracted from the considerable sum of her dignity. The world was not playing flunky as usual. Her old austerity was there, perhaps, but it lacked confidence and authority. The path forked, and Miss Chalmers paused to consider. The house was still invisible. “Why does a strange path always fork when one is alone and in a hurry, and particularly at night? ” asked Miss Chalmers aloud. There was no answer; so, after an instant of indecision, she took the fork that led to the right. Naturally it was the wrong fork. It simply had to be, under the circumstances. It brought her back to the shore of the island, where a summer pavilion was erected on a rocky point. She retraced her steps back to the fork and took the left branch of the gravel path. In not more than two minutes it guided her to the edge of a lawn. Beyond this she could see the house —a large, solid, black mass against a background of trees. (C@) ANG NVOO|KS (C@)