The Argosy, September 1915 — page 52: what you’re looking at

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

266 THE meeting at his island to-night. will probably be a dozen owners there. We're going to do something about this thing, you can gamble on that. We'll probably establish a patrol. I expect some of the Canadian owners will come in on it, too.” “The international navy at last!” “Shut up, Tom! Here, you beast —come on!” Mr. Witherbee disappeared around the corner of the house, dragging the dog behind him. Rosalind, having succeeded in dis- couraging the attempts of Fortescue Jones to explain just why the fox trot represented more foot-tons of energy per mile than the one-step, managed to escape alone for a stroll about the is- land. She was not particularly interested either in her hosts or their guests. But she endured that patiently. What really annoyed her was the persistence with which her mind reverted to Sam, the boatman. The uproar over the batteries had merely served to rekindle the matter. She was by no means at peace when she thought of the uncouth navigator and his slatternly boat. He not only puzzled, but vaguely disturbed her. Of course, for his own safety, she felt well assured he would attempt to cause her no annoyance; and yet the foundation for possible embarrass- ments and unwelcome explanations was there. She was not a law-breaker, to be sure; but the boatman emphatic- ally was. And in some measure it seemed that she had been an accom- plice. The rack and thumb-screw could not have extorted confession from Rosalind concerning some of the things that had happened. But the difficulty lay in the fact that the boatman, if he chose, could render her own confession superfluous. And what might he nof do, if caught, to save his own neck? She was particularly annoyed when she remembered the interview that had been of her own seeking. The There ARGOSY. result, so far as she was concerned, had been rather inglorious. He had even laughed at her! He had refused the bribe she offered; he would put no price on his silence. And he had called her a pal! Her cheeks went hot when she remembered that. | Down at the Witherbee wharf, Rosalind sat and idly watched a small power-boat that stood a mile off the island, evidently irresolute as to desti- nation. It was not until it finally laid an unmistakable course for the With- erbee place that her interest was awa- kened. When the boat reached the landing, one of the two men who occupied it lifted his cap and inquired if it was Mr. Witherbee’s Island. Being as- sured that it ‘was, the men fastened their craft, stepped out, and went up the path toward the house, the direc- . tion of which Rosalind had indicated with a gesture. Half an hour or so later they re- turned, Mr. Witherbee with them. All three were talking volubly.. One of the strangers held a paper in his hand. Rosalind, whose eyes were keen, de- ciphered two words that were written in a bold hand on one side of the sheet. Her pulse quickened, but that was the only manifestation of the excitement which the paper produced in her. After a moment of talk on the wharf, the two men embarked, thanked Mr. Witherbee, and went on their way. “That’s a funny go,” said her host, turning to her. Rosalind raised her eyebrows in po- lite curiosity. “American customs agents,’ ex- plained Mr. Witherbee. ‘“ Looking for diamond-smugglers. It seems there’s been a good deal of it going on. Last night somebody left an anonymous let- ter in their boat. That’s what brought them down here.” Here?” “They didn’t show me the whole thing, but it contained some sort of a hint about Mr. Morton.” COPMICLOOOKS (C@)