Johnstone of the Border

"About two years; I can't say exactly." Andrew stopped to light his pipe, and then asked with a smile: "Do you think of trying for the coal?"

"I was wondering whether the men who quit the business left that candle. Would a candle burn after rolling about for two years in salt water?"

"I don't know; it's an interesting point," Andrew replied thoughtfully, and moved toward a timber from which he scraped a patch of grease. "It was stuck on here when it was used and that must have been after she took the sharp list. If she'd been upright, the flame would have scorched the knee and I see no sign of that."

"Would she list over when she struck the bank?"

Andrew knitted his brows as if the question were an important one.

"I'm not sure. She'd have a full cargo, and these vessels are built with flat floors to lie on the ground. It's only westerly breezes that drive much broken water up the Firth, and though she lists to the east, she hasn't gone very far over yet."

"In short, the chances are that she stood nearly upright when they were working at the coal."

"Yes," said Andrew gravely, "I think she did."

Whitney was silent for a moment or two, listening to the turmoil of the sea and the uproar of the gale that filled the shadowy hold with confused sound, through which came the steady trickle of water running out on the sand. He felt that the wreck had a secret.

"You must see what I'm getting after," he said. "It looks as if somebody had been here since the salvers gave her up."

Andrew nodded.

"The blocks on the masthead are not the kind they'd use for heaving cargo out; besides, they'd want a gaff. Then the signal-halyard felt quite sound."

"If you wanted to get on board, would you take a whammel boat?"

"It depends. A whammeler couldn't get alongside if it was blowing from the west; and since the tide runs out fast she'd have to leave early on the ebb. If she came on the flood, the wreck would soon be covered."

"Then anybody who meant to get on board would, if possible, walk across the sands, which narrows things down. Now we come to another point. Why would anybody wish to board her?"

Andrew said nothing for a minute and then answered thoughtfully:

"Of course, I've seen where you were leading. The signal-halyard would lift the steel triangle they use with a wireless installation, and they'd get some height at the masthead. Besides, messages travel farthest at night; and the operator wouldn't be seen crossing the sands. I don't know whether he could carry the necessary apparatus, but he might hide it in a watertight box. The candle will be out in a minute, so we can't look."

"You don't know yet if he could cross the sands."

"That's true. I'm going to find out. You had better climb up while the light lasts."

Whitney reached the deck with some difficulty, and it was dark below when Andrew joined him.

"We haven't much time to lose if we're to see whether it's possible to get here from the beach."

They dropped over the side and set off across the bank. The wind buffeted them and driving sand rattled on their oilskins. Whitney hoped that Andrew was going straight, because the moon was obscured again, and the Solway tide rises remarkably fast. For a time they saw nothing but shallow pools in winding hollows and balls of foam that seemed half solidified as they blew along the ground. Whitney thought it must be past low-water, but Andrew trudged quietly on and he made no protest. At last they came to a broad stream of water, and he noted with mixed feelings that there was no way of getting round. He was not sorry that it threatened to stop their advance; but his comrade was not easily daunted and might try to wade across.

"As there's not likely to be another big gutter between us and the beach, it would be a pity to turn back now," Andrew shouted.

"I'll wait and see how you get on," Whitney replied.

Andrew plunged in and was soon knee-deep. When he had gone a few yards farther, the water splashed about the skirts of his oilskin jacket and he came out.

"We might have crossed, but the bottom's soft, and there's some stream," he said.

"Which way is it running?"

"Up, but not very fast yet."

"Then we're going back at once," Whitney said firmly.

They started, and Whitney did his best as he heard the growl of the surf grow louder. It would be remarkably unpleasant to find themselves cut off from the dinghy, and there were several gutters to be crossed, with the tide steadily running up. Andrew seemed to realize this, for he went on a quick trot, the water pumping into his sea-boots. It was easier to make progress with the gale behind them, and Whitney felt relieved when they passed the wreck at some distance. Andrew was heading straight across the sands, though Whitney could not tell what he was steering by. After a time, they came to a stretch of water that widened as they splashed through, but when they had floundered across the soft sand at its edge and reached a higher level they were comparatively safe. Breathing hard, they made their way across firmer ground, and Whitney was conscious of keen satisfaction when he saw the dinghy lying a few yards from the glistening water.

When they had launched her, the wind blew them towards the Rowan, and they were soon on board. She was riding easier, and would continue to do so for a while.

"Have you decided whether it's possible to wade out to the wreck?" Whitney asked as they took off their wet oilskins.

"I think it is," said Andrew. "There was about three feet of water in the gutter that turned us back; but the tides are low now and don't run out very far. As they get higher, the gutter would dry toward the last of the ebb."

"The last of the ebb on a big tide would be between five and seven o'clock, and it would be dark then, night and morning," Whitney remarked. "This means that, supposing there was a wireless installation, it could be used only at fixed intervals; roughly speaking, it wouldn't be available one week out of two."

"Yes," said Andrew. "It rather upsets the supposition, but we may find out something more."

CHAPTER XIV

A FAIR ALLY

It was bright afternoon, and Elsie sat beside a tea-table on the lawn at Appleyard, with Williamson standing beside her. The days were getting short, but the screen of stiff silver-firs kept off the light wind, and strong sunshine warmed the air. It was what the Scot calls a pet day; one borrowed from a finer season, and to be made the most of when winter was close at hand. Madge Whitney lay in a canvas lounge nearer the shelter of the trees, talking to Andrew, and several young men and women stood about the tennis net across the lawn. They seemed to be engaged in a good-humored dispute and their laughter followed a remark of Dick's.

Williamson glanced at his companion and saw that her eyes were fixed upon the boy. They were grave, and her expression was preoccupied, but he did not see the softness he had expected. Indeed, her interest in Dick was puzzling, because he did not think it was altogether accounted for by the hints Staffer had given him, and this was a point upon which he wished to be enlightened. Williamson knew something about women, but, for the most part, they were not women of very high character. With these he was not a favorite, although he was a clever talker and his manners were good.

"You do play tennis sometimes," Elsie said after a silence.

Williamson smiled. Her meaning was obvious.

"Oh, yes, but one feels lazy now and then; and I imagined you let me stay because you wanted to talk to me! Was I wrong?"

"No," answered Elsie; and he noted her unmoved calm.

She was young, but he had not expected shy hesitation or forced boldness from her. He was, however, surprised when she said nothing for the next minute; for he had usually found that an inexperienced antagonist shirks the strain of silence. Then he indicated Dick, who had just returned a difficult ball.

"He plays a good game."

"Dick does a number of things pretty well, although there's none at which he really excels. I don't know which is the more useful – "

"You like a man to have some salient point of skill or character that those who know him can rely upon?"

He noticed her glance wander and did not know that she was half instinctively looking for Andrew, but it rested again on Dick, brooding but calm. Williamson saw that she felt no keen animosity against himself. She knew or suspected that they were, in some respects, opponents, but this did not make her vindictive. She would take the course she had determined on without hating him. This indicated strength of character, but it was too detached an attitude for a young girl fighting for her lover.

"Dick looks better than he did," he remarked to give her an opening.

"Yes," said Elsie, fixing her eyes quietly on his face; "very much better than he did when he came home from town."