The Message. Tracy Louis

MESSAGE WAS DELIVERED

      Owing to the return of the rival boat, Peter’s agitation passed unnoticed. A superior person was apologizing for the accident, though inclined to tax Warden with foolhardiness.

      “You have only yourself to blame for that knock on the head, which might have been far more serious than it is,” he said.

      “Will you kindly go to – Jericho?” said the man in the water.

      The superior person’s tone grew more civil when he found that he was talking to one whom he condescended to regard as an equal.

      “Don’t you want any assistance?” he inquired.

      “No, thanks, unless you will allow me to use your gangway in order to climb aboard the dinghy.”

      “By all means. I am sorry the oar caught you. But you annexed the prize, so I suppose you are satisfied. What was it?”

      “A calabash, I fancy. You will see it lying in the boat.”

      Peter, who was really fascinated by the carved face which drew the girl’s attention in the first instance, suddenly kicked it and turned it upside down with his wooden leg. The men in the second boat saw only the glazed yellow rind of an oval gourd, some twelve inches long and eight or nine in diameter.

      “The pot was hardly worth the scurry,” laughed one of them.

      “If Greeks once strove for a crown of wild olive, why not Englishmen for a calabash?” said Warden.

      There was an element of the ludicrous in the unexpected comment from a man in his predicament. Every true–born Briton resents any remark that he does not quite understand, and some among the strangers grinned. The girl, still holding Warden’s wrist as though she feared he would vanish in the depths if she let go, darted a scornful look at them.

      “The truth is that these gentlemen competed because they thought they were sure to win,” she cried.

      “It was a fair race, madam,” expostulated the leader of the yacht’s boat.

      “Y–yes,” she admitted. “My presence equalized matters.”

      As the men were four to two she scored distinctly.

      “Give way, Peter,” said Warden. “If I laugh I shall swallow more salt water than is good for me.”

      He was soon seated astride the bows of the dinghy, which Peter’s strong arms brought quickly alongside the Sans Souci. By that time, the girl’s composure was somewhat restored. Warden obviously made so light of his ducking that she did not allude to it again. As for the gourd, it rested at her feet, but she seemed to have lost all interest in it. In truth, she was annoyed with herself for having championed her new friend’s cause, and thus, in a sense, condoned his folly.

      It did not occur to her that the Sans Souci’s deck was singularly untenanted, until a gruff voice hailed the occupants of the dinghy from the top of the gangway.

      “Below there,” came the cry. “Wotcher want here?”

      The girl looked up with a flash of surprise in her expressive face. But she answered instantly:

      “I am Miss Evelyn Dane, and I wish to see Mrs. Baumgartner.”

      “She’s ashore,” was the reply.

      “Well, I must wait until she returns.”

      “You can’t wait here.”

      “But that is nonsense. I have come from Oxfordshire at her request.”

      “It don’t matter tuppence where you’ve come from. No one is allowed aboard. Them’s my orders.”

      Miss Dane turned bewildered eyes on Warden.

      “How can one reason with a surly person like this?” she asked.

      “He is incapable of reason – he wants a hiding,” said Warden.

      A bewhiskered visage of the freak variety glared down at him.

      “Does he, you swob,” roared the apparition, “an’ oo’s goin’ to give it ‘im?”

      “I am. Take this lady to the saloon, and come with me to the cutter yonder. My man will bring you to your bunk in five minutes, or even less.”

      “For goodness’ sake, Mr. Warden, do not make my ridiculous position worse,” cried the girl, reddening with annoyance. “Mrs. Baumgartner wrote and urged me to see her without any delay on board this yacht. I telegraphed her early this morning saying I would be here soon after midday. What am I to do?”

      “If I were you, I would go back to Oxfordshire,” he said.

      “But I cannot – at least, not until I have spoken to her. I am – poor. I am practically engaged as companion – another name for governess, I suspect – to Mrs. Baumgartner’s daughter, and I dare not throw away the chance of obtaining a good situation.”

      Warden, who was dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, did not reply at once, and Evelyn Dane, in her distress, little guessed the irrational conceit that danced in his brain just then. But the presence of Peter, and the torrent of sarcastic objurgation that flowed from the guardian of the Sans Souci, imposed restraint. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that, under the conditions, it would be a capital notion if they got married, and took a honeymoon cruise in the Nancy! – Long afterward he wondered what would have been the outcome of any such fantastic proposal. Would she have listened? At any rate, it amused him at the time to think that there was little difference between a lover and a lunatic.

      But he contented himself with saying:

      “I fear I am rather light–headed to–day, Miss Dane. Let us appeal to Peter the solid, and draw upon his wide experience. Tell us then, O pilot, what course shall we shape?”

      Peter, rapidly restored to the normal by the familiar language coming from the rail of the yacht, glanced up.

      “If I was you, sir, I’d ax monkey–face there wot time ‘is missis was due aboard. Mebbe the young leddy would find her bearin’s then, so to speak.”

      “Excellent. Do you hear, Cerberus? When does Mrs. Baumgartner return?”

      The watchman, taking thought, decided to suspend his taunts.

      “Why didn’t you ax me that at fust?” he growled. “I’m on’y obeyin’ orders. Seven o’clock, they said. An’ it didn’t matter ‘oo kem here, if it was the Pope o’ Rome hisself, it’s as much as my place is worth to let him aboard.”

      “That is final, Miss Dane,” said Warden. “There are two alternatives before you. I can either gag and bind the person who has just spoken, thus securing by force your admission to the yacht, or I can entertain you on the Nancy until seven o’clock.”

      “But I ought to go ashore.”

      “It is not to be dreamed of, I assure you. Cowes is overrun with excursionists. You will be much happier with Peter and me, and we are no mean cooks when put on our mettle.”

      She yielded disconsolately. Dislike of the Sans Souci and every one connected with that palatial vessel was already germinating in her mind. If it were not for the considerations outlined in her brief statement to Warden she would have caught the next ferry to Portsmouth and allowed Mrs. Baumgartner to make other provision for her daughter’s companionship, or tuition.

      “Give me a call when you are let off the chain,” said Warden pleasantly to the watchman, as the dinghy curved apart from the yacht’s side.

      The girl colored even more deeply. Such behavior was not only outrageous, but it supplied a safety valve for her own ruffled feelings.

      “I wish you would not say such stupid things,” she cried vehemently. “What would happen if that wretched man took you at your word? You would be mixed up in some horrible brawl, and wholly on my account.”

      “He will not come, Miss Dane,” he said sadly. “Let me explain, however, that I prodded his thick hide with