Tet 
 
 OR be 8 a 
 See ei ees 
 
 ee ot a 
 
 rae 
 TN 
 
 pe 
 rst 
 
 ee ef 
 ale 
 in 
 
 re 
 Aten 
 
 ian 
 
 ~ 
 
 . 
 
 . 
 ‘ 
 . 
 i? 
 3 
 . 
 ‘ 
 ’ 
 
 * 
 
 ae nt ee ron oer ee Sto 
 
 ie ee 
 
 bt 
 
 see 
 
 Pe ee ee oe ee ee ee 
 
 ee ees 
 
 = 
 ee 
 
Return this book on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 University of Illinois Library 
 
 | feels 
 Wiece 1% 
 
 L161—H41 
 
tu ELS : 
 ape 
 
RUGGED WATER 
 
we 
 
 int 
 x 
 
 Ne 
 My 
 iv 
 
RUGGED WATER 
 
 By JOSEPH C. LINCOLN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 “Doctor Nye,” “Shavings,” “Fair Harbor,” “Mary ’Gusta,” 
 “Galusha the Magnificent,” “The Postmaster,” “Ex- 
 tricating Obadiah,” “The Depot Master,” “Partners 
 of the Tide,” etc. 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 Publishers New York 
 
 Published by arrangement with D. Appleton & Company 
 Printed in U. S. A. 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY 
 DB. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1924, by The Curtis PubNshing Company 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
RUGGED WATER 
 
RUGGED WATER 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 DARK night, but a clear one. No clouds, no 
 : fog, and the wind but a light southwesterly breeze. 
 Warm, too, for November. The little room in the 
 tower of the Setuckit Life-Saving Station was chilly, 
 : of course—a landsman might have considered it decidedly 
 _ cold—but to Seleucus Gammon, the member of the Setuckit 
 _ crew on watch in the tower, it was warm, noticeably and 
 * surprisingly so. Seleucus, who had come on duty dressed 
 ’ for the ordinary November temperature, had unbuttoned the 
 heavy jacket which he wore over his sweater and had hung 
 his cap on the hook on the wall, beside the round, brass 
 » ship’s clock. The brass of the clock was polished to a mirror- 
 like glisten. So, too, was the metal of the telescope on its 
 stand in the middle of the room. So, also, was every particle 
 of brass or nickel in that room. There was no light to render 
 these things visible, and no stove or other heating apparatus. 
 .. Heat within and cold without meant frost-covered window 
 panes and consequent difficulty in looking through and from 
 - those windows, in keeping watch up and down the beaches 
 - and over the stretches of sea and shoal. In many stations 
 .- at this period it was not customary to keep a man on watch 
 ~ in the tower at night; the regulations did not require it 
 *.and the matter was left to the discretion of the keeper. At 
 . Setuckit, however, night watch in the tower was a part 
 » of the regular routine; at least, since Captain Oswald 
 » Myrick had been in charge there. 
 ~~ Seleucus strolled slowly about the glass-inclosed room, 
 — stopping to peer from each window in turn. He was a 
 : : 
 
2 RUGGED WATER 
 
 huge, bulky man, with a salt sea roll in his walk, and as he 
 lumbered from window to window in the darkness, a seeker 
 for comparisons might have been reminded of a walrus 
 wallowing about in an undersized tank. A bald head and 
 a tremendous sweep of shaggy mustache were distinct aids 
 to the walrus suggestion. 
 
 The views from each window were made up solely of 
 blackness, spotted with fiery points. To Seleucus, however, 
 the blackness was underlaid with the familiarity of long 
 acquaintance, and every pin prick of fire a punctuation on 
 a page he knew by heart. For example, to the east, ten 
 miles away, the steady white spark was the Orham light- 
 house shining out from the high sand bluffs fronting the 
 Atlantic. Far out, and more to the south, another brilliant 
 point marked the position of the lightship at Sand Hill 
 Shoal, and still farther to the southeast and fainter, because 
 of distance, were the lanterns of the Broad Rip lightship. 
 Swinging to the south he noted two more lightships, those 
 marking respectively the edges of the Tarpaulin and Hog’s 
 Back, smaller shoals but quite as dangerous as their bigger 
 brothers. To the west was still another, that moored by 
 Midchannel Shoal, and, eight miles beyond, and flashing at 
 minute intervals, was the lighthouse on Crow Ledge, unique 
 because, like the house in the Scriptural story, it was founded 
 upon a rock, and rocks are distinct novelties along the Cape 
 Cod coast. 
 
 On this night—or morning, for it was almost that—and 
 visible because of the unwonted clearness of the atmosphere, 
 one more spark pricked the southern horizon, the light at 
 Long Point, on Nonscusset Island. Between these were 
 scattered others, much less brilliant, and these the watcher 
 knew to be the lights of vessels—schooners for the most 
 part—taking advantage of the fair weather to make safe 
 passage between ports south of “Down East.” From the 
 tower of the Setuckit Life-Saving Station in the later years 
 of the nineteenth century—the years before the United 
 States Life-Saving Service was taken over by the Naval 
 Department and rechristened the Coast Guard, before the 
 
RUGGED WATER 3 
 
 era of wireless stations and the Cape Cod Canal—on a clear 
 night from Setuckit tower one might count no less than 
 six lighthouses and six lightships, not including that of 
 Setuckit lighthouse itself, which reared its blazing head two 
 miles up the beach, and was, therefore, a next-door neighbor. 
 
 A beautiful coast in summer; in winter a wicked, cruel 
 coast, where, so the records show, there were more wrecks 
 during a period of fifty years than at any other spot, except 
 one, from Key West to Eastport, Maine. 
 
 These matters, statistical and picturesque, were not, of 
 course, in the thoughts of Mr. Gammon as he stood, hands 
 in pockets, gazing through the tower window facing west. 
 His mental speculations were engaged with matters much 
 more personal and intimate. The little ship’s clock on the 
 wall had just struck twice, so he knew that the time was 
 two bells, or five o’clock, therefore it would soon be day- 
 break, and, later, sunrise, when his watch would end. He 
 knew also that, down below, in the kitchen of the station, 
 Ellis Badger, who happened to be cook that week, was 
 preparing breakfast. Breakfast, the first meal of the four 
 in the station routine of those days, was served before 
 daylight. Dinner was at eleven, supper at four, and there 
 was an extra meal about eight in the evening. 
 
 Seleucus thought of breakfast and his always present and 
 enthusiastic appetite hailed the thought joyfully. Then he 
 remembered the sort of cook Badger was, and the joy was 
 chilled with a dash of foreboding. It was Ellis Badger who 
 had accidentally dropped the kitchen cake of soap into the 
 bean pot on a Saturday of the previous winter. The com- 
 ments of his comrade were expressed with feeling. 
 
 “You ain’t mad, be you, Seleucus?” queried Mr. Badger 
 solicitously. Gammon’s reply was noncommittal. 
 
 “TI don’t know’s I’m so mad that they’ll have to shoot 
 me, Ellis,” he observed. “I ain’t bit nobody yet. But I am 
 beginnin’ to show signs—I’m frothin’ at the mouth.” 
 
 It was he, also, who suggested that the soap be put into 
 the Badger coffee. “So’s it'll be strong enough to wash 
 with,” he explained, referring to the coffee. 
 
4 RUGGED WATER 
 
 His anticipations concerning breakfast were not, there- 
 fore, entirely free from misgiving, but forty-nine years of a 
 life spent amid storms—meteorological always and matri- 
 monial for the latter hali—had endowed Seleucus with a 
 sort of amphibious philosophy, and made him more or less 
 weatherproof. The most savage northeaster blew itself out 
 eventually, and Mrs. Gammon—her Christian name was 
 Jemima—stopped talking if one had sufficient fortitude to 
 endure to the end. The sane procedure during both trials 
 was patiently to wait for that end, and think of something 
 else while waiting. 
 
 So, true to his code, and reflecting that, after all, a poor 
 breakfast was better than no breakfast, Mr. Gammon shifted 
 his thought, also his position, and, walking to the eastern 
 window, looked out from that. As he stood there the eastern 
 horizon turned from black to gray, the low-hanging stars 
 above it began to dim; and below him the sand dunes and the 
 cluster of shanties and fish houses of the little settlement 
 at Setuckit Point slowly emerged from the gloom, separated, 
 and assumed individual shape and proportions. 
 
 A step sounded on the stair leading to the tower, the door 
 opened and Calvin Homer entered the little room. Homer 
 was Number One man at the Setuckit Station; that is, his 
 was, next to Captain Oswald Myrick’s, the position of great- 
 est responsibility and command. On board a ship, he would 
 have ranked as mate and his associates would have added a 
 “sir” to their remarks when addressing him. On the station 
 records he was “Surfman Number One,” but his comrades 
 called him Calvin or “Cal,” just as they called their com- 
 mander “Cap’n Oz” or “Ozzie.” The keeper of a Cape Cod 
 Life-Saving Station, at that time, had absolute and autocratie 
 control of his crew while the latter were on duty, and the 
 crew recognized and obeyed that authority. But, being inde- 
 pendent Yankees, they remained democrats so far as verbal 
 homage to rank and title was concerned. 
 
 Homer came into the tower room, closing the door behind 
 him. He was twenty-six, lean, square shouldered, smooth 
 faced, gray eyed, and sunburned to a deep brick red. He had 
 
RUGGED WATER 5 
 
 iSite 
 
 just come up from his cot in the sleeping quarters on the 
 second floor, and was wearing his blue uniform suit, with 
 “NO. I” in white upon the coat sleeves. Gammon noticed the 
 uniform immediately. 
 
 “Hello, Cal,” he drawled. “Up airly, ain’t you? And all 
 togged out, too. Practicin’ up to show off afore the girls 
 next summer ?” 
 
 Homer smiled. ‘Next summer is a long way off, Seleu- 
 cus,” he said. 
 
 “Huh! Maybe ’tis when a feller is as young as you be. 
 I'll be fifty next June, and I can smell Mayflowers already. 
 How’s Cap’n Ozzie this mornin’ ?” 
 
 “T don’t know. His door is shut, so I hope he’s asleep, 
 and his wife, too. I didn’t hear anybody moving as I came 
 by. It was a quiet night, so maybe they both slept. I hope 
 so. The cap’n needs all the rest he can get. He starts for 
 home this morning.” 
 
 “Um-hum. I know he does. Peleg Myrick’s goin’ to take 
 him over, they tell me. Good thing there’s a smooth sea. 
 That old craft of Peleg’s is as sloppy as a dish pan if there’s 
 more’n a hatful of water stirrin.’ I went up to Orham along 
 of Peleg my last liberty day but one, and—crimustee !—I 
 give you my word I thought I’d be drownded afore we made 
 Baker’s beach. I told Peleg so. ‘What’s the matter with 
 ye?’ says Peleg. “This boat of mine ’Il weather anything!’ 
 he says; ‘and this ain’t nothin’ but a moderate blow. You 
 won't get overboard this trip.” ‘I know it,’ I told him, ‘and 
 that’s the trouble. When I’m overboard I can cal’late to make 
 out to swim, but aboard here all I can do is set still and wait 
 for the tide to go over my head. That last sea we shipped 
 filled my ileskins full to the waist. Let me take your hand 
 pump so I can see how bad my boots leak.’ He, he! Crimus! 
 Peleg named that boat of his The Wild Duck. I told him 
 he’d ought to named her The Loon. ‘A loon spends half his 
 time under water,’ I says. He, he! ... Humph! Wonder 
 to me Ozzie didn’t have a hoss ’n’ team to come down over 
 the beach to fetch him and his wife. Don’t see why he 
 didn’t, do you?” 
 
6 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Homer shook his head. “It’s a rough road and a long 
 one,” he said. “I guess his wife thought it would be easier 
 for a sick man to travel to West Harniss by water. And it’s 
 almost a flat calm just now.” 
 
 “Just now? Do you mean ’tain’t likely to last?” 
 
 “Y’m afraid not—all day. The glass has fallen a good 
 deal since ten o’clock and it’s still going down. ... Well, 
 has anything happened since you came on watch?” 
 
 “Nothin’ but watchin’, and plenty of that. But you ain’t 
 told me why you’ve got your dress-up clothes on? Don’t 
 expect no summer boarders down to watch beach drill this 
 time of year, do you?” 
 
 “Hardly. I put the uniform on to please the skipper. He 
 told me he wished I would. Said it would make him feel a 
 little more as if he was leaving somebody in command here 
 when he quit. He’s pretty blue at going, but I tell him he'll 
 be back here as well as ever in a fortnight or so.” 
 
 - Mr. Gammon shook his head, sighed, and reached into his 
 pocket for his chewing tobacco. 
 
 “That’s what you told him, was it?’ he observed. 
 “Humph! Ain’t you ever been to prayer meetin’ ?” 
 
 “TI guess I have. What’s that got to do with it?” 
 
 Seleucus inserted the plug of tobacco between his teeth 
 and bit and tugged until he separated a section, which he 
 tucked into his cheek. 
 
 “T used to go to Methodist vestry meetin’ myself about 
 thirty year ago or such a matter,” he observed. “Used to go 
 consider’ble in them days, I did, when I was home from 
 fishin’. I was young and my morals wan’t settled in the 
 straight and narrer channel, same as they be now. ... Eh? 
 What did you say?” 
 
 “T didn’t say anything.” 
 
 “Didn’t you? Then it must have been what you looked 
 that I heard. I went to meetin’ Friday nights pretty reg’lar. 
 I was always the churchy kind. . . . Didn’t you say nothin’ 
 then?” 
 
 Noi? 
 
 “Humph! You’re missin’ chances. I did go, for a fact. 
 
RUGGED WATER a 
 
 You see, there was a girl that—well, never mind that part. 
 But at them meetin’s, time and again, I’ve heard your great- 
 uncle, Zebedee Ryder, him that kept grocery store, rant and 
 rave about the sin of lyin’. He wouldn’t tell a lie for nothin’, 
 your Uncle Zeb wouldn’t. Used to make his brags about it 
 right out loud.” . 
 
 “Weil, it was something to brag about—if it was true.” 
 
 “Oh, I guess likely ’twas true enough. Nigh as I ever 
 heard Zeb Ryder wouldn’t tell a lie—for nothin’. If there 
 was five cents to be got a holt of then things might be differ- 
 ent... . But, anyhow, what I’m tryin’ to say is that I can’t 
 understand how you, one of Uncle Zeb’s own—er—ancestors, 
 can sit in the skipper’s room down below there and tell Ozzie 
 that he’ll be back here in a fortni’t. You know plaguy well 
 he’ll never come back.” 
 
 The younger man did not answer immediately. When he 
 did he said, “I surely hope he will.” 
 
 “So do I—in one way. In another I don’t. Oz Myrick 
 has been life-savin’ for twenty-odd year. He was one of the 
 first surfmen on one of the fust reg’lar crews ever set pa- 
 trollin’ a Cape Cod beach. Afore that he was fishin’ on the 
 Banks, and swabbin’ decks aboard a square rigger when he 
 wan't more’n a kid. He’s pretty night as much of a veteran 
 as Superintendent Kellogg, down to Provincetown. It’s time 
 he give up and took a rest. Yes, and his check is about ready 
 to be handed in for keeps. He’s sick and it’s the kind of 
 sickness folks his age don’t get over.” 
 
 Homer nodded. “He knows it,” he said, briefly. 
 
 “Course he knows it. Cap’n Oz ain’t anybody’s fool. Told 
 you he was cal’latin’ to try and have you appointed keeper in 
 his place, didn’t he?” 
 
 Homer looked at him sharply. “What makes you say 
 that?’ he demanded. 
 
 “’Cause he told me he was cal’latin’ to. Good notion, 
 too.” 
 
 His companion shook his head. “I’m not so sure that the 
 notion is good,” he said. “There are at least five men here, 
 
3 RUGGED WATER 
 
 and one of ’em is yourself, who have been in the service 
 fonger than I have.” 
 
 “Humph! I cal’late you could find plenty of fellers up 
 to Charlestown jail that have been in there long enough, but 
 *twouldn’t be one of them that would be picked out for 
 warden. It takes more’n a kag of salt mackerel on legs to 
 handle this job down here. It takes a man—with brains. 
 We've got a good crew, there’s no doubt about that.” 
 
 “You bet there isn’t!’ 
 
 “T shouldn’t take no such bet. They’re all right, for this 
 Setuckit crew. But what are they? Why, the heft of ’em 
 are fellers like me, that have been in and on and around salt 
 water so long the pickle drips off ’°em when they walk. They 
 ain’t scared of nothin’. I give in to that, but that ain’t because 
 they don’t know enough to be. They’re too stubborn to let 
 anything scare ’em, that’s why. But they’re as independent 
 and cranky as a parcel of washtubs afloat. A man they know 
 and have confidence in, he can handle ’em. But you let 
 somebody try it that ain’t that kind and then see. Would 
 I take the job of keeper down here? I, nor Hez Rogers, nor 
 Ed Bloomer, nor Sam Bearse, nor any of ’em? You bet we 
 wouldn’t!” 
 
 “Why not?” 
 
 “Cause we've got sense enough to realize the kind of 
 sense we ain’t got. A good fo’mast hand don’t necessary 
 make a good skipper. Takes more’n rubber muscles and 
 codline hair, that does. Takes brains, I tell you. You’ve got 
 brains, Cal, along with nerve and the rest of it. You can 
 handle a schooner in a shoal, or a surfman that’s been on 
 liberty, and has come back full of pepper tea, and do it 
 judgmatically. When you get through the wreck’s afloat, 
 if she’s floatable, and the man’s ready and willin’ to go to 
 work again. And all hands are satisfied the right thing’s 
 been done. This crew here—the heft of ’em—would row you 
 to hell over bilin’ water if you give the word to launch. 
 They’ve seen you go there and back again more’n once since 
 Cap’n Oz was took sick. They’d be glad to have you for 
 skipper. And Ozzie wants you to be, and so does District 
 
RUGGED WATER 9 
 
 Superintendent Kellogg, for the matter of that. There’s 
 only one man I know that hadn’t ought to want it.” 
 
 “Who is that ?” 
 
 “You yourself. You ain’t a Scrabbletown lobscouser, like 
 the most oi us. Your old man was a square-rig cap’n, in 
 his day, and your mother was a Baker and time was when 
 her folks was counted high toned’and worth money, so I’ve 
 heard tell. You’re smart. You’ve been to high school. You 
 could get a job up to Boston, and have vessels of your own 
 runnin’ ashore afore you died, if you’d mind to set out for 
 it. What in the nation you want to waste your time chasin’ 
 other folks’s wrecks is more’n I can make out. If you want 
 to be keeper of Setuckit Life-Savin’ Station I cal’late you can. 
 But why you want to, that I don’t know. Why do you, Cal? 
 What makes you stay here?” 
 
 The young man shook his head. “I don’t know,” he re- 
 plied. “I guess it’s because—because—well, you could have 
 had a good job ashore last winter, Seleucus. I know of at 
 least one that was offered you. Why do you stay here?” 
 
 Gammon grinned. “’Cause I was born a darn fool, and 
 ain’t growed out of the habit, I cal’late,” he said. “I swear 
 off every fall and vow I’m through life-savin’. Then I turn 
 to and swear on again. There’s somethin’ about this—this 
 crazy job that gets a feller, same as rum. I like it.” 
 
 Homer nodded. “I know,” he said. “And it’s the same 
 way with me. I like it—and I can’t give it up—yet. I went 
 into the service just as a time-filler four years ago. I had 
 been at home up in the village for three months with mother ; 
 she was sick, and I had to be there. Then she died and— 
 well, there was nothing else in the way of work in sight, 
 and here was sixty-five a month, and a good deal of fun. 
 I meant to stay six months, perhaps. I’m here yet.” 
 
 “Yes, so you be. But you don’t have to stay here, twelve 
 mile from nowhere, do you?” 
 
 “No-o. But—weil, I seem to be married to the job.” 
 
 Seleucus shivered. “Boy,” he said solemnly, “don’t talk 
 that way at your age. If you was married you’d have an 
 excuse for the tweitve mile—yes, or fifty. . . . There, there! 
 
10 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Let’s talk about somethin’ cheerful. There was a Swede 
 drownded off a schooner down along Race Point last week, 
 so Wallie Oaks was tellin’ me. He see it in the Boston 
 paper day afore yesterday when he was over to Harniss.” 
 The clock struck three bells and, later, four. The gray 
 streak along the eastern horizon broadened, turned to rose 
 and then crimson. Over the edge of the Atlantic, seen be- 
 yond the distant roofs of Orham, rolled the winter sun. 
 Seleucus yawned, stretched and took his cap from the hook. 
 “And that’s over,” he observed thankfully, referring to 
 his term on watch. “One more night nigher the graveyard, 
 as my grandmother used to say, by way of brightenin’ up 
 breakfast. Well, I don’t need no brightenin’ up for my 
 breakfast. And you ain’t had yours neither, have you? 
 Here’s Sam. Cal, let’s you and me go down and mug 
 
 up.” 
 
 Sam Bearse, raw boned, tanned and mustached, had en- 
 tered the room while his fellow surfman was speaking. He 
 grunted a “How be you, Seleucus? Hello, Cal,” and, hang- 
 ing his cap up on the hook, prepared to take over the tower 
 watch. Homer and Gammon descended to the kitchen. 
 Then they “mugged up,” that is, they ate breakfast together. 
 The other men, having already breakfasted and washed the 
 dishes—each washing his own—were now smoking and sky- 
 Jarking outside the station in the sunshine. It being clear 
 weather, no one was on beach patrol that morning. 
 
 Homer finished first, and, leaving his comrade still busy 
 with coffee and doughnuts, rose from the table and prepared 
 to go out. 
 
 “T’ll attend to my dishes when I come in, Seleucus,” he 
 said. “I’m going to look around a minute or two.” 
 
 Seleucus nodded. ‘“Heave ahead,” he observed, his mouth 
 full. “I'll be done after a spell. Cal’latin’ to have another 
 cup of Ellis’s coffee.” 
 
 “That'll be the fourth, won’t it?” 
 
 “Um-hum. But it takes about five of this slumgullion to 
 make one of reg’lar coffee. If I didn’t have no more body 
 to me than this coffee’s got, I’d have to hire help to find 
 
RUGGED WATER 11 
 
 myself on a dark night. Like drinkin’ fog, ’tis. Every 
 doughnut I eat sinks right down through to the bottom.” 
 
 There was a chill in the air in spite of the sunshine, but 
 to Calvin Homer and his associates the morning was aston- 
 ishingly mild and balmy. A little breeze had sprung up, and 
 had shifted more toward the north; the beach grass in the 
 hollows between the dunes and on their crests was waving, 
 the water of the bay was blue and sparkling. Over all, as 
 always at Setuckit, sounded the surge and hiss and thunder 
 of the surf along the beach on the ocean side. 
 
 Hezekiah Rogers, surfman Number Four, hailed Homer 
 as the latter passed. 
 
 “Wind’s breezin’ on a little mite, Cal,” he said. ‘And 
 cantin’ round more to the no’th. Have you noticed the glass? 
 Fallin’, ain’t it?” 
 
 “Yes. It has been falling all night.” 
 
 “TI bet you! Never see a day like this, this time of year, 
 but it turned out to be a weather breeder. We'll have one 
 old bird of a no’theaster by nighttime, see if we don’t. And 
 I have to turn out on patrol at twelve. Godfreys! Who 
 wouldn’t sell the farm and go to sea?” 
 
 Homer smiled, but did not answer, and, turning the corner 
 of the station, walked toward the buildings at its rear. Two 
 cats and a weather-beaten terrier, the latter a survivor from 
 a wrecked schooner, came trotting to meet him. In a lath 
 inclosure adjoining the barn, a half dozen hens and a rooster 
 with most of his tail feathers blown or pecked away were 
 scratching—presumably for exercise—at the sand. In the 
 barn itself, the station horses—a pair of sturdy animals, 
 named respectively, “Port” and “Starboard”—were standing 
 in their stalls. The horses were almost as valuable members 
 of the Setuckit life-saving outfit as the humans. They 
 pulled the boat wagons to the shore, hauled the heavy car 
 bearing the beach apparatus—the latter comprising the Lyle 
 gun, the breeches buoy, the life car, and all their parapher- 
 nalia—on the rare occasions when the apparatus was used, 
 and were respected, pampered and better fed than their two- 
 legged comrades. Homer patted their heads, made sure 
 
12 RUGGED WATER 
 
 that they had been given their morning rations, and turned to 
 go out. Hez Rogers met him at the barn door. 
 
 “Olive’s lookin’ for you, Cal,” he announced. “She says 
 Ozzie’s up and rigged and ready to leave, and wants to see 
 you.” 
 
 Olive Myrick was the captain’s wife. Her home was at 
 West Harniss, nine miles distant across the bay, but she had 
 come down to the station when her husband was taken ill, 
 and had been living there for three weeks. The keeper was 
 permitted, under the regulations, to have his wife with him. 
 In some stations she acted as cook and general housekeeper, 
 receiving a small allowance for the work. 
 
 Homer found her waiting for him in the kitchen. She 
 looked tired and worn and anxious, as she had reason 
 to be. 
 
 “Oswald wants to see you, Calvin,” she said. “We’re goin’ 
 over to the main just as soon as the boat’s ready and he’s set 
 on talkin’ with you afore he leaves. Go right in.” 
 
 The skipper’s room at Setuckit was on the first floor, 
 leading from the mess room. Entering, Homer found Cap- 
 tain Myrick, dressed and sitting in a rocking chair. The 
 skipper was pale and haggard and his clothes hung loosely 
 on his body. He had lost weight during his illness. Calvin 
 hailed him cheerfully. 
 
 “Good morning, Cap’n,” he said. ‘Well, well! you look 
 fitas a fiddle. All taut and rigged and ready to put to sea, 
 eh? We're going to miss you, but we'll be all the more glad 
 when you come back. And you couldn’t have better weather 
 for the trip.” 
 
 Myrick ignored the reference to his appearance, and the 
 weather. He motioned to the only other chair in the room. 
 
 “Sit down, Cal,” he ordered. “I’ve got a word or so to 
 say to you.” 
 
 Homer took the other chair. Captain Myrick drew a long 
 breath. 
 
 “Calvin,” he went on, “I’m startin’ on my last cruise, and 
 I know it.” | 
 
 His subordinate hastened to protest. “No, no!” he ex- 
 
RUGGED WATER 13 
 
 claimed. ‘You shouldn’t talk that way. What you need is 
 rest. You'll be all right in—” : 
 
 “Sshh! We ain’t young ones, you and I, and there’s no 
 sense in makin’ believe. I’m never comin’ back. I’ve got 
 my orders and I’m bound in. I know it—although I try 
 to let Olive think I don’t. But I do, and so does she, and 
 so do you and all hands. I’m through.” 
 
 “But, Cap’n—” 
 
 “Sshh! You’re wastin’ time, and I ain’t got much more to 
 waste, down here. There'll be a new skipper at the Setuckit 
 Station inside of a month—inside of a week, if my say-so 
 counts—and you’re the man that’ll have the job, if you want 
 it. What I want to make sure of is that you do want it. 
 Do you?” 
 
 Homer hesitated. He did want the appointment, wanted 
 it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, but he 
 liked and admired the man before him, and his sense of 
 loyalty was strong. 
 
 “T don’t see any use in talking about that,’ he declared 
 stubbornly. ‘“You’re the keeper here, and there never was 
 a better one. I’ve enjoyed working under you and I’d like 
 nothing better than to keep on doing it, as long as I stay 
 in the service.” 
 
 “Um-hum. Well, what I’m asking you is if you’re figgerin’ 
 on stayin’ in the service. Are you?” 
 
 “Yes. I guess so. For the present, anyway.” 
 
 “You guess so? Ain’t you sure?” 
 
 “Yes, I’m sure. But—” 
 
 “Never mind the buts. What do you want to stay for? 
 It ain’t the pay. I’ve been chasin’ wrecks for twenty-odd 
 year, and all I’m gettin’ is seventy-five a month. You could 
 earn more’n that—a smart young feller like you—at almost 
 anything ashore. What are you wastin’ your time life-savin’ 
 for?” 
 
 It was the same question Seleucus Gammon had asked 
 that very morning. And Homer had asked himself that ques- 
 tion many times during the past months. And the answer, 
 however unsatisfactory, was always the same. 
 
14 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “T like the work, Cap’n,” he replied. “I realize the pay 
 amounts to nothing. It isn’t that. It is just—well, there is 
 something about it that—that—” 
 
 “T know. And I know what ’tis, too. It’s the same thing 
 that makes a feller go out codfishin’ right along, winter and 
 summer, when he could earn more money sawin’ wood at 
 home.” 
 
 “Yes. But, you see—well, it’s a man’s job.” 
 
 “So’s sawin’ wood. But I know what you mean. This 
 life-savin’ game is a man’s job—for a boy’s wages. And 
 it’s more’n that; there’s the gamble init. You kind of gamble 
 against all outdoors for your life and the other man’s. I 
 know-——Lord, don’t I! It’s that, and the salt in your blood 
 and mine, that makes us stick to it. And there’s a kind of 
 pride, too. Cal, the average man would call me a fool, and 
 I guess I am, but I’ve took more pride in keepin’ this station 
 the way it ought to be than I would bein’ President of the 
 United States.” 
 
 “T understand. And you’ve kept it well, too.” 
 
 “Yes, I cal’late I can say I have. And that’s another 
 thing I wanted to say to you. If you’re sure you want to be 
 keeper here, I’m goin’ to recommend you and my word ought 
 to carry some heft with the superintendent. But, if you 
 are skipper of this station, I want you to promise me you'll 
 keep up the Setuckit record. Since I’ve been here we’ve 
 handled I don’t know how many wrecks, some of ’em we got 
 afloat again and lots of ’em we didn’t, but we never lost one 
 life. I’m kind of proud of that.” 
 
 “You ought to be.” 
 
 “Maybe so; I am, anyhow. And there’s another thing 
 I’ve took pride in. There’s never been a call come to this 
 station yet that we ain’t answered. There never was a vessel 
 in distress off our section—and some that weren’t ours— 
 that we ain’t gone out to her, no matter how much of a gale 
 of wind was blowin’ nor what kind of a sea was runnin’. 
 And we never started and then give up and turned back. 
 There ain’t so many stations can say that.” 
 
 “There aren’t any others ’round here that I know of.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 15 
 
 “Um-um-hum. Well, I’ve took some pride in that, too. 
 And I want you to promise me you'll try to keep up that 
 record.” 
 
 “T’ll promise you that P’ll do my best.” 
 
 “That ain’t quite enough, not at Setuckit, ’tain’t. You've 
 got to do a little mite more than your best. You'll have te 
 do things that ain’t possible, if you understand what I mean. 
 That’s what makes it worth while, this gamblin’ game of 
 ours. A feller has to look off to wind’ard and sort of grin 
 and say, “Well, by thunder, we'll see!’ And then go and 
 see—and see it through. Do you get my meanin’?”’ 
 
 Calvin nodded. “I ought to, I’ve watched you,” he said, 
 grimly. “Look here, Cap’n Oz: I don’t want to brag, but 
 I think—I think you can count on me. I like the—the 
 gamble, as you call it.” 
 
 “All right, boy! All right. I ain’t afraid of you, and I 
 haven’t been. Just wanted to tell you how the old man was 
 feelin’ when he got his clearance papers, that’s all. I’m 
 backin’ you and I’m bettin’ on you, too. . . . Now one thing 
 more. You know this crew pretty well.” 
 
 “There’s none better.” 
 
 “No, there ain’t. They’ll go anywheres and do anything, 
 with the right man to lead ’em. But with the wrong man. 
 .. . You know, a crew like ours is made up of kind of 
 rough stuff. That’s why they’re here. There’s some hellions 
 amongst ‘em—bound to be. You’ve got to handle ’em easy. 
 They'll get drunk, some of ’em, if they have a chance, and 
 they'll come back from liberty ready to take charge and run 
 things—some of ’em, as I say. Well, you’ve got to use 
 judgment. You’ve got to see some things and put your foot 
 down on ’em hard. And you’ve got to forget to see some 
 other things. A parcel of husky men all alone down here 
 on the beach, with not so much to do a good deal of the time, 
 is like a school full of young ones. If a new teacher comes 
 on deck, the first thing the young ones do is to find out 
 whether he’s boss or they are. If he is they’re for him; he 
 can handle ’em like a breeze. But if they find he ain’t sure 
 whether he’s boss or not—then look out. You know this 
 
16 RUGGED WATER 
 
 crew of ours well as I do. Give ’em a pretty free helm, but 
 don’t let ’em come up into the wind on you. See?” 
 
 nL ise ‘ 
 
 “Well, I cal’late that’s about all. Good luck to you, Cal. 
 Don’t forget your old skipper altogether, and, if you can 
 find a chance to run over to Harniss and see me, do it... . 
 Only don’t put it off too long or I may not be there.” 
 
 “Now, Cap’n, what makes you talk like that? You 
 know—” 
 
 “Yes, I do. So do you, boy. ... Whew! I wouldn’t 
 believe talkin’ would make me so tuckered. I’ve rowed five 
 mile through a head wind and sea, and had more breath left 
 than I’ve got now. . . . Well, Olive, what is it?” 
 
 His wife had entered the room. “You must get your 
 things on, Oswald,” she said. ‘‘Peleg is here, and the boat’s 
 ready.” 
 
 “So? Then I cal’late I'll be ready in a couple of shakes. 
 So long, Cal. See you outside. Tell the boys to stand by 
 so’s I can say good-by to ’em.” 
 
 That good-by was a short ceremony. Peleg Myrick’s 
 catboat, the Wild Duck, was anchored in the little cove on 
 the bay side, near the station. Peleg’s dory was hauled up 
 on the beach, and its owner was standing beside it, ready for 
 his passengers. Mr. Myrick—he was not related to Captain 
 Oz—was a stubby specimen of marine architecture, the skin 
 of his hands and face tanned to the color of mahogany and 
 looking more like leather than a human cuticle. The skin 
 of his feet and his legs from the knees down was of similar 
 shade and consistency, a fact perfectly obvious during spring, 
 summer and fall, when he was accustomed to “go barefoot.” 
 Now, as it was winter, he wore a mammoth pair of high 
 rubber boots. The remainder of his attire was a hit or miss 
 jumble of black shirt, sou’wester, faded sweater and patched 
 trousers. His eyes were small and blue, his nose big and 
 red, and his mouth and most of his chin hidden beneath a 
 tousled heap of mustache, which, as Seleucus Gammon de- 
 scribed it, looked like “a mess of dry seaweed that had blowed 
 up under the lee of his face and stuck fast.” He lived alone 
 
RUGGED WATER 17 
 
 in a shanty four miles up the beach, and the summer visitors 
 called him the “hermit.” In his youth he had played the 
 fiddle at the Orham dances. He had that fiddle yet and 
 lonely surfmen on evening beach patrol heard it wailing as 
 they passed his shanty. He earned the few dollars he needed 
 by clamming and fishing. Between times he prophesied con- 
 cerning the weather. | 
 
 He stood by his dory’s bow, and about him stood the off- 
 duty members of the Setuckit life-saving crew, Calvin Homer 
 and Seleucus among them. Captain Oswald, leaning on his 
 wife’s arm, walked slowly from the station to the shore. 
 Peleg got the dory afloat and stood, knee deep in the water, 
 waiting. Captain Myrick turned to his crew. 
 
 “Well, boys,” he said, with a one-sided attempt at a grin, 
 “I’m goin’ ashore on a little mite of a spree. First liberty 
 I’ve had for quite a spell. I leave you and Cal to run things. 
 Take care of yourselves.” 
 
 We wilh. ‘Sure thing.eys07? “Keep sober’as. you 
 can, skipper... .” “See you back again pretty soon... .” 
 “Give my regards to the girls.” 
 
 These were some of the responses. Peleg helped his pas- 
 sengers into the dory. Then, giving the boat a final shove, 
 he swung over the side and took up the oars. Gammon 
 hailed him. 
 
 “Say, Peleg,” he drawled, “what’s the matter with your 
 prophesyin’ factory? Broke down, has it? This is about 
 as good a day as we've had for a month, and, last time you 
 and me talked, you was cal’latin’ on one of them East Injy 
 typhoons. Said ’twas goin’ to blow the lighthouse out to 
 sea, or somethin’ like that.” 
 
 Peleg’s retort was a repetition of the soothsayer’s reply 
 to Cesar. 
 
 “Day ain’t done yit,” he snorted. ‘“You’d have to tie your 
 hair on afore to-morrer mornin’—if you had any to tie.” 
 
 He swung forward and back with the oars. 
 
 “So long, boys,” called Captain Oz. “Good luck, Calvin.” 
 
 The dory moved off, drew abreast of the stubby broad- 
 beamed catboat, and, a few minutes later, the Wild Duck 
 
18 RUGGED WATER 
 
 stood out into the bay. The life-savers watched her go. 
 Then they turned back to the station. Seleucus made the 
 only remark. 
 
 “There goes a good man, Cal,” he observed, sententiously. 
 Homer did not answer. 
 
 All that forenoon the breeze Ponte to freshen and to 
 pull more and more from the north to the dreaded northeast. 
 Beach drill that afternoon was held beneath a lowering sky, 
 and in the face of what was already a young gale. The car 
 containing the Lyle gun and accompanying apparatus was. 
 dragged out by the horses, and the men went through the 
 maneuvers of shooting the line over the drill mast set in the 
 sand, rigging the breeches buoy and pulling one of their 
 comrades from the crosstrees to the dune which represented 
 dry land and safety. Ordinarily the drill was a matter of 
 routine, but to-day there was a sort of grim prophecy in its 
 details. The glass was still falling and the thermometer was 
 falling also. From a morning phenomenally warm for the 
 time of year the temperature had changed until, at three 
 o'clock, it was so cold that every gust was a broadside of 
 icy needles penetrating oilskins and sweaters and causing the 
 life-savers to slap their mittened hands and kick the heels 
 of their rubber boots together to stir reluctant circulation. 
 
 As they put the car back in its house again Gammon 
 turned to Homer with a shrug. 
 
 “T’m goin’ to bow down and make reverence to Peleg 
 next time I see him,” he declared. ‘“‘The old skate knew 
 what he was talkin’ about when he give out his proclamations 
 about dirty weather comin’. It’s mean enough now, but 
 it'll be a snorter afore mornin’, or I miss my guess. Feels 
 like snow, too. Figgerin’ to give the new skipper a reg’lar 
 break in, ain’t they, eh?” 
 
 Homer nodded. He did not feel like talking. The re- 
 sponsibility of absolute command was heavy upon him. If 
 mistakes were made now, they would be his; if blame came 
 he must take it all. And the Setuckit Station had never lost 
 a life. 
 
 He was not afraid, in the ordinary sense. Gales and seas, 
 
RUGGED WATER ~~” 19 
 
 and the dangers that come with them, he had experienced 
 often enough. But always before he had been under the 
 command of another man. During Captain Myrick’s illness 
 he had led the crew in many rescues, but upon the return to 
 the station he had made his report to his superior, and there 
 his responsibility ended. Now, as temporary skipper, it was 
 different ; he was not there to obey orders, but to give them. 
 And he knew the crew would be watching to see how he bore 
 himself on trial. 
 
 They were watching him already. He caught sly glances 
 and was conscious of whispers behind his back. Those that 
 he heard were not unkindly in tone—the men liked him— 
 but they were noncommittal. They were waiting for him to 
 prove himself, and, if he did, well and good. If he did not— 
 if he faltered or hesitated, or for one moment showed that 
 he doubted or was not certain—then, like the school children 
 with the new teacher, his rule was forever ended. He might 
 as well resign at once, for they would force him out of the 
 service sooner or later. 
 
 Walter Oaks, the newest member of the crew, and the 
 one that Homer liked least, drew alongside as they walked 
 to the station. 
 
 “Well, Cap’n Cal,” he observed, in a tone loud enough 
 for the others to hear, “how does it seem to be boss of the 
 ship? Ain’t goin’ to be too stuck-up in your new job to 
 speak to common folks, are you?” 
 
 Calvin smiled, “I haven’t got any new job yet, Wallie,” 
 he replied. 
 
 “That’s so; so you ain't. Only just a try-out, as you 
 might say. Well, it looks as if you’d have somethin’ to try 
 you pretty soon. It’s goin’ to blow a little mite afore mornin’, 
 they tell me. Don’t get scared, Cal. If we have to go out 
 and you upset the boat we’ll all hang on to Seleucus and 
 drift ashore. Fat’ll always keep afloat, so they say, and 
 Seleucus has got enough of that. Ha, ha!’” 
 
 Gammon himself made answer. 
 
 “Hot air’s what they fill balloons with,’ he observed. 
 “You're consider’ble of a gas bag, Wallie. If we capsize 
 
20 RUGGED WATER 
 
 I’m cal’latin’ to grab aholt of you and rise right up out of 
 the water.” 
 
 By supper time snow had begun to fall and when, at ten 
 o'clock, the order was given for those not on watch to turn 
 in, the station was trembling in the grip of a northeast bliz- 
 zard such as seldom visited even that storm-whipped lo- 
 cality. The hurricane shrieked and howled, the snow and 
 flying sand thrashed against the windows, and above the 
 swish and clatter and scream sounded the eternal bellowing 
 boom of the great rollers beating the outer beach. 
 
 Calvin Homer went to his room, the keeper’s room just 
 vacated by Captain Myrick. He went there, but he did not 
 undress or go to bed. He left the room at frequent inter- 
 vals to visit the watchman in the tower, to speak with the 
 returning beach patrols, to attempt to peer through the win- 
 dows at the chaos outside. This last procedure was wholly 
 useless, the flying snow and sand were jumping back from 
 the panes like fine shot, and more than once he momentarily 
 expected those panes to be beaten in. 
 
 At four in the morning he was in the kitchen when Joshua 
 Phinney came in from patrol. The man was muffled to the 
 eyes, but the lashes of those eyes were fringed with icicles 
 and his frozen oilskins cracked and split as Homer helped 
 him to remove them. Phinney’s first move, after being taken 
 out of his shell, was to seize the huge coffee pot, kept hot and 
 full always at the back of the range, and pour and drink 
 three cups of its scalding contents. 
 
 “Nothing in sight, Josh?” queried Calvin, anxiously. 
 
 Phinney was picking the ice from his brows. 
 
 “In sight?” he growled. “Lord A’mighty! there ain’t any 
 sight. You can’t see three feet ahead of your jib boom. 
 All you can do is feel—if you ain’t too numb even to do 
 that.” 
 
 “The telephone’s gone, so Hez tells me.” 
 
 “Gone! I fell over two poles myself on the way up. I 
 don’t know’s the halfway house ain’t blowed flat. by this 
 time.” | 
 The halfway house was the little hut on the beach two 
 
RUGGED WATER 21 
 
 and a half miles below the station. It contained a stove— 
 the fire in which the patrolmen were supposed to keep alight 
 and replenished—a telephone instrument, and the keys to the 
 time clocks carried by those on patrol. At the halfway house 
 the patrolman from Setuckit met the patrolman from the 
 Orham Station, the latter building another two and a half 
 miles further on. | 
 
 “Did you meet the fellow from Orham?” inquired Homer. 
 
 “Yep. He fell in just as I was tryin’ to pick up spunk 
 enough to crawl out.” 
 
 “Did he say anything? Was there any news?” 
 
 “News! No. He was so froze he couldn’t say nothin’ 
 at first, and when he thawed out all he did was swear at the 
 weather. *Twas Ezry Cooper, so you can know that the 
 swearin’ was done proper, nothin’ left out.” 
 
 “Sea is over the beach, I suppose?” 
 
 “You suppose right. Down abreast that pint where the 
 Sarah Matthews come ashore it was runnin’ five foot deep 
 and a hundred foot wide. I had to go half a mile out of 
 my way to get around it.” 
 
 “You didn’t hear anything from outside? No guns, or 
 anything ?” 
 
 “Hear! I had to grit my teeth afore I could hear myself 
 think. If the whole United States Navy was off the Sand 
 Hill and every ship blowed up to once you couldn’t hear 
 it to-night, I tell you... . Well, anything else, Cal? If 
 there ain’t I’m goin’ aloft to turn in. Got to roust out Sam 
 first, of course,’ witha grin. “He'll be real thankful to me, 
 won’t he, when he finds what he’s got to go out into?” 
 
 He went up the stairs to the sleeping quarters. Three 
 minutes later Sam Bearse, muffled, booted, sou’westered and. 
 oilskinned, his Coston signal at his belt, came stumbling 
 sleepily down. 
 
 “Dirty morning, Sam,” was Homer’s greeting. ‘There'll 
 be something doing as soon as it is light enough to see, I 
 shouldn’t wonder. Keep a sharp lookout. Use your Cos- 
 ton, of course; the telephone is down.” 
 
 Bearse was filling himself with hot coffee and merely 
 
22 RUGGED WATER 
 
 grunted. Then, pulling on his mittens and buttoning his 
 sou’wester beneath his chin, he pushed open the door and 
 went out into the churning blackness. It took all of Homer’s 
 strength to pull that door shut. 
 
 At half-past five the call came. Calvin was on his way 
 up to the tower when he met Oaks, the man on watch, coming 
 down. 
 
 “Sam’s burnin’ his Coston, Cal,” Oaks blurted, excitedly. 
 “He must see somethin’! Lord! it’s an awful mess to go off 
 in, ain’t it? Cal, do you think you’d better—” 
 
 Homer did not stop to hear the rest. He hurried to the 
 tower room. The window toward the southeast was open 
 and banging in the gale. Leaning out, he peered down the 
 beach. The wind was as strong as ever and the cold intense, 
 but it had stopped snowing. A mile or more away a bril- 
 liant glow of red light with an intensely blazing core spotted 
 the black background. 
 
 Homer sprang to the stairs, ran down the first flight and 
 into the room where the crew, each on his cot, were sleeping 
 the sleep of the entirely healthy. 
 
 “Turn out, boys!” he called, briskly. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 4 “HEY were ready in three minutes. Beside each cot 
 stood its occupant’s rubber boots, their tops folded 
 - down, and socks, underclothes and trousers stuffed 
 inside, ready for instant donning. Before Homer turned 
 from the door, the men were on their feet and dressing. He 
 went down to the skipper’s room—his own now—and hur- 
 riedly scrambled into woolen jacket, oilskins and sou’wester. 
 Pulling on a pair of mammoth mittens and taking the lan- 
 tern from its hook and lighting it, he pushed open the door 
 and went out. 
 
 The gale struck him as he turned the corner on his way 
 to the barn. Its force was tremendous. Like a giant’s hand 
 it pushed against him and the blown sand cut his face as he 
 leaned forward and fought on. The door of the stable was 
 closed, but not locked, and the horses, awakened by the 
 lantern light, turned to look at him as he entered. He 
 backed them out of their stalls and began harnessing. Ina 
 few moments others of the crew joined him. In less than 
 ten minutes from the time of his leaving the tower room 
 the cart, bearing the lifeboat, was on its way down the beach. 
 
 It was a fight all the way. The sand was deep and the 
 wheels cut into it. The horses did their best, but they, 
 unaided, could never have made the trip that morning. The 
 men helped, each tugging at the ropes attached to the sides 
 of the cart. No one spoke. Breath was a necessity not to 
 be wasted, and conversation in the midst of that screeching 
 whirlwind would have been unheard. Each head was bent, 
 each foot planted doggedly in the sand, and every muscle 
 strained. The panting horses pulled like the humans, Ani- 
 mals and men had been through it all many times before 
 and each knew what was expected of him. 
 
 In clear weather, under ordinary conditions, they would 
 have covered the distance in a short time. As it was, almost 
 
 23 
 
24 RUGGED WATER 
 
 half an hour had elapsed before they reached the foot of the 
 high dune from which the spot where Bearse’s signal burned 
 was visible. There Bearse himself met them. 
 
 He plowed close to Calvin and bellowed in the latter’s 
 ear. 
 
 “*Tain’t any use to try to get down any further,” he 
 panted. “Surf’s runnin’ clean over the beach just below 
 here. I got in pretty nigh to my waist comin’ up. Might’s 
 well launch her right abreast here, Cal. ... Whew! Did 
 you ever see such a blow in your life! And cold! My 
 Godfreys!” 
 
 Homer did not reply. Instead he asked a question. 
 
 “Where is she?” he shouted. 
 
 “On the south end of the Sand Hill. Pretty well out. 
 Two master, looks like. She was sendin’ up rockets a while 
 ago, but not now. Come up yonder; I cal’late it’s light 
 enough to make her out—a little of her, anyhow.” 
 
 He led the way to the top of the dune and Homer fol- 
 lowed. At this elevation the extreme force of the hurricane 
 was most evident and for the moment Calvin was conscious 
 of nothing else. Then, after he had caught his breath and 
 mopped the sand and spray from his eyes, he looked seaward. 
 It was a gray-and-white upheaval over which he looked. In 
 the dim light of early morning he saw the huge breakers 
 running, in creaming ridges, out, out, out, one behind the 
 other. Immediately before him they fell in frothing, leaping 
 tumult, to surge up the shelving shore to the very base of 
 the dune. The middle distance was obscured by driving 
 scud. He turned to his companion. Bearse pointed a mit- 
 tened hand. 
 
 “There she is,’ he roared, and above the thunder of the 
 sea his words came only as a faint whisper. “Off yonder. 
 You can sight her once in a while between squalls.... 
 There! Look!” 
 
 Homer looked—and saw. A mass of crazy wave, a huddle 
 of jumping froth, and, at one spot above it, two black masts 
 slanted against a slaty background. He nodded and turned 
 back. | 
 
RUGGED WATER 25 
 
 As they stumbled down the sheltered side of the dune 
 Bearse laid a hand on his own. 
 
 “Goin’ to try it?” he queried. . . . “Oh, all right!’ with a 
 one-sided grin. “Just as you say. I always did like exer- 
 cise.” 
 
 Back at the cart Calvin shouted brief orders. Once more 
 the men and horses bent to the tugs and the cart and its bur- 
 den emerged from between the dunes and came out at the 
 top of the sloping beach. 
 
 “Man the surf boat!’ shouted Homer. 
 
 Each man took his position. The cart was turned broad- 
 side to the sea. 
 
 vAnloaddiy.¢ Take vout bolts. 48%? 
 
 The bolts which held the vehicle were removed, and the 
 rear and forward wheels of the boat carriage separated. 
 
 “Set.” 
 
 The boat was lowered to the sand. 
 
 “Haul out wheels.” 
 
 The wheels were pulled out of the way. With the lifting 
 bar under her the boat was skidded bow on to the surf. 
 
 “Take life belts.” 
 
 Each man took,a life belt from the racks inside the boat 
 and strapped it over his shoulders and about his waist. The 
 only one who did not do this was Badger, the cook, who, 
 according to rule, would be left ashore in charge of the sta- 
 tion during his commander’s absence. 
 
 “Ship rowlocks. ... Take oars.” 
 
 Each man at his place—a place fixed by regulation and 
 confirmed by constant drill—put his rowlock in position, and 
 laid his oar crosswise on the boat. Homer gave the outfit 
 a hurried glance of inspection. 
 
 “Shove her down,” he ordered. 
 
 With a rush they slid the boat down the slope and into the 
 surge. The men at the. bow were knee-deep in water. 
 Seleucus Gammon found time to shout a comment. 
 
 “Crimus! that feels nice and cool,’ he bellowed. “Come 
 in, boys, the water’s fine. What’s the matter, Wallie; tired? 
 This’ll freshen you up.” 
 
26 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Oaks, the comparatively new member of the crew, did not 
 answer. He was looking at the walls of white water just 
 ahead. 
 
 “In bow,” ordered Calvin. 
 
 Seleucus and his opposite surfman sprang over the gun- 
 wale and seized their oars. 
 
 “Down with her.” 
 
 As she moved out the other men scrambled in, 
 
 “Start rowing. ... Go!” 
 
 The boat leaped forward into the breakers. As she did 
 so Homer, the last man to leave shore, swung over the stern 
 and took up the heavy steering oar. A long stroke, another, 
 a moment’s wait as a wave broke just before them, and swept 
 beneath. Then another mighty pull, and a rise that lifted 
 them up and up. Flying foam, a deluge of icy water, a series 
 of strokes, and then a coast. They were over the first 
 breaker. The men settled to their long pull. Homer, again 
 swabbing his dripping face with a drenched mitten, peered 
 ahead and bent his strength to the steering oar. A good 
 launch and a lucky one, conditions considered. They were 
 off. So far, so good. 
 
 But the launch was only the beginning, a fact which every 
 man realized—the new skipper most of all. There remained 
 a row of at least three miles, through a sea which was 
 establishing a record even for that coast, and with weather 
 conditions about as bad as they could be. Even as exacting 
 a disciplinarian as Superintendent Kellogg, the hardy veteran 
 in charge of the district, would have excused a keeper for 
 not risking the lives of his crew that day. Homer knew this 
 and knew that the men knew it. Surely, as Oaks had inti- 
 mated, his first “try-out” as temporary head of the Setuckit 
 Station was a tough one. 
 
 He was not afraid—for himself. The excitement of the 
 battle was too keen for that. There was a fierce joy in it. 
 But the sense of responsibility was always there, when he 
 permitted himself to think of it. Responsibility, not only 
 for those lives aboard the stranded schooner, but for the — 
 safety of his comrades, and the clean record to which Myrick 
 
 ’ 
 
RUGGED WATER 27 
 
 had referred. He set his teeth, and when Gammon, tugging 
 at the bow oar, caught his eyes and grimly grinned, he smiled 
 in return. 
 
 The seas were enormous. Only from their crests could 
 he see ahead. Each time the boat swung up to the top of 
 one of those hills of water he peered apprehensively out, 
 fearing that the two black marks, the masts of the wrecked 
 craft, might no longer be in sight. But they were there— 
 they still stood. 
 
 He looked into the faces under the sou’westers. Every 
 face was set, and every man was pulling with all his might. 
 No one spoke, they were too busy for that. Even Seleucus, 
 the loquacious, was silent, and no ordinary combination of 
 wind and wave could have prevented him from shouting a 
 profane joke occasionally. The boat moved on, slowly, but 
 doggedly ; the spray shot over it in sheets, and froze when 
 it struck. Men, oars, and rigging were covered with ice. 
 
 The cold, that was the worst of all. Oulskins glistened like 
 suits of armor. Mittens cracked at the knuckles. Eyebrows 
 and mustaches hung with icicles. But they were gaining; 
 with every stroke they drew nearer to Sand Hill Shoal and 
 the wreck at its southern extremity. 
 
 Suddenly Oaks, at Number Six, stopped rowing. Homer, 
 watching the expressions of his men, had of late watched 
 his in particular. He had seen it change. And so he was, 
 in a measure, prepared. 
 
 “Go on, Wallie,” he shouted. “Row. What’s the matter 
 with you?” 
 
 Oaks tried to rise from the thwart, would have risen, had 
 not Sam Bearse, at Number Seven, freed one hand and 
 jerked him down again. 
 
 “Row, you fool!’ growled Sam. 
 
 But Oaks did not obey. His chin was quivering, and, in 
 spite of the cold, there were beads of perspiration on his 
 cheeks. 
 
 “Put me ashore, Cal Homer,” he shrieked. “I—I— Put 
 me ashore! I can’t stand this, For God’s sake, Cap’n, put 
 me ashore!” 
 
28 RUGGED WATER 
 
 The other men kept on rowing—it was mechanical with 
 them—but their looks expressed the wildest astonishment. 
 This was something new in their experience, brand new. 
 
 Calvin was as astonished as the rest. 
 
 “Put you ashore!” he gasped. 
 
 “VYes—yes. Put me ashore. My God, we—we can’t make 
 it! We'll be drownded. I—I’ve got a—a wife to home. 
 She—she— Turn round, Cal Homer, you’re crazy! We 
 can’t make it. We'll drown, I tell you! You put me ashore.” 
 
 The man’s nerve was completely gone. He let go of his 
 oar entirely and shook both fists in the air. Bearse pulled 
 the oar into the boat. 
 
 Oaks’s threats changed to pleadings. 
 
 “Oh, Cap’n, please!” he begged. “I'll pay you for it. 
 My pay check’s comin’ due next week. [I'll give you half 
 of it—I swear I will! I'll give you all. I—HI can’t stand it, 
 I tell you. Turn around and put me ashore.” 
 
 There was silence in the boat for an instant, silence broken 
 by a tremendous “Haw! haw!” from Seleucus Gammon. 
 The other men, still rowing as hard as ever, looked at each 
 other, then at Oaks, and then at their skipper pro tem. 
 Homer, catching that look, knew they were waiting to see 
 how he would meet this entirely unprecedented emergency. 
 It was another test—a test of his capacity as “boss.” 
 
 “ll pay you,” shrieked Oaks again. “I'll give you—” 
 
 But Homer interrupted. 
 
 “Sit down,” he ordered, savagely. ‘Sit down and row.” 
 
 “But, Cal, please—” 
 
 Calvin lifted the big steering oar from the water. 
 
 “Down!” he roared. ‘Down, or I’ll cave your head in 
 with this.... Down! Now row—or I'll brain you first 
 and drown you afterwards.” | 
 
 At that moment he would have done it. The men knew 
 it and, what was more important, Oaks himself seemed to 
 realize it. Sobbing and hysterical he sank back upon the 
 thwart, took up the oar which Bearse pushed into his hands, 
 and began rowing once more. Homer glared at him, swal- 
 lowed hard—and then laughed aloud. A bellow of laughter 
 
RUGGED WATER 29 
 
 came from the boat. What might have been a calamity was 
 now a joke, a joke to be remembered and talked about— 
 when the time for talking came. 
 
 “Almost there, boys,” shouted Calvin, cheerfully. “Keep 
 her going.” 
 
 The wreck was in plain sight now, only a quarter of a 
 mile away. A little fore and aft schooner, hard and fast 
 aground, at least every third sea breaking over her from 
 stem to stern. Men were in the rigging, five of them. 
 Calvin waved to them and a hand was waved in return. 
 
 The sea was more wicked than ever there at the tail of 
 the shoal. It required judgment and experience and skill 
 to bring the lifeboat up under the lee of the wreck. But 
 this—with the exception of Oaks—was a veteran crew, even 
 if their leader was comparatively new to his job, and, after 
 several trials, it was done. The schooner’s deck was aslant, 
 and formed a partial shelter. The grapnels were made fast. 
 
 “Come down!” shouted Calvin, addressing the men in 
 the rigging. “We'll look out for you. Hurry!” 
 
 One of the men—the captain—shouted a reply. Above the 
 tumult of wind and water only a few words were audible 
 in the boat below, something like “half froze.” 
 
 “We'll have to go after ’em,” called Calvin. “Come on, 
 one of you. You, Seleucus, come with me. The rest of 
 you stay in the boat.” 
 
 Watching his chance he climbed over the tilted rail, Gam- 
 mon at his heels. The slant of the deck, and the coating of 
 ice upon it, made each step an effort and a risk. The 
 schooner’s crew were in the rigging of the foremast. Their 
 captain, when he realized the danger his craft was in, had 
 ordered the anchors thrown over. They had held, but the 
 wind and tide had not only swung the vessel around until she 
 grounded, but their force had ripped the windlass bodily from 
 the deck and jammed it tight in the bow “in the eyes of 
 her,” as a sailor would describe it. And over that bow the 
 breakers poured in icy cascades. 
 
 The men in the rigging had managed to cast off the lines 
 with which they had secured themselves there, and, stiffly 
 
30 RUGGED WATER 
 
 and slowly, were climbing down to the lee rail. Theirs was 
 now, more than ever, a precarious position. Again and 
 again the flying water poured over them. Plainly the 
 schooner was being beaten to pieces, and the masts, the fore- 
 mast especially, might go by the board at any second. 
 
 Homer and Gammon slipped and stumbled forward. Each 
 time a wave went over they were obliged to cling with hands 
 and feet. After one tremendous sea Calvin, brushing the 
 water from his eyes, looked anxiously for his companion. 
 
 “All right, are you, Seleucus?” he gasped. 
 
 Seleucus’s voice, punctuated with coughs, made answer. 
 
 “All here, so fur,” it panted. “Crimustee! have to do some 
 hangin’ on, don’t ye? Monkey up a tree ain’t got nothin’ 
 on us. Yes, he has, too. He’s got a tail and that ought to 
 help consider’ble. Wish to the Lord I had one. ... Here 
 you go—you! Give me your fist.” 
 
 The first man, a foremast hand, was at the foot of the 
 shrouds. Between them, and aided by the other life-savers, 
 he was lifted over the side into the boat. The other four 
 followed, the captain last of all, He had reached the rail, 
 and was about to jump to the boat when a huge breaker, 
 timed exactly right—or wrong—reared its head above the 
 schooner’s bow. 
 
 “Look out!” bellowed Gammon, and from the boat came 
 an echoing yell of warning. Homer made a flying leap and 
 a clutch at the oilskin collar of the man at the rail. Then 
 the wave broke and he and the owner of that oilskin were 
 thrown headlong to the slanting deck and over and over— 
 “like a couple of punkins,” as Seleucus described it after- 
 wards—until they struck the foot of the lee rail with terrific 
 force. 
 
 It was Homer who struck first and for an instant he was 
 stunned. His head had hit a stanchion of the bulwark and, 
 if it had not been for his sou’wester, the latter buttoned 
 tightly under his chin, he would almost certainly have been 
 killed. As it was, his head was cut, and when Gammon 
 dragged him out of the surge of water the blood was run- 
 ning down his face. But he still clutched the collar of the 
 
RUGGED WATER 31 
 
 schooner’s skipper and the pair scrambled dazedly to their 
 feet. Seleucus, who had saved himself from similar dis- 
 aster by seizing and holding fast to a rope’s end, was clear 
 headed and adequate. 
 
 “Over with you,” he shouted, pushing the skipper to the 
 rail. “Come, wake up!” with a shake. “Into that boat now. 
 Look out for him, you fellers.” 
 
 The rescued man was bundled over the side into three 
 pairs of outstretched arms. 
 
 “Now, Cal,” ordered Gammon. 
 
 But Homer was capable of taking care of himself by this 
 time. 
 
 “You first,’ he commanded. 
 
 “Why ... why, you durn fool, this ain’t no time to. ... 
 A-a-ll Hehe just as you say, Cap’n.” : 
 _ He jumped into the boat. Homer cast a comprehensive 
 glance over the abandoned schooner. She was doomed ; there 
 was absolutely no hope of saving her or anything aboard her. 
 He, too, climbed over the side. 
 
 “All right, Cal, are you?” asked Bearse, anxiously, as 
 Calvin took his place in the stern. 
 
 “Yes. Cast off. Lively now.” 
 
 The boat swung away from the wreck. 
 
 “All set? Row.” 
 
 He braced himself at the steering oar. The crew began 
 rowing. The men from the schooner crouched between the 
 thwarts. 
 
 The row home was longer than the outward trip had been, 
 and, although not quite so hard, was hard enough. Homer’s 
 head was throbbing wickedly, and he wiped the blood from 
 his face with his frozen mitten from time to time. He had 
 determined not to attempt, with such a load aboard, a land- 
 ing in the surf upon the outer beach, but to go around 
 the end of the point to the sheltered waters of the bay 
 side. 
 
 On the “‘rips” at the end of the point the seas were higher 
 than any they had yet encountered. The boat climbed and 
 climbed, and then dipped and slid. The cook of the schooner, 
 
82 RUGGED WATER 
 
 a half-breed Portuguese, crouching near the bow directly in 
 front of Gammon, began to pray aloud. Seleucus lost 
 patience. 
 
 “Shut up!” he roared. “You can hold meetin’ when you 
 get ashore. Sing hymns then and take up collection, if you 
 want to... . But now you shut up. Shut up, or IJ’ll step 
 on you! Look at Wallie; see how nice he’s behavin’.” 
 
 Oaks had remained quiet since his outbreak on the way 
 to the wreck. He was white and shaking, but he had not 
 spoken, and he was rowing, after a fashion. The other men 
 laughed. Homer smiled, but he shook his head. 
 
 “That'll do, Seleucus,’ he ordered. “Don’t talk—row. 
 We want to get home—where it’s warm.” 
 
 The boat soared and coasted over the huge waves. Mid- 
 way of the rips, at the crest of a billow, Calvin looked back 
 in the direction of the Sand Hill. The two black marks no 
 longer slanted against the sky. The sea had swallowed its 
 prey, the schooner had gone. 
 
 Landing in the cove at the back of the point was an easy 
 matter. They beached the boat, and the rescued men—the 
 cook’s prayers now turned to profane thanksgivings—stag- 
 gered through the sand to the station. Homer drew a long 
 breath, 
 
 “Leave her where she is,” he commanded, referring to 
 the lifeboat. ‘We'll attend to her later. I don’t know how 
 you boys feel, but I want a cup of coffee.” 
 
 Gammon, as usual, was the first to answer. 
 
 “Coffee!” he repeated. “I’m so fur gone I want about 
 another hogshead of that stuff Ellis calls coffee. That shows 
 the state I’m in.” 
 
 As they walked up the beach he came close to his com- 
 manding officer. 
 
 “How’s your head, Cal?” he asked 
 
 “Oh, it’s achin’ a little, but it’s all right. A bump, that’s 
 all.” 
 
 “Bump! Crimus! If that’s a bump then a man with his 
 head cut off has been scratched. . . . Cal,” he added, under 
 his breath, “you done a good job this mornin’. You'll make 
 
RUGGED WATER 33 
 
 out as skipper at Setuckit. I said you would, and now I 
 know it.” 
 
 A moment later he was inquiring solicitously concerning 
 Oaks. 
 
 “That wife of yours ashore, Wallie,” he observed, “she 
 aint lost you yet, I’m afraid. Don’t have no luck, does 
 she?” 
 
 Oaks, sullen and downcast, made no reply. He was the 
 first to enter the station and, after swallowing a cup of red- 
 hot coffee, went up to the sleeping room to change his 
 clothes. His immediate future was destined to be unpleasant, 
 and he knew it. 
 
 Calvin, too, drank coffee—or Badger’s substitute for it— 
 and ate a few mouthfuls. But there was too much to be 
 done—and done at once—to permit of rest. Dry clothes 
 and warmth were restorers in themselves, and water and a 
 bandage helped his cut head. He treated himself to these 
 luxuries and then set about the duties to follow. The men 
 from the schooner had been fed and warmed and dried, and 
 were now stretched on the cots in the room provided for 
 such waifs. There were cases of frostbite among them, and 
 the skipper—his name was Leary—had a badly bruised knee. 
 All this had to be seen to and the regulation entries concern- 
 ing the wreck made in the log of the station. 
 
 Badger reported that nothing of importance had happened 
 during his comrades’ absence. Telephone poles and wires 
 were down and there was no communication with other 
 stations or with the main. The glass was still very low, 
 the gale had abated but little, and it was beginning to snow 
 once more. Homer went down to the mess room where the 
 men were sprawled about the stove, smoking and joking. 
 Wallie Oaks was not among them and Calvin asked con- 
 cerning him. A general grin was his only answer at first, 
 and then Seleucus spoke. 
 
 “Wallie’s gone out to the barn,” he explained. “He ain’t 
 comf’table, Wallie ain’t. Don’t seem to be satisfied nowhere. 
 When he was off yonder he wanted to be put ashore and now 
 he is ashore he acts kind of as if he wished he was to sea 
 
34 RUGGED WATER 
 
 again. I cal’late he’s tellin’ the horses about his havin’ a 
 wife to home. Seems to me I heard old Port laughin’ a 
 minute or two ago.” 
 
 The men chuckled. Josh Phinney winked at his compan- 
 ions. 
 
 “The heft of us have got wives, fur’s that’s concerned,” 
 he observed. “You’ve got one, ain’t you, Seleucus?” 
 
 Mr. Gammon regarded him gravely. “I’ve got a number 
 eleven boot, too,” he announced; “but I ain’t makin’ any 
 brags about it. I’m just keepin’ it to use on folks that get 
 too smart and fresh in their talk.” 
 
 Phinney swung round in his chair. 
 
 “T wouldn’t keep it too long,” he said, cheerfully. “It 
 might spile. If you ain’t had enough exercise this mornin’, 
 and want more, I cal’late maybe I can accommodate you.” 
 
 Homer raised a hand. “I can give you all the exercise you 
 need,” he said. “It’s snowing again and as thick as mud 
 outside. _ Seleucus, you’d better go up to the tower and 
 relieve Ellis on watch for a while. He’s been there, off and 
 on, all the forenoon. Ed, you can get ready to go out on 
 patrol.” 
 
 Ed Bloomer’s freckled face lengthened. 
 
 “Lord A’mighty!” he groaned. “Ain’t you got no heart, 
 Cal? I’m so stiffened up now that my jints snap like a 
 bunch of firecrackers. I’ve got a wife up to Orham myself.” 
 
 “Well, when you get to the halfway house you’ll be two 
 miles nearer to her. Think of that, and be happy. I’m 
 sorry, boys, but it’s the dirtiest weather I’ve seen since 
 I came here. Make the most of what rest you can 
 get. We’re likely to have another job before this storm is 
 over.” 
 
 Leaving Bloomer to lament and don his spare suit of 
 oilskins, Calvin went out to the barn. In that chilly, gloomy 
 shed he found Oaks seated on an empty mackerel keg, his 
 elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He looked 
 up, recognized his skipper, and sank back again. 
 
 “What’s the matter, Wallie?” queried Homer. ‘What are 
 you doing out here ?”’ 
 
RUGGED WATER 35 
 
 Oaks did not answer, and the question was repeated. 
 
 “What are you doing out here alone?” asked Calvin. 
 
 “Nothin’. I want to be alone. Let me be. I wish I was 
 dead. I’d be better off if I was.” 
 
 “Oh, I guess not.” 
 
 “Yes, | would, too. I’m goin’ to quit. I’m goin’ to quit 
 right now. Them fellers’ll never give me any peace. I—I 
 wish I’d drownded. Yes,” savagely, “and I wish they’d 
 drownded first—so’s I could see ’em doin’ it.” 
 
 “Look here, Wallie—” 
 
 “Aw, shut up. I’ve quit this job. Tm through. You 
 haven’t got any more say over me, Cal Homer.” 
 
 “Yes, I have. So long as you’re here I’ve got a lot to say. 
 You lost your nerve out there this morning, and you made 
 a fool of yourself, but that’s nothing.” 
 
 “Nothin’! If you heard all that gang guyin’ me you’d 
 think ’twas somethin’, I'll kill that Josh Phinney, I swear 
 to God I will! Il quit here but I'll kill him and Seleucus 
 Gammon first.” 
 
 “No, no, you won’t. Stop! The boys will guy you for 
 a while, but they'll get over it if you behave like a man and 
 not like a kid. That mess off there scared you—well, it 
 scared all of us. But the rest have been at the work longer 
 than you have, and they didn’t let it get the best of ’em. Get 
 up off that keg, and stop playing cry-baby. Go ahead and 
 do your work and behave like a man and they’ll forget it by 
 and by.” 
 
 “Forget it! They'll tell it from one end of Cape Cod to 
 the other. I'll never—” 
 
 “Tf you behave yourself they won’t. J shan’t tell and 
 T’ll ask them not to. When they tease you—grin, and keep 
 on grinning. There’s no fun in guying a man that laughs. 
 Square yourself with ’em. See here, I'll tell you how you 
 can begin the squaring. Ed Bloomer is pretty well used 
 up, but it’s his turn to go on patrol. Go in and offer to 
 go in his place.” 
 
 “His place! Why, it’s his turn, ain't it? ’Tain’t mine. I 
 took mine last—” 
 
36 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Homer swung about in disgust. “It looks as if you were 
 getting about what is coming to you,” he said. 
 
 Nevertheless, when, a little later, he went up to the 
 tower he found Gammon chuckling to himself. 
 
 “Crimus!”? announced Seleucus gleefully. “What do you 
 suppose has happened, Cal? Josh was up here just now and 
 he says that Ed Bloomer was all rigged and ready to go down 
 the beach when Wallie comes tearin’ in and gives out that 
 he’s just dyin’ to go instead. Ed was so surprised he com- 
 menced to holler for a doctor, but Wallie kept sayin’ he 
 meant it, and, by crimus, he went, too! What do you think 
 of that?” 
 
 Homer nodded. “See here, Seleucus,”’ he said, “I want 
 you fellows to let up on Wallie. He isn’t very heavy in the 
 upper story, and he made a fool of himself this morning, 
 but we ought to give him another chance, seems to me. He’s 
 new at this game—” 
 
 “Ain’t much newer than you, is he?” 
 
 “Why, yes, a little. And— Well, never mind, I want you 
 and the rest to stop plaguing him about it. Give him his 
 chance. He may make good next time.” 
 
 Gammon was skeptical. 
 
 “Wanted to quit, didn’t he?” he asked. 
 
 “He hasn’t quit.” 
 
 “Cal, I know them Oakses, knew old man Oaks, and old 
 Caleb Oaks—his uncle—and all the rest of ’em from way 
 back. They’re yeller, I tell you. Got a streak of it in ’em 
 and they’d have to be biled afore ’twould come out. Why, 
 old Caleb, one time he—” 
 
 “Never mind. You get the crew to let up on Wallie. And 
 I want you and the rest of the boys to keep quiet on this 
 whole business—outside of our own crew. You under- 
 stand ?” 
 
 Seleucus turned and looked him over. 
 
 “All right, Cap’n,” he said, grimly. “They will, I cal’late, 
 if I tell em you want ’em to. After the way you handled 
 things this mornin’ they’ll do ’most anything you ask. But, 
 so fur’s Wallie’s concerned, ’twon’t do much good. He'll 
 
RUGGED WATER 37 
 
 go out patrollin’ to make up along with Ed, and he'll suck 
 around and run errands and wash dishes and all that, to keep 
 the gang from raggin’ him. But he’d do as much for any- 
 body else, if he could get somethin’ for himself by doin’ it. 
 He’s yeller, like all them Oakses, and he don’t belong in a 
 Setuckit crew. Up to Crooked Hill, or to North End’— 
 with the contemptuous scorn of one station for a rival—‘‘he 
 might get on well enough, but not down here to Setuckit— 
 no, sir! You see if I ain’t right.” 
 
 All that day and the following night the storm raged. 
 There were no more wrecks, however, and for so much 
 Setuckit was thankful. By morning, the wind had gone 
 down and the sun was shining over an icebound coast, with 
 a tumbling sea visible to the horizon. The mainland of the 
 Cape was white with snow and, even at wind-swept Setuckit, 
 there was snow in the hollows between the dunes. The 
 mercury was climbing in the barometer and there was every 
 prospect of fair weather for the immediate future. 
 
 It was Saturday, house-cleaning day at the station. The 
 men were washing their clothes, sweeping and scrubbing. 
 The members of the crew of the David Cowes were, most of 
 them, up and about and helping wherever help was permitted. 
 Captain Leary, his bruised knee bandaged, and limping with 
 an improvised cane, was nervous and anxious. He was, of 
 course, eager to get away and to get word of the loss of his 
 schooner to his owners, and to send to his family, at Rock- 
 land, tidings of his own safety and that of his crew. Toward 
 Homer and the men of the station the feelings of himself and 
 his shipmates were of sincere gratitude and admiration. He 
 expressed these feelings in his talks with Calvin. 
 
 “Oh, I know you don’t want to talk about it, Cap’n,” he 
 said, “but you can’t blame us for sayin’ ‘thank you’! I had 
 about given up hope when you fellows hove in sight. And 
 even after we sighted your boat I didn’t think there was 
 one chance in a thousand of your gettin’ alongside in time. 
 *Twas a good job you did, and if anything I can say will 
 help you or your crew at headquarters, it’s going to be said.” 
 
 Calvin nodded. “Much obliged, Cap’n Leary,” he said, 
 
38 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “but don’t trouble yourself. It’s what we’re here for, and 
 what we’re paid for. We have got a good crew at this sta- 
 tion and they’ve never laid down yet. I’m sorry about the 
 telephone, and a little anxious, too. That was about the 
 wickedest gale I’ve ever been through and Gammon and the 
 other men who have been in the service for years say they 
 never saw a worse one. When we do get news it will be 
 pretty serious, I’m afraid. There must have been more 
 wrecks than yours, and we'll hear about ’em in a little 
 while.” 
 
 “How do you expect to hear?” 
 
 “Oh, somebody will be coming down from Orham before 
 long. Some of the fellows up there have shanties and fishing 
 gear down here and they’ll be anxious to find out what dam- 
 age has been done. Superintendent Kellogg will be worried, 
 too, and he’ll want to get in touch with us. Maybe they’ve 
 got some news at the Orham Station by this time. If they 
 have they’ll get it to us as soon as they can.” 
 
 “How soon do you figure I and my men can get off? I 
 don’t want to hurry you, but I’m mighty anxious to get word 
 to my owners and home.” 
 
 “Of course. Well, we'll get you off some time this after- 
 noon if this weather holds. If nobody comes down from 
 Orham we'll get sail on the spare boat and have somebody 
 get you up that way.” 
 
 By noon, however, word came from the watchman in the 
 tower that a sailboat was in sight, coming from the direc- 
 tion of Harniss. Homer went up to investigate. 
 
 “Who is it, Hez?” he asked, of Rogers, then on duty. 
 
 “Looks like Peleg,” replied Rogers. “That’s who I make 
 it out to be.” 
 
 It was the hermit, sure enough, and he arrived, wet and 
 chilled, but garrulous. The Cape had been storm swept from 
 Race Point to Buzzard’s Bay. Telephone and telegraph 
 poles were down all along the line and no trains had been 
 through since Thursday night. Some one had driven over 
 from Bayport in a sleigh just before he left and brought 
 rumors of a wreck at Crooked Hill Shoal. 
 
RUGGED WATER 39 
 
 “Didn’t have no particulars, he didn’t,” declared Peleg. 
 “But from what he heard there was a consider’ble of lives 
 lost. They’d just got a wire through from Trumet to Bay- 
 port and that’s how he heard about it, so they say. Look 
 here, Cal, how about my weather prophesyin’? Didn’t I tell 
 Seleucus Gammon he’d have to tie his hair on afore mornin’ ? 
 Didn’t I, eh? Where is that Gammon critter? I want to 
 preach to him.” 
 
 He had, so he said, landed Oswald Myrick and wife safely 
 before the storm broke, and they had been driven from the 
 landing place to their home at West Harniss. Peleg departed 
 to crow over Seleucus, leaving Homer more anxious than 
 ever to hear from the mainland. 
 
 The next item of news came by way of the beach. One 
 of the crew at the Orham Station had tramped as far as the 
 halfway house to bring it, and Sam Bearse had, on his own 
 initiative, walked down there on the chance of hearing 
 something. What he heard was sufficiently sensational to 
 pay, in Sam’s estimation, for the exertion of the trip. The 
 wreck at Crooked Hill Shoal had been that of a three-masted 
 schooner, from New York to Portland, loaded with coal. 
 She had struck on Thursday night and the Crooked Hill 
 Station crew had gone out to her early the next morning. 
 They made the outward trip safely and took off all but two 
 of the schooner’s crew, those two having been washed over- 
 board before they reached the vessel. 
 
 But the real sensation of Bearse’s news was to follow. On 
 the way back to the beach the crowded lifeboat had, some- 
 how or other, been permitted to swing broadside with the 
 trough of the sea. She was overturned and every man, life 
 crew and all, had been drowned. Only one was dragged 
 from the surf with the breath of life in him. 
 
 The group of listeners in the kitchen of the Setuckit Sta- 
 tion looked at each other aghast. Accidents, and even occa- 
 sional deaths, were more or less to be expected, they were 
 risks of their trade—but this wholesale killing was staggering. 
 
 “Only one saved, you say, Sam?” queried Homer incredu- 
 lously. 
 
40 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “So they say,” declared Sam. “That’s the yarn.” 
 
 “Who was the one?” demanded Phinney. 
 
 “Crooked Hill feller name of Bartlett. Number Two man 
 he was, I understand. Anybody here know him?” 
 
 Seleucus Gammon nodded. “I do, I cal’late,’ he said. 
 “Tf it’s the feller I think ’tis it’s Benoni Bartlett. He’s been 
 in the service for a long spell, ’most as long as I have. ’Bout 
 my age he must be, too. ... Humph! Benoni, eh? And 
 he’s the only one got ashore! Sho! Well, if it’s Benoni he’ll 
 figger ‘twas the A’mighty himself picked him to be hauled 
 out of the wet. Crimus! yes, he’ll think that sure.” 
 
 “Why?” asked Rogers. 
 
 “’Cause he’s kind of cracked on such things. Reg’lar 
 Bible crank, so some of the Trumet fellers tell me... . 
 Sho! Benoni the only one saved out of all that crowd. 
 Some good men gone on that load. . . . Boys, the news- 
 papers ‘Il make talk about this, won’t they? Remember what 
 a fuss there was when the Orham crew was lost? Bart- 
 lett “Il be what they call a hero, if he don’t look out... . Tut, 
 tut, tut! Sho! Crimustee!’’ 
 
CHAPTER III 
 [*s news of the Crooked Hill disaster reached the 
 
 Boston papers the moment that telegraphic com- 
 
 munication was reopened. It was but one fatal in- 
 cident of the great storm, but, coming so closely on the heels 
 of a somewhat similar happening at Orham a few years 
 before, it attracted wide notice. The editors, sensing its 
 dramatic qualities, sent their reporters down to investigate. 
 The reporters interviewed the townspeople at Trumet, the 
 fishermen at the little settlement near Crooked Hill, and 
 any one else who seemed likely to furnish details and help to 
 fill space. Bartlett, the sole survivor, was besieged. He 
 was in a state of complete nervous collapse and the doctors 
 permitted him to see no one, but the newspaper men saw 
 the doctors, the longshoremen and the townspeople gen- 
 erally, and made the most of everything they were told. 
 
 The first batch of papers brought to Setuckit displayed 
 photographs of the Crooked Hill Station, of the crew—a 
 snapshot taken two years before—of the beach opposite the 
 shoal, of the men who helped Bartlett ashore, of the house 
 where he was being taken care of, of Bartlett himseli— 
 another ancient snapshot—and one enterprising sheet ex- 
 hibited a smudgy and libelous likeness of Miss Norma Bart- 
 lett, his daughter. This last was a vague cross-hatching of 
 inky lines, through which one caught glimpses of a young 
 woman apparently not more than sixteen, and as a recog- 
 nizable likeness was of about as much value as a portrait 
 of a rooster taken through the wires of his coop at twilight 
 on a foggy afternoon. 
 
 The life-savers at Setuckit found the papers immensely 
 interesting. The long stories of the reporters were read 
 silently and aloud. The pictures were scrutinized with care. 
 Seleucus, the only Setuckitite who had known Bartlett, was 
 
 41 
 
42 RUGGED WATER 
 
 cross-questioned and catechized. Mr. Gammon obligingly 
 remembered everything he could and, when his memory 
 failed, called upon his inventive faculties. Their own ex- 
 ploit, the rescue of the crew of the David Cowes, was com- 
 pletely overshadowed and practically ignored, so far as public 
 notice was concerned. There were brief paragraphs men- 
 tioning it, but they were but items in a long list of mari- 
 time casualties. 
 
 Captain Leary and his men had shown no symptoms of 
 forgetting, however. They were taken to Orham the after- 
 noon of the day following the rescue. At the beach, as they 
 were about to leave, Leary again expressed their gratitude 
 and admiration. 
 
 “It was the finest job I’ve ever seen done on salt water, 
 Cap’n Homer,” he declared. “I’m going to tell my owners 
 so, and everybody else that asks me. We wouldn’t, one of 
 us, be here now if it wasn’t for you fellows, and if we can 
 ever get even you bet we'll do it. J’ll make it my business 
 to write to headquarters and tell ’em what I think of it. 
 It'll be the first letter I write after I get home, and my 
 whole crew will sign it. They’ll be tickled to death at the 
 chance.” 
 
 Homer thanked him, but urged him not to trouble. 
 
 “To tell you the truth, Cap’n,” he said, “it was only by 
 mighty good luck that we got to you in time. What hap- 
 pened over at Crooked Hill might just as well have hap- 
 pened here, and we can be thankful our pictures aren’t in 
 the papers instead of those poor fellows’.” 
 
 Gammon and some of the other men were not so magnani- 
 mous. 
 
 “Humph!” grunted Seleucus, tossing his copy of the Bos- 
 ton Star aside; “all this kind of makes you tired, don’t it? 
 After all, by crimus, a life-savin’ crew’s job is to save lives. 
 If the Crooked Hill gang had got their boat to shore with all 
 hands safe and sound ’twould have been somethin’ to hurrah 
 about. They didn’t, they got upset and drownded, which 
 wa’n’t their job at all. Somebody bungled somethin’ and ali 
 hands paid for it. It’s too bad and I’m sorry for ’em, the 
 
RUGGED WATER 43 
 
 Lord knows, but just the same the bunglin’ was a fact. Did 
 you read that piece about Sup’rintendent Kellogg preachin’ 
 what a wonderful critter Bartlett is? Why is he wonderful? 
 *Cause he was lucky enough to be hove up on the beach and 
 was snaked out of the wet by the scruff of his neck. He’s’a 
 hero, Bartlett is—says so in the paper. Well, why ain’t I 
 a hero? J got ashore and nobody else hauled me there 
 neither. I am a hero—lI’ll bet you on it! Smoke up a piece 
 of glass and look at me through it. No, no, don’t risk your 
 eyesight without the glass; I’m liable to dazzle you.” 
 
 Josh Phinney grinned. 
 
 “We're all heroes, Seleucus,” he declared. “Pretty ones. 
 Trouble is nobody else believes it and we can’t prove it.” 
 
 “Kellogg knows it,’ declared Seleucus. “He talks that 
 way about Bartlett ’cause he has to. He’d ’a’ been swimmin’ 
 against the tide if he didn’t. But suppose them Crooked 
 Hillers had lost their boat and all got ashore themselves; 
 do you cal’late the sup’rintendent would have called ’em 
 heroes then? Humph! he’d have given ’em blue Tophet 
 for smashin’ up the boat. He ain’t any old maid cryin’ 
 over yarns in a newspaper, Kellogg ain’t. He’s been life- 
 savin’ or bossin’ life-savers for twenty-odd year. He knows 
 what’s what.” 
 
 Ed Bloomer leaned over and scratched a match on Gam- 
 mon’s trouser leg. 
 
 “What ails you, Seleucus,” he observed, “is that you’re 
 jealous, that’s all. If they printed your picture you’d be 
 all set up. I'd like to see your picture in the paper. ‘Seleu- 
 cus Gammon, the noble sea—er—sea———’ ”’ 
 
 “Sea lion,” put in Phinney. “I see some of them sea lions 
 up to Boston at a show one time. One of ’em stuck his head 
 up out of the water and hollered, and I swear I thought 
 *twas Seleucus in swimmin’, Yes, I did. I was just goin’ 
 to answer him.” 
 
 Seleucus rose. ‘“‘Wa’n’t goin’ to tell him dinner was ready, 
 was you, Josh?” he queried. “If you was I bet he was glad 
 to hear it. You’re cook this week, I’ve heard tell, but I 
 should be glad to have a little mite of proof of it.” 
 
44. RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Proof ’Il be on the table in about ten minutes now. Keep 
 your patience bilin’, hero.” 
 
 “Huh! Takes a hero to keep patient when you’re cook, 
 Josh. . . . Hello! speakin’ of heroes, here comes Wallie. I 
 understand Wallie’s favorite hymn up to prayer meetin’ is 
 ‘Pull for the shore, sailor.’ Let’s sing it for him. What 
 d’ye say?” 
 
 They sang a verse with gravity and gusto. Oaks pre- 
 tended not to notice. Generally speaking, he had been tor- 
 mented less than he expected, a fact due entirely to Homer’s 
 request that the crew “let up on him.” 
 
 If the papers and the public paid little attention to the 
 Setuckit exploit, Calvin and his men received gratifying 
 acknowledgment from other sources. Oswald Myrick wrote 
 expressing congratulations in no stinted phrase. Superin- 
 tendent Kellogg sent a commendatory letter and notified 
 Homer that he was coming down to see him as soon as he 
 could get away. “Partly on business and partly on pleasure,” 
 the letter ended, “although I am hoping the business may be 
 pleasant for us both.” 
 
 From this hint Calvin inferred that his appointment as 
 keeper at Setuckit was assured. The crew seemed to take it 
 for granted and to be thoroughly satisfied at the prospect. 
 In a dozen ways they made it quite plain that their com- 
 mander’s handling of the David Cowes affair had proved his 
 case, so far as they were concerned. 
 
 But the Crooked Hill sensation was destined to be more 
 than a nine days’ wonder. The stories in the Boston dailies 
 were copied elsewhere. In New York, in Philadelphia— 
 even as far away as Chicago—the tale of the loss of the life 
 crew was given columns of space and editorials were written 
 praising “the gallant fellows who had died in the performance 
 of their duty.” Benoni Bartlett, the only one who had not 
 died, was invariably given more space than any one else. 
 Even in the halls of Congress he was talked about, for the 
 newest representative from Massachusetts used his name and 
 the loss of his fellow surfmen as texts for his maiden speech, 
 a speech in which he attacked the administration for shameful 
 
RUGGED WATER . 45 
 
 neglect of the public service and general misbehavior. 
 
 The speech—the small portion of it which was reported— 
 was gleefully read in the mess room at Setuckit. 
 
 “Seleucus, we’re getting talked about,” declared Phinney. 
 “Listen to this: ‘And I say to you, gentlemen, that the neglect 
 which causes men like these to die on the storm-eaten’—no— 
 ‘beaten—shores of the old Bay State is but another instance 
 of the disregard of the common people, a disregard of the 
 worker and a panderin’ to the interests which is makin’ the 
 name of the party in power a stench in the nostrils of decent 
 men and women.’ Hear that, do you? Now, will you keep 
 on votin’ the Republican ticket ?” 
 
 Seleucus, whose political adherence had remained fixed 
 since the candidacy of Rutherford B. Hayes, snorted de- 
 fiance. 
 
 “Bah!” he.exclaimed. “Didn’t say nothin’ about raisin’ no 
 wages down in this section, did he? I presume likely not. 
 Who was it saved this country in 61 and has been savin’ it 
 ever since? ’*Twan’t no copperhead Democrat, I’ll tell you 
 that.” 
 
 “Ho, ho! You’re a stench, Seleucus. Says so right here 
 in the paper. Burn some sugar, somebody.” 
 
 In Boston they were raising a fund to present Bartlett with 
 a watch and a chain, a gold medal, or a house and lot; the 
 exact nature of the reward was not yet determined, and there 
 seemed to be marked differences of opinion on that point, 
 but they were bound to give him something. 
 
 The good weather continued and the days and nights at 
 Setuckit were singularly free from incident. Jupiter Pluvius, 
 or old Boreas, or whoever was responsible, seemed to have 
 exhausted all his efforts in the record-breaking storm, and to 
 be willing to rest for the time being. 
 
 On a Thursday, about a fortnight after the Cowes wreck, 
 District Superintendent Kellogg made his promised visit. He 
 was a square-shouldered, burly man, whose sixty years and 
 gray hairs had not diminished his vigor to any appreciable 
 extent and who knew the life-saving game from the first 
 deal to the final bet. The men in the service respected and 
 
46 RUGGED WATER 
 
 tiked him. He was strict, but just. He did not overpraise 
 and he was prompt to punish, but his punishments were 
 always deserved, and the culprit usually grinned in public, 
 even if he swore in private. He called each one of his men 
 by his first name and knew all about them and their records. 
 
 Calvin Homer was very fond of him, and felt sure that the 
 liking was reciprocated. Remembering the hint in the super- 
 intendent’s letter he could not help feeling a bit excited when 
 his superior officer’s boat was sighted coming down the 
 bay. 
 
 But the excitement proved to be unjustified. Nothing 
 whatever was said about the appointment of a keeper. Kel- 
 logg inspected the station, watched the drill, expressed him- 
 self as satisfied, and offered almost no suggestions. He was 
 not as talkative as usual, and seemed to have something on 
 his mind, something not altogether pleasant, which was 
 troubling him a good deal. 
 
 Only during the last few minutes, as he was about to sail 
 away again, did he even remotely hint at the appointment. 
 
 “You’re doing first rate, Calvin,” he said. “I knew you 
 would. The men are all back of you and are contented and 
 satisfied. If I had my way—” 
 
 He paused, and then repeated the last words. 
 
 “If I had my way—” he said again, and again paused. 
 
 Calvin thought he must be waiting for him to speak. 
 
 “Well, don’t you have it, sir?’ he suggested. “It always 
 seemed to me that if anybody did about as he liked it was 
 you, Cap’n Kellogg.” 
 
 Kellogg sniffed. 
 
 “I generally cal’late to, that’s a fact,” he replied. “I 
 generally figure that I know my business and expect to be 
 left alone to mind it. Sometimes, though, other folks try to 
 mind it for me. There’s a lot of interfering damn fools in 
 this world; did you know it?” 
 
 Homer did not know exactly how he was expected to reply 
 to this statement. 
 
 “Why—yes—so I’ve heard,” he agreed. 
 
 “You've heard right. And most of ’em have been elected 
 
RUGGED WATER Ay 
 
 somethin’ or other. Politics are all right in town meeting 
 or up to the State House, but, by holy, they don’t belong on 
 the beach. Cal, if—if things don’t turn out exactly as—as 
 you and I know they ought to—why . . . but, there, maybe 
 they will. Ill see you again pretty soon. You'll hear from 
 me before long, anyhow. Good-by.” 
 
 He went away, leaving Homer: disappointed and appre- 
 hensive. Apparently his appointment was by no means a 
 certainty. Something had interfered—politics presumably— 
 but what politician would care to bother with a seventy-five- 
 dollar-a-month job in the life-saving service? Politics made 
 men postmasters, of course, but so far it had let the life- 
 savers alone. 
 
 He worried about the matter for a time and then determined 
 to put it from his mind. He had not taken a day from the 
 beach for nearly six weeks and, the good weather continuing, 
 decided to go up to Orham for an afternoon and perhaps 
 part of an evening. There were some errands to be done in 
 the village and—well, there were other reasons which tempted 
 him. 
 
 Peleg Myrick took him up in the Wild Duck. Peleg was 
 still boastful concerning the accuracy of his prophecy in the 
 matter of the big gale. 
 
 “What did them Weather Bureau folks at Washin’ton give 
 out the day afore she landed on us?’ he wanted to know. 
 “Did they say *twas goin’ to blow hard enough to lift the 
 scales off a mackerel? No, siree, they never! ’*T was old 
 Peleg said that. They said, ‘No’therly winds and cloudy,’ 
 that’s what they said. All right as fur as it went, I give in; 
 but ’twas like sayin’ a young one was freckled when he had 
 smallpox. J said, ‘It’s goin’ to tear loose and let her rip 
 and you want to stand from under.’ Folks laughed. Seleucus 
 Gammon, he laughed; but thinks I, “Them that laughs last 
 laughs later on.’ Well, I was right, wa’n’t I? I cal’late I 
 was. I don’t make out to call myself a weather bureau—no, 
 nor a weather washstand neither—but when J—” 
 
 And so on, most of the way up the bay. Calvin paid little 
 attention; he had heard Mr. Myrick before. The sole gues- 
 
48 RUGGED WATER 
 
 tion he asked was the usual one asked by all acquainted with 
 the hermit, the question asked by every summer boarder, and 
 the answer to which was a byword in Orham and its vicinity. 
 Homer knew that answer by heart, but he asked the question 
 merely because answering it pleased Peleg. 
 
 “Let’s see,” he observed, “how is it you get your points 
 on the weather? Something in your bones, isn’t it ?” 
 
 “That’s it, that’s it. It’s a gift, way I look at it. My 
 grandmother she had some of it, too, but not so strong as I 
 have. Her bones used to ache consid’rable ’cordin’ to the 
 way the wind was, but she never studied of it out, she never 
 systemated it, the way I have. I get a—a—snitch in my 
 starboard elbow, we'll say. That means, gener’lly speakin’, 
 sou’west wind, more or less of it ’cordin’ to the ache. If she 
 keeps on a-runnin’ till she gets fur as the wrist, then says I, 
 ‘Look out! It’s goin’ blow hard. Smoky sou’wester, maybe.” 
 Now, when my knee gets tunin’ up—” 
 
 His passenger interrupted. “Say, Peleg,’ he broke in, 
 “you must have been a sort of all-over jumping toothache 
 week before last.” 
 
 Peleg groaned at the recollection. 
 
 “Man alive!” he declared. “I was just one twistin’ titter 
 from jibboom to rudder.” 
 
 Safely landed at the Orham wharf, Homer strolled up to 
 the village, did his few errands at the stores, exchanged 
 casual comments with acquaintances and then walked briskly 
 away. The acquaintances would have been glad to talk 
 longer, had he given them the opportunity. The wreck and 
 the stories in the papers were, so to speak, dispensations of 
 Providence to the gossips. This was the dull season for them 
 and topics were scarce. All sorts of rumors were flying about, 
 rumors intimately connected with the life-saving service and 
 the Setuckit crew in particular. Calvin Homer might have 
 confirmed or denied some of these rumors had he been 
 persuaded to talk, but, apparently, he could not be so per- 
 suaded. They tried, they threw out hints, they asked leading 
 questions, but received no satisfaction. He was pleasant and 
 willing to chat on subjects of no particular importance, but 
 
RUGGED WATER 49 
 
 when the one absorbing topic was broached, he, as one of 
 them described it, “shut up like a quahaug.”’ 
 
 The gossips at the post office watched him as he walked 
 out, and one or two of them followed him as far as the door 
 and peered after him, as long as he was in sight. 
 
 “Headed to the south’ard, ain’t he?’ queried Obed Hal- 
 leck, who, occupying the most comfortable seat by the stove, 
 had prudently resisted temptation. and remained where he 
 was. Seth Burgess, one of the pair who had gone out to the 
 platform, nodded significantly. ‘“South’ard it is,” he an- 
 swered. “Course it ain’t none of my business, but if any- 
 body offered to bet he was bound down in the latitude of 
 the Neck Road J wouldn’t take ’em up.” 
 
 Gaius Cahoon, his comrade on the platform committee, 
 grinned. 
 
 “Cal don’t tell much more’n he figgers to, does he?” he 
 observed. 
 
 Mr. Halleck winked. “Not to us, he don’t,” he admitted. 
 “If you was better lookin’, Gaius, and had red hair, you 
 might be talked to more, I shouldn’t wonder.” 
 
 “If his name was Myra he would, sartin,’”’ observed Seth. 
 “He'll tell Myra all there is to tell—she’ll make him. Myra 
 generally makes out to get what she sets out after.” 
 
 “And she’s set out to get him,” concurred Gaius. ‘Well, 
 she’s some girl, Myra is, and smart, too. I don’t know’s I 
 blame him for hangin’ round down there. If I was younger 
 I might be cruisin’ down the Neck Road myself. I was some 
 cruiser in my day,” he added, complacently. 
 
 Burgess chuckled. “Yes, you was, Gaius,” he declared. 
 “And so was I. He, he! You and me was a team in them 
 times. Do you remember that night when we went over to 
 the Thanksgivin’ ball at Denboro? There was a couple of 
 girls over there that—”’ 
 
 The reminiscence was lengthy and given in detail. When- 
 ever the narrator omitted a remark or incident Mr. Cahoon 
 broke in to supply it. 
 
 Meanwhile Calvin Homer was walking down the Neck 
 Road. It was nearly six o’clock, Orham’s supper time. Win- 
 
50 RUGGED WATER 
 
 dows in the rear of the houses were alight and smoke was 
 rising from the kitchen chimneys. It was a crisp, fine winter 
 evening, a stiap in the air and the early stars like electrically 
 lighted pin holes in the blue-black canopy of a cloudless sky. 
 There was almost no wind. Calvin’s conscience was as clear 
 as the weather, so far as absence from his post was concerned. 
 He had, while at the post office, telephoned Setuckit, and 
 learned from Gammon, who had been left in charge, that 
 all was well at the station. 
 
 “Stay as long as you want to, Cal,’’ Seleucus had said 
 over the phone. “Cal’late we can manage to keep house 
 while you’re gone.... Eh? Wait a minute. ... Well, 
 never mind. Thought maybe Wallie’d want you to see his 
 wife and find out if she was still ashore, but seems he ain’t 
 partic’lar. So long.” 
 
 The Neck Road was not in those days—nor is it even yet— 
 a populous thoroughfare. The dwellings along it are scat- 
 tered and placed well back from the street. The house oc- 
 cupied by Mrs. Serepta Fuller and her daughter was one of 
 the largest, of a type of architecture inflicted upon this coun- 
 try in the early fifties, and displaying much jig-saw orna- 
 mentation. 
 
 Calvin turned in at the gate and walked up the path to the 
 side door. Before he could knock, the door was opened by 
 Mrs. Fuller herself, who had heard his step. She resembled 
 the house in some respects, being rather large, and, for her 
 age, still ornamental. She welcomed the visitor warmly. 
 
 “We're so glad to see you, Cap’n Homer,” she declared. 
 “We've been counting on it ever since we got your letter. 
 Myra is as excited as can be. I declare you’d think it was 
 a year since you were here. And it zs a long time; and we 
 see so few people—of the right kind, I mean. Come right 
 in. Take off your things. Supper will be ready in just a 
 few minutes. Shan’t I get you a cup of hot tea or some- 
 thing? It’s real wintry out, isn’t it?” 
 
 Homer declined the tea. While he was removing his hat 
 and coat Myra Fuller came hurrying to greet him. She was 
 a striking-looking young woman, her hair that “certain shade 
 
RUGGED WATER 51 
 
 of red” which so many like and each one describes differently, 
 a pair of large and most expressive blue eyes, red lips and a 
 determined chin. Her figure was what her mother’s had 
 been twenty years before—in fact, Mrs. Fuller often said that 
 Myra was the image of herself when she was a girl. Those 
 who remembered the lady when she was Sarepta Townsend 
 were satisfied to agree with this statement, just as they had 
 been satisfied with Sarepta in her day. A great many young 
 fellows—and older ones, too—found Myra perfectly satis- 
 factory. She herself seemed less easy. to suit. 
 
 She was, owing to what her mother often referred to as 
 their “reduced circumstances,” teaching in the Orham high 
 school. She was a satisfactory teacher and a remarkably 
 good disciplinarian. She sang a little and played a little 
 more and danced very well indeed. Why she was, at twenty- 
 ' five, still single, was one of Orham’s mysteries. The men, 
 most of them, were certain it was not because of the lack 
 of opportunities ; the women, practically all of them, seemed 
 less sure, although they expressed little discontent with the 
 fact itself, 
 
 Calvin Homer had, of course, known the Fullers all his 
 life. He had known Myra when a schoolgirl. Then she went 
 away to study at Bridgewater and he had not seen her for a 
 long time. After her return he met her infrequently at 
 dances and parties. Rumors of her engagement to this fel- 
 low or that had been spread about the town, but they were 
 always denied. Of late he had seen her more frequently, 
 had called—when on liberty—and was always asked to call 
 again. People wondered why Myra Fuller—an ambitious 
 young woman with aspirations, inherited and cultivated— 
 should care to bother with one as humble as a member of 
 the life-saving service. Captain Ziba Snow, one of Orham’s 
 influential citizens, who lived in the big house at the corner 
 of the Neck Road and the West Main Road, expressed that 
 wonder one evening at the supper table. 
 
 “T noticed Calvin Homer up street this afternoon,” said 
 the captain. ‘“He’s ashore on liberty—I presume likely. And, 
 later on. I noticed him and Myra Fuller walking along to- 
 
62 RUGGED WATER 
 
 gether, sweet and sociable as a couple of rats in a sugar hogs- 
 head. I don’t blame him—she’s a mighty good-lookin’ girl; 
 but why Sarepta Fuller’s child should be wasting time with 
 an ordinary young chap life-saving along shore I can’t make 
 out.” 
 
 Nellie Snow, his seventeen-year-old daughter, answered 
 his remark. 
 
 “Because he isn’t a bit ordinary,” she declared, with con- 
 viction. “He is one of the handsomest and nicest fellows in 
 Orham, all the girls say so—and smart, too, even if he is a 
 life-saver. If Myra Fuller gets him she’ll be lucky. I hope 
 she doesn’t.” 
 
 Her father turned to regard her with sudden and sig- 
 nificant scrutiny. 
 
 “Humph!” he said, after a moment. That was all, but a 
 “humph” may express much. 
 
 Miss Fuller’s welcome was as cordial as her mother’s. The 
 supper was a distinctly pleasant meal. Since his own mother’s 
 death Calvin had learned to appreciate and look forward to 
 the comparatively few home meals which came his way. Life 
 at the station was interesting—tremendously interesting to 
 him, or he would not have remained there—but there was a 
 flavor of rest and homely comfort and domesticity about a 
 supper like this one which awakened memories and gratified 
 senses which, at other times, he was scarcely aware he pos- 
 sessed. The shaded light, the table linen, the polished knives 
 and forks and spoons, the quiet ease of it all—he found him- 
 self contrasting these with the bare mess room at Setuckit, 
 the glare of the bracket lamps and their reflectors, the hit or 
 miss service and the noisy jokes. He liked his work, he was 
 tremendously fond of his crew, enjoyed being with them and 
 was proud to consider himself one of them—but this, this 
 was different and he liked this, too. This supper was like 
 the old-time suppers at home. It was good to hear femi- 
 nine voices once more, a pleasant change from Seleucus 
 Gammon’s gruff sallies and Josh Phinney’s strident re- 
 joinders. 
 
 The Fullers did their best to make him feel at home. The 
 
 ’ 
 
RUGGED WATER 53 
 
 supper was a good one—Sarepta and her daughter were com- 
 petent cooks—and the food was a cheerful contrast to that 
 prepared by Ellis Badger. Mrs. Fuller and Myra kept up 
 a steady flow of conversation, dealing, for the most part, of 
 course, with the wrecks at Setuckit and at Crooked Hill Shoal. 
 
 “We're all awfully proud of you, Calvin,” declared Sarepta, 
 beaming above the teapot. “We know what you did down 
 there and everybody has been talking about it. I declare, it 
 makes us proud just to know you are such a friend of ours, 
 doesn’t it, Myra?” 
 
 Myra nodded. “Indeed it does,” she agreed. 
 
 “Everybody says that if it hadn’t been for you the folks 
 on that schooner would have been lost, just as sure as could 
 be. And they all say you are the best cap’n in the service. 
 Don’t they, Myra?” 
 
 Miss Fuller again agreed. Calvin thought it time to 
 protest. 
 
 “But I’m not a cap’n,” he put in. 
 
 “Yes, you are—or what amounts to the same thing. And 
 you're going to be one, really, just as soon as the appoint- 
 ment is made.” 
 
 Their guest shook his head. “That isn’t sure, by any 
 means,” he said. “There are plenty of others who deserve 
 it as much as I do.” 
 
 Myra’s eyes flashed and her color deepened. 
 
 “Nonsense !’’ she explained. “There isn’t anybody like you 
 in the service.” 
 
 Calvin laughed aloud. “I guess you don’t know the rest 
 of the boys,” he suggested. 
 
 “Of course I do. I know them as well as you do—or 
 better. You are head and shoulders over them all. Look 
 at the rest of them! Who are they? Just ignorant, common 
 fishermen and lobstermen and people like that. They don’t 
 know anything except how to row a dory and walk up and 
 down the beach.” 
 
 “Well, that’s about all a life-saver needs to know, isn’t it?” 
 
 “Perhaps so, but it isn’t all you know, Calvin Homer. 
 Everybody says you’re too good for the work—everybody. 
 
54 RUGGED WATER 
 
 But they are going to make you keeper there at Setuckit; 
 they have got brains enough for that.” 
 
 “Well, I don’t know about the brains, and I’m not so sure 
 about—”’ 
 
 “Oh, don’t! It makes me cross to hear you run yourself 
 down. Of course you'll be captain. You know you will.” 
 
 Mrs. Fuller put in a word. “Myra has been so put out 
 about all these things in the papers lately,’ she observed. 
 “All this praising up of those Crooked Hill people. It 
 makes her provoked, and I don’t wonder. It does me, too.” 
 
 Myra’s eyes snapped; they were handsome eyes and the 
 sparkle was becoming. 
 
 “Provoked!”’ she repeated. “I should think I was. Who 
 wouldn’t be? Itis all so ridiculous. Those people at Crooked 
 Hill—that Bartlett and the rest—what did they do? Noth- 
 ing—except blunder and get themselves and every one else 
 drowned.” 
 
 “Bartlett wasn’t drowned.” 
 
 “Well, he deserved to be. It was only luck that saved 
 him. And yet they are printing his picture in the paper, and 
 calling him a hero, and goodness knows what. It is out- 
 rageous. You didn’t get yourself drowned, or your men 
 either. You ought to be in the papers. You ought to be 
 talked about in Washington. Oh, if I were a man, if I 
 wouldn’t say things!” 
 
 Calvin, looking at her, was conscious of a feeling that for 
 her to be a man would be a pity—yes, a great pity. He was 
 glad that she was not. And, in spite of himself, he found 
 her indignation flattering. 
 
 “Oh, now,” he said, “that doesn’t amount to anything, all 
 that newspaper stuff.” 
 
 “It does, too. It amounts to a lot, and you ought to have 
 it. I wish I could see that Kellogg man. I’d tell him what 
 I think. Why doesn’t he come out and tell those newspapers 
 the truth? He knows well enough. Why don’t you make 
 him °” 
 
 Homer laughed at the idea. “I should have a good time 
 making Cap’n Kellogg do anything,” he said. 
 
RUGGED WATER 
 
 on 
 oO 
 
 Miss Fuller tossed her head. 
 
 “IT could make him,” she declared. “I only wish I had 
 the chance.” 
 
 “How? What do you mean?” 
 
 Another toss of the head, a droop of the eyelids, and a 
 little smile. 
 
 “Oh, I could,” repeated the young lady. 
 
 Her mother smiled indulgently. “Myra’s got a real con- 
 vincing way with her,” she said. “And she is so cross when 
 she talks about what she calls your wrongs, Calvin. I never 
 saw her so put out before. She has talked about nobody 
 but you ever since those newspaper stories began. I don’t 
 know what does ail her.” 
 
 Miss Fuller was prettily confused. “Oh, mother, stop!” 
 she commanded. “Don’t be so silly. . . . Now, let’s forget 
 the old papers and talk about something else.” 
 
 So they did, to their guest’s relief. Mrs. Fuller spoke feel- 
 ingly concerning bygone days, when her husband was alive 
 and they were “able to have things.”’ This led, by tortuous 
 paths, to the present, its inconveniences, and her daughter’s 
 capabilities as a teacher and household manager. After a 
 time Myra again felt called upon to protest. 
 
 “Oh, mother, do stop talking about me,’ she begged. 
 Sarepta bridled. 
 
 “Why shouldn’t I talk about you?” she wished to know. 
 “You're all the child I’ve got and nobody ever had a smarter 
 or better one. ... Do have another cup of tea, Cap’n 
 Calvin.” 
 
 When they rose from the table Mrs. Fuller insisted upon 
 doing the clearing away unassisted. 
 
 “Myra,” she said, “you and the cap’n go right into the 
 sitting room and talk. He'll be having to go back to the 
 station pretty soon and goodness knows when he'll be able 
 to come again. There are only a few dishes—we never have 
 anything but an everyday supper when you come, Calvin; 
 treat you just like one of the family, you see—and I’d just 
 as soon do them as not.” 
 
 So Calvin and Myra went into the sitting room, the big 
 
56 RUGGED WATER 
 
 square room with the square piano and the black walnut 
 set, and on the walls the oil portraits of Sarepta’s father and 
 mother, portraits painted by an unknown artist who should 
 have been an undertaker. The hanging lamp in that sitting 
 room gave but a dim light—Myra declared she did not know 
 what was the matter with the old thing—and so, when they 
 sat together upon the haircloth sofa to look over the scrap- 
 book which Miss Fuller had kept since she was a girl, they 
 were obliged to bend low in order to see. 
 
 The scrapbook she had brought down from her own room 
 at Calvin’s request. How he came to make the request he 
 could scarcely have told. Miss Fuller had, for some reason, 
 happened to mention it, had casually spoken of her pos- 
 session of such a book, soon after they came into the sitting 
 room, Then they had talked about it, just why he was not 
 sure, for he had not at first been greatly interested. But 
 the young lady said it was her chief treasure. There were 
 things in it she would not show to any one—oh, not for 
 worlds and worlds! That is, to hardly any one. Didn’t he 
 wish he might see it? Being thus challenged, he, of course, 
 declared he wanted to see it. Miss Fuller at first laughed, 
 was provokingly obdurate, and then flutteringly hesitant. 
 Would he promise not to tell if she showed it to him? He 
 would. And promise not to read anything in it unless she gave 
 permission? Yes, he would promise that. So, after more 
 hesitation—becoming and pretty hesitation—the scrapbook 
 was brought and they bent over it, sitting close together upon 
 the old sofa. 
 
 And, as they bent, strands of her hair brushed his cheek, 
 he could hear her soft breathing. He was conscious—in- 
 creasingly and peculiarly conscious—of her nearness to him 
 and of the perfume she had used, of the full curve of her 
 neck and the touch of her hands as they turned the pages 
 together. 
 
 There were many of these pages, some with schoolgirl 
 pictures and clippings from normal-school magazines and in- 
 vitations to parties and the like. All these Miss Fuller passed 
 by quickly, some of them very quickly, but over the pages in 
 
RUGGED WATER 57 
 
 the latter portion of the book she seemed to linger just a 
 little. And suddenly Calvin, bending beside her, became 
 aware that these recent pages were filled with clippings deal- 
 ing with the exploits of the Setuckit crew, his own crew. 
 
 There was a picture of the crew, with himself as Number 
 One man, prominent in the foreground. There were long 
 stories of wrecks and, in each—he could not help noting— 
 his own name was mentioned. In two or three instances, the 
 name was underscored in pencil. He felt an odd thrill. She 
 must be very much interested in him, this attractive young 
 woman beside him, to keep and treasure all these. And why 
 had she penciled his name more than those of his comrades? 
 It was flattering—yes; but to him it was more than that. A 
 sophisticated person might have felt it a trifle obvious, but 
 Calvin was anything but sophisticated, so far as the opposite 
 sex was concerned. He had been a shy boy, and he was now 
 a man’s man. Women were scarce at Setuckit, even in the 
 summer months, and when they visited the station he had 
 made it a rule to keep out of their way. He turned again 
 to look at the rich gold of the head beside him and the thrill 
 returned—and lingered. The rustle of the pages ceased, the 
 book remained open. There was silence in the room, a 
 significant, dangerous silence. 
 
 It was Calvin who broke that silence, and his voice trem- 
 bled a little as he spoke. 
 
 “Why have you kept all those, Myra?” he asked, in a low 
 tone. 
 
 She did not answer immediately, and when she did her tone, 
 too, was almost a whisper. 
 
 “Oh, I—I don’t know,” she faltered. ‘“I—I wanted to 
 keep them.” 
 
 “Have you read them all?” 
 
 “Ves, I—I think I know them about by heart.” 
 
 “But—why ?” 
 
 “T don’t know. . . . Please don’t ask me 
 
 So of course he did ask her. His hand moved toward hers, 
 clasped it. She did not withdraw her own. ~ 
 
 “Why have you kept all these?” he repeated. 
 
 {?? 
 
58 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “TI don’t know, Calvin.” 
 
 “But you say you know them by heart. Do you, really?” 
 
 “Ves,” ; 
 
 “Myra—I—was it because you—you liked to read about— 
 about me?” 
 
 The golden head turned, the big blue eyes looked up into 
 his. As has already been said, they were expressive eyes. 
 
 “OQh—oh, Calvin!” she breathed. 
 
 The inevitable followed as, time, place and personalities 
 considered, it was bound to follow. He kissed her. A few 
 minutes—or more than a few—later he came out of a giddy 
 sort of daze to find himself seated there upon the haircloth 
 sofa, holding a handsome young woman in his arms, and 
 stammering various things—he was not quite sure what. 
 
 But the young woman seemed to be sure. If she also had 
 been in a daze there was little trace of it remaining. She 
 snuggled comfortably in his arms and looked up at him 
 again. 
 
 “Oh, Calvin,” she murmured, “isn’t it wonderful ?” 
 
 It was wonderful, certainly, so far as he was concerned, 
 so wonderful that he scarcely realized what it was all about, 
 least of all what it really meant. And then, at that psycho~ 
 logical moment, the door from the dining room opened and 
 Mrs. Fuller entered. If she had been listening at the other 
 side of that door the moment could not have been more psy- 
 chological. 
 
 She uttered a little scream. So did Myra. Calvin said 
 nothing—words were not among his possessions just then. 
 
 “Well! Why, I never!” gasped Sarepta. Her daughter 
 gently disengaged her waist from the partially paralyzed arms 
 encircling it, and rose. 
 
 “Mother,” she said, “Calvin and I are engaged to be mar- 
 ried. Isn’t it wonderful? . . . Calvin dear, it is only mother. 
 Can’t you speak to her ?” 
 
 He could not, of course, but it really made little difference, 
 for Mrs. Fuller did sufficient speaking for the two. At first 
 she declared she believed she should faint right straight away ; 
 but it was an erroneous belief—she did not faint. She ex- 
 
RUGGED WATER 59 
 
 claimed, and choked, and wept a little, and then kissed 
 Myra over and over again, after which she threw her arms 
 about Mr. Homer’s neck and kissed him. Calvin, whose 
 kissing experiences, outside of his own family, had been 
 pretty closely limited to games at boy-and-girl parties and a 
 few casual flirtations on straw rides or returns from dances, 
 was overwhelmed with guilty embarrassment. There was no 
 reason why he should feel guilty, but somehow he did. And 
 even yet he could scarcely comprehend the situation; the 
 after effects of the daze were still with him. 
 
 Mrs. Fuller wept and hugged him, and she and Myra 
 hugged each other, and then the former declared she was so 
 glad she did not know what to do. 
 
 “If I had had the picking of a son-in-law,” she vowed, 
 “T couldn’t have found a better one. And, oh, Calvin, I 
 don’t believe even you realize what a dear, lovely, smart wife 
 you're going to have. She is a blessing. We’ll all be so 
 happy together, won’t we?” 
 
 And so on, for a time. Then Sarepta turned to the door. 
 
 “T must run back to my dishes,” she said, and added archly, 
 “T guess likely you can spare me. Engaged folks aren’t very 
 particular about having other company around. At least, I 
 know J wasn’t when J was engaged. Of course I'll see you 
 again, Calvin dear, before you go. Oh, I’m so glad, for all 
 our sakes!” 
 
 She went away, carefully closing the door after her. Myra 
 sat down again upon the sofa and Calvin, still giddy, sat 
 down beside her. It was nearly ten when he rose to go. 
 He had told Peleg that he would meet him at the wharf at 
 nine, and his odd sense of guilt was not lessened by this 
 knowledge. He and Myra had said many things since her 
 mother left them; Miss Fuller said most of them. 
 
 She had spoken of the future—their future together—but 
 she had spoken of his own even more. She was very ambi- 
 tious for him, she declared. He was going to get that ap- 
 pointment as keeper, that was sure already, but that was te 
 be only the beginning. 
 
 “You are going right on,” she said with confidence, “right 
 
60 RUGGED WATER 
 
 on up and up. My husband isn’t going to be just a life- 
 saver, he is going to be more than that. Superintendent Kel- 
 logg is getting pretty old for such a place as he has. He 
 won't be there very much longer; he’ll make some mistake or 
 other, and then some one else will be appointed district super- 
 intendent.” 
 
 Calvin protested. “Oh, no,” he said. “Cap’n Kellogg is 
 a fine man and—” 
 
 She put her fingers on his lips. ‘“He’s an old man,” she 
 insisted. “And he’s an old fool, too.” 
 
 “Now, Myra—” 
 
 “He is, or he would have appointed you keeper two weeks 
 ago. And he wouldn’t have allowed those idiots of newspaper 
 men to print all those lies about that Bartlett and the rest. I 
 hate that Bartlett.” 
 
 “Why? You don’t know him, do you?” 
 
 “No, but I know his daughter, or I did know her over at 
 Bridgewater. She was there for a little while, a freshy 
 when I was in my senior year. I met her three or four 
 times and I didn’t like her a bit. She is a silly, goody-goody 
 thing, pretending to be too honorable to have any fun, or— 
 Oh, I hate hypocrites, don’t you? ... But there, dearest, 
 we won't talk about her, will we? We'll talk about you. I 
 want you to promise you’ll do everything you can after you 
 are keeper to push yourself forward. Ill help you—oh, I 
 can! There are ways. I know lots of people, and some of 
 them—the men especially—like me pretty well. We'll make 
 you superintendent some day. But we won’t stop there. 
 You’re not going to stay in the life-saving service, you 
 know.” 
 
 “Well, I don’t suppose I shall, always. There isn’t much 
 future in it. But I shall hate to give it up. I do like it. 
 The fellows in it are—” 
 
 “They aren’t your kind and you don’t belong with them. 
 You’re going to be a rich man some day. I always said I 
 should marry a rich man, and I’ll make you one before I’m 
 forty. You just promise me to push yourself forward all 
 you can, and we’ll show some of those narrow, self-satisfied 
 
RUGGED WATER 61 
 
 Orham ninnies a few things. ... Now, don’t look so 
 frightened, dear. . . . Kiss me, Calvin.” 
 
 They said good night at the side door, an affectionate, 
 lingering farewell it was, on Miss Fuller’s part especially. He 
 was to write her every day and she would write him. And 
 he must not forget his promise. 
 
 “Keep yourself in the front of things all the time,” she 
 urged. “If the reporters come down there don’t let them 
 talk to any one but you. And I shall be helping and con- 
 triving here. You'll be surprised at what I can do to help. 
 A girl that—well, that isn’t too homely and that knows a 
 thing or two can help a lot. Good night, you dear boy. Re- 
 member the promise.” 
 
 Homer, walking briskly along the deserted sidewalks on 
 his way to the wharf, was in a curious state of mind. If 
 there was one thing certain it was that, when he came to the 
 Fuller home that evening, he had no intention of leaving it 
 an engaged man. He had given little thought to marriage. 
 His plans for the future had been indefinite enough; they 
 had centered about his work and the new responsibilities of 
 command which seemed likely to be his, and women had no 
 part in them. And now—why, now one woman had taken 
 charge of them, would—and ought to—monopolize them. 
 Myra Fuller was a pretty girl, an attractive and very clever 
 girl, but— 
 
 There should be no “buts,” he realized that keenly, and his 
 conscience smote him. It was wonderful to think that such 
 a girl loved him; he did not understand it. And yet she did 
 love him; she had said so and he must believe it. He should 
 be very proud. She was one of the most popular girls in 
 Orham. When other girls had been neglected by masculine 
 followers Myra had always had at least one hanging about. 
 He remembered rumors of her engagement—or rumors that 
 she was “just as good as engaged’’—to this fellow or that. 
 And now, of all the list, she had chosen him. As his wife— 
 the word smote him almost like a chill. He was to take a 
 wife. He was engaged to be married. He was! 
 
 She herself had suggested that the engagement be kept 
 
62 RUGGED WATER 
 
 a secret for the present. He had agreed to this—had, in 
 fact, felt a sort of relief in agreeing. He did not quite un- 
 derstand why she wished to delay the announcement; the 
 delay, apparently, had something to do with those ambitious 
 plans for his future which she talked so much about. It was 
 fine of her to be so interested in him. She had said he was 
 to become a rich man; she was to make him one. He had 
 never dreamed of riches; the acquiring of money had never 
 attracted him greatly. But it attracted her; she meant to 
 make him rich in spite of himself. And she would do it— 
 yes, when a girl like that set out to do a thing, she would 
 and could achieve her object. He felt perfectly certain of 
 that, and with the certainty came a sense of helplessness, 
 almost as if he were in a trap with no way out. 
 
 His walk to the landing was not the path of glory which 
 a triumphant lover is supposed to tread. The loom of the 
 sail of Peleg’s boat at the end of the wharf brought him 
 out of his mental maze and Mr. Myrick’s voice impatiently 
 hailing him awoke him from the future to the immediate 
 reality. 
 
 “Well, so here you be at last,” vouchsafed the skipper of 
 the Wild Duck. “I began to think you’d got lost in the dark 
 somewhere. Been roostin’ here over an hour, I have. I 
 don’t know’s you realize it, but it’s beginnin’ to breeze on 
 and I’ve got a couple of aches in my port knee jint that 
 means blow, if they don’t mean more’n that. Where you 
 been cruisin’ to, anyhow? I’m pretty nigh froze to a crisp. 
 This ain’t no Fourth of July night; didn’t you know it? 
 Good thing I had comp’ny or I’d a lost my grip on to my- 
 self and swore a few. Climb aboard! Lively! My fingers 
 are so numb I don’t know’s I can unlimber ’em enough to 
 cast off,” 
 
 To most of this tirade Homer paid no attention. He 
 swung over the stringpiece of the wharf and dropped into 
 the cockpit of the catboat. Then he became aware that he 
 and Myrick were not the only persons aboard the Wild Duck. 
 Some one else was seated there in the stern near the tiller. 
 This individual rose to his feet. A heavy, bulky man he 
 
RUGGED WATER 63 
 
 was and, against the background of starlit sky and water, 
 Calvin caught sight of the fringes of a thick beard stirring 
 in the wind. 
 
 He did not recognize the man, but he took it for granted 
 that the latter must be some one he knew. 
 
 “Why, hello!” he said. 
 
 The man held out a mittened hand. His voice, when he 
 spoke, was deep and his method of speech what Cape Cod- 
 ders describe as “moderate.” 
 
 “How are you, Mr. Homer?’ he said. “Glad to know 
 you.” 
 
 Calvin shook the proffered hand, but he was puzzled. The 
 man was a stranger. Myrick grinned the grin of superior 
 knowledge. 
 
 “Don’t know who ’tis, do ye, Cal?” he observed. ‘Well, 
 it’s somebody that we’ve all heard consider’ble tell of lately. 
 Cal, let me make you acquainted to Mr. Benoni Bartlett. 
 Crooked Hill Shoals—you know, Cal. He’s cal’latin’ to sail 
 down to the pint along with us, Mr. Bartlett is. Ain’t ye, 
 Mr. Bartlett?” 
 
 Bartlett bowed, gravely and deliberately, as he seemed to 
 do everything. 
 
 “Goin’ to ask you to take care of me at the station for a 
 little while, Homer,” he said. “I’m goin’ down there to— 
 well, to kind of look things over, the Lord willin’.” 
 
 Calvin stared at him. Why was Bartlett going to Setuckit 
 Station to look things over? What on earth did it mean? 
 What might it mean? 
 
 The catboat swung away from the wharf. Myrick came 
 aft to the tiller. 
 
 “All set, be ye?” inquired Peleg. “Um-hum. And time 
 enough, too, I’d say. Let ’er go.” 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 [LD eet the sail down to Setuckit Peleg did most of 
 
 the talking. Bartlett seemed disinclined to converse, 
 
 and his answers to Myrick’s questions were mono- 
 syllabic. These questions dealt with almost every conceivable 
 topic, but centered, naturally enough, about the great storm 
 and the disaster at Crooked Hill Shoal, the tragic happening 
 of which the Wild Duck’s unexpected passenger was the 
 sole survivor. And of this particular subject it was increas- 
 ingly plain that Bartlett was determined not to speak. 
 
 “You’ve had a turrible time, ain’t you, Mr. Bartlett?” 
 observed Peleg, hopefully. 
 
 Silence. Myrick tried again. 
 
 “T say, you and the Crooked Hill crew had a turrible time,” 
 he repeated. Still no acknowledgment. 
 
 “Eh?” persisted the hermit, by no means discouraged. 
 “What did you say, Mr. Bartlett?” 
 
 “When ?” 
 
 “Why, just now.” 
 
 “TI didn’t say anything.” 
 
 “No, I don’t know’s you did, come to think of it. I was 
 sayin’ that you Crooked Hill fellers had a turrible time in that 
 wreck scrape of yours. ... I guess likely you didn’t hear 
 me.” 
 
 “T heard you.” 
 
 “Oh! Oh, I want to know! ... Well—er—well—?” 
 
 “W hat rade 
 
 “Why—why, I thought you was just goin’ to say some- 
 thin’ about it.” 
 
 “T wasn’t.” 
 
 Mr. Myrick swallowed hard, opened his mouth, closed it, 
 and then attempted another attack, strategical this time and 
 addressed by way of his other passenger. 
 
 64 
 
RUGGED WATER 65 
 
 “Me and Calvin and all the boys down to Setuckit, we’ve 
 been talkin’ about you Crooked Hill folks a lot lately,” he 
 observed. “Been readin’ the papers every chance we could 
 get, ain’t we, Calvin?” 
 
 But this move, too, was a failure. Homer was as sparing 
 of speech as Bartlett. He had no wish to talk. He was 
 doing a vast amount of thinking and his thoughts were 
 speculative and distrusting. Benoni Bartlett, the newspaper 
 sensation, was on his way to the Setuckit station to “look 
 things over.” Why? Again he remembered his recent talk 
 with Superintendent Kellogg and the latter’s evident ill humor 
 and his hint at interference in high places. The hint had 
 made him uneasy at the time, but he had tried to forget it. 
 Now it came back to him, with all its possible implications, 
 including one of which he had never dreamed as a possibility. 
 Even the mental disturbance following realization of the 
 fact that he was engaged to be married was crowded out of 
 his mind. So he, too, snubbed the garrulous Myrick. 
 
 Peleg, however, was not the type to accept a snub. If the 
 others refused to talk to him, he, at least, could talk to them, 
 and he continued to do so. The wind was so far but a mild 
 and steady breeze, and the weather, in spite of the prog- 
 nostications of his various “joints,” as fine as could be wished. 
 His task as skipper and pilot was, therefore, an easy one and 
 his mind and tongue were free. He used the latter un- 
 sparingly. It was not every night—or day, for that matter— 
 that the Wild Duck carried a real live hero, one whose name 
 and photograph were published abroad. Once, years before, 
 he had acted as cook for a party a member of which was an 
 ex-governor of the state. Peleg had talked of that happy 
 week ever since. The subject was, except with strangers, 
 utterly worn out; his Setuckit acquaintances hailed the least 
 reference to it with derisive jeers. Now, by good luck, he © 
 was thrown in contact with another celebrity, some one else 
 to furnish floods of embellished reminiscence in the months 
 to come. So Mr. Myrick’s exultant tongue wagged alone. 
 
 Neither of his passengers paid the least attention to him. 
 They sat, one on each side of the cockpit, each engrossed in 
 
66 RUGGED WATER 
 
 his own musings. Bartlett, his heavy beard blown by the 
 wind and his cap pulled down over his eyes, was a bulky 
 shadow, mysterious, silent and, in Homer’s eyes, increasingly 
 ominous. Calvin, his knees crossed and one arm resting upon 
 the rail, stared ahead over the water. He lit his pipe and 
 then, remembering that he had bought some cigars at the 
 store in the village, offered them to his fellow voyagers. 
 Peleg seized his with enthusiasm. Bartlett refused. 
 
 “T don’t smoke,” he said gravely. ‘Much obliged.” 
 
 Myrick thought he saw a possible crack in the social ice 
 and jumped at it. 
 
 “Don’t care about terbacker, Mr. Bartlett?’ he asked. 
 “Don’t like it, eh?” 
 
 ies. 
 
 “Eh? What? Oh, you do? But you don’t smoke? Hum. 
 ... Well, some folks had ruther chew, I know. And some 
 of ’em had ruther do both to once. I knew a man one time 
 —used to play the bass fiddle, he did, along with me, up to 
 Thanksgivin’ and Fourth of July balls; that man—” 
 
 The heavy beard lifted. “I don’t chew and I don’t smoke,” 
 said Bartlett, slowly. ‘And I don’t go to dancin’ times, 
 either.” 
 
 “Humph! Sho! Don’t you believe in dancin’ ?” 
 
 The reply was prompt this time. ‘Believe!’ scornfully. 
 “T believe in the devil—so far as that goes.” 
 
 Even Mr. Myrick was stumped for the moment. The 
 stumping was but momentary, however, and, although he 
 changed the subject, he continued to talk. The next time 
 he struck fire was with what should have been a much less 
 inflammable topic than tobacco. He had wandered, by cir- 
 cuitous ways, back to the Crooked Hill wreck. 
 
 “Well, Mr. Bartlett,” he observed, “I presume likely you 
 ain’t feelin’ quite yourself even yet, be you?” 
 
 His passenger straightened in his seat. 
 
 “What do you mean by that?” he demanded, sharply. 
 
 “Eh? Why—why, nothin’ special. I was just thinkin’ 
 that, considerin’ all you’d been through, you couldn’t scurcely 
 be what you’d call fit yet awhile, so—” 
 
RUGGED WATER 67 
 
 Bartlett lifted a big hand. “Fit!” he repeated. “Did any- 
 body tell you I wasn’t fit?” 
 
 “Tell me? Why, no, nobody told me. I just thought—” 
 
 “I’m as fit to-day as ever I was. As ever I was. Do you 
 understand ?” 
 
 “Why—why, sartin I understand. I only—well, all I 
 meant was that, considerin’ how you’d been next door to 
 drownded—just saved by luck, as you might say—” 
 
 “It wasn’t luck that saved me.” 
 
 “No? No-o, of course ’twasn’t, not really. Them fellers 
 on the beach they—” 
 
 “They didn’t save me, either.” 
 
 Peleg was surprised; so was Homer. 
 
 “They didn’t?” cried Myrick. “Why, do tell! Is that 
 so! The newspapers, they said— Why, who did save you, 
 Mr. Bartlett?” 
 
 The answer was solemnly given, there was a tremendous 
 earnestness in it. 
 
 “God A’mighty saved me,” declared Bartlett. “Him— 
 and nobody else.” 
 
 Mr. Myrick gasped. “Eh? Sho! Why—I never thought 
 of Him,’ he stammered. 
 
 The big beard nodded. 
 
 “Most folks don’t,” declared Bartlett. “It would be better 
 for ’em if they did.” 
 
 He did not speak again until the end of the trip was at 
 hand. Then occurred an incident which, in the light of after 
 events, was prophetic. At the time, however, it seemed odd— 
 that was all. The Wild Duck had drawn up to her moorings 
 in the sheltered cove in the bay side of the point. Peleg’s 
 dory was anchored there and he had picked up her anchor 
 rope with the boat hook and drawn the dory alongside. 
 
 “All ashore that’s goin’ ashore,” he announced. “Hop in, 
 Cal. Git right aboard, Mr. Bartlett.” 
 
 Homer swung over the side into the dory. His fellow pas- 
 senger followed suit, but more slowly and carefully, and 
 seated himself on the after thwart. Myrick, having lowered 
 the sail of the catboat and anchored her, tumbled after them 
 
68 RUGGED WATER 
 
 with the ease and lightness of a hippopotamus. The dory 
 heeled down until her rail touched the water. Calvin laughed. 
 
 “Great Scott, Peleg!’ he exclaimed. ‘“You’re as spry and 
 handy as a ton of coal, aren’t you?” 
 
 Bartlett did not laugh. He, too, uttered an exclamation, 
 but it was more like that of a nervous woman. 
 
 “Careful!” he cried, sharply. “Look out!” 
 
 It was not so much the words as the tone which was odd. 
 Homer stared at him in surprise. Even Myrick seemed to 
 share the surprise, for he, too, stared. 
 
 “Sit still, you!’ snapped Bartlett. 
 
 Peleg grinned as he fitted the oars between the thole pins. 
 
 “Sartin sure, Mr. Bartlett,” he agreed. “Settin’ still is my 
 job for a few minutes now. Think I was goin’ to upset ye, 
 did ye? Well, I ain’t. This old dory of mine is kind of 
 a crank, if you aren’t used to her, but she’ll stay right side 
 up, give her her own way. Strangers, though, she makes 
 "em kind of fidgety sometimes and I don’t know’s I blame 
 7em.”’ ‘ 
 
 The passenger in the stern laughed then, and in an uneasy 
 and embarrassed fashion. It was the first time Homer had 
 heard him laugh, and even now he seemed to do it with an 
 effort. 
 
 “T began to think I was in for another spill,” he explained. 
 “So this is Setuckit, eh? I haven’t been here for over ten 
 years.” 
 
 They landed on the beach, said good night to Myrick, who 
 was booked for another long sail before reaching his home 
 moorings opposite his shanty, and walked together through 
 the heavy sand up to the station. The mess room was un- 
 tenanted, all the crew, except the man on beach patrol and 
 the watchman in the tower, having turned in hours before. 
 Bartlett looked about the room with interest. 
 
 “Keep things taut and shipshape aboard here, don’t you?” 
 he observed. “Well, I cal’late I'll go aloft and turn in my- 
 self. I presume likely you’ve got an empty berth up in the 
 spare room, haven’t you?” 
 
 Homer told him that the room was empty; it had been 
 
 Ee ee 
 
RUGGED WATER 69 
 
 unoccupied since the departure of the men from the David 
 Cowes. 
 
 Bartlett nodded. ‘First rate,” he said. “Well, I’ll sleep 
 there, then—for to-night, anyhow. I’m goin’ to stay here for 
 a day or so and er—well, look around, same as I said. You 
 and I’ll have some talks together to-morrow or next day.” 
 
 Homer offered to go up with him and light the lamps, 
 but the offer was declined. 
 
 “IT guess likely I know the ropes aboard here,” was the 
 answer. “I’ve been in the service long enough to know ’em. 
 Thank you just the same. Good night.” 
 
 Slowly and heavily the bulky figure climbed the stairs. 
 Calvin watched it go. Then he sat down by the stove to 
 think. His thoughts were more bewildering than ever and 
 no more pleasant. When, a half hour later, he passed the 
 door of the spare room—the quarters for wrecked sailors— 
 on his way to the tower, he noticed that the door of that 
 room was ajar and that the lamp was still burning. Glancing 
 in as he passed, he saw Benoni Bartlett seated beneath the 
 bracket lamp reading a book. It was a small, leather-bound 
 book, and Homer judged it to be either a pocket Bible or 
 a Testament. 
 
 Next morning the appearance of the unexpected guest at 
 the breakfast table aroused tremendous interest and much 
 speculative gossip among the men. The guest himself was 
 as uncommunicative as Myrick and Homer had found him 
 the previous night. He was agreeable enough in his solemn 
 way and answered when spoken to—on all subjects except 
 those dealing with the Crooked Hill tragedy and his own 
 narrow escape. Of these he simply would not talk. He 
 inspected the station and its surroundings thoroughly and 
 without waiting for an invitation The barn, the horses, the 
 boats and their appurtenances, all these he seemed to find 
 most interesting. This interest, considering the fact that 
 he had spent years of his life in the life-saving service, was 
 deemed peculiar, to say the least. 
 
 Seleucus Gammon, watching his chance, spoke to Homer 
 concerning it. 
 
70 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “What in the nation is he loafin’ down here at Setuckit for, 
 Cal?” demanded Seleucus. “Just now I caught him in the 
 boat room pawin’ over the breeches buoy gear. “How do you 
 like the looks of ’em?’ says I, lookin’ to see him squirm a 
 little mite; ’most anybody would, you know, bein’ caught 
 nosin’ around where ’twan’t any of his partic’lar business. 
 But no, sir-ee! Crimustee! Nary a squirm did he squirm. 
 Just said everything ’peared to be all right, fur’s he could 
 see; and that’s all he said. I swear if he didn’t seem to be 
 waitin’ for me to clear out so’s he could do some more pawin’. 
 I said one or two more things and he never said nothin’, so 
 after a spell I had to go. But what’s it all mean? What’s he 
 here for? Who told him to come?” 
 
 Calvin shook his head. “I don’t know any more about it 
 than you do, Seleucus,” he said. “He’s here—to look things 
 over, that’s what he told me. And that’s all he told. Of 
 course he wouldn’t have come on his own accord. Probably 
 we shall know more by and by.” 
 
 “Humph! Maybe. But what do you cal’late it means?” 
 
 “Don’t know, Seleucus. And there isn’t much use guess- 
 ing.” 
 
 “TI cal’late not. . . . But say, Cal, he’s a queer critter, ain’t 
 he? I'd heard he was, and maybe this narrer squeak of his 
 has made him queerer. Don’t talk much, and don’t laugh 
 once in a dog’s age. Only time I see him get the least mite 
 stirred up was when Josh Phinney hove out some joke or 
 other about Noah and the ark. Josh was sayin’ he cal’lated 
 old Noah must have took some of the animals aboard in the 
 breeches buoy, “long towards the last of the high water. 
 *Twan’t much of a joke, but ’twas as good as most of Josh’s 
 reg’lar run. The rest of us laughed, but old Bologny—that’s 
 what the gang is beginnin’ to call him behind his back; 
 Bologny sausage, you know—Bologny never laughed; no 
 sir! Phinney winked at us fellers, and asked him if he 
 didn’t think ’twas prob’le that Noah shot a line over the 
 tree where the monkeys was and took ’em off that way. Now 
 if it had been me I’d have said that one thing was sartin, he 
 got ’°em aboard somehow, because one of their great, great 
 
RUGGED WATER 71 
 
 grandchildren was settin’ right in front of me. But all 
 Bologny done was get up and go out. Well, I always heard 
 he was pious as Jabez Lothrop’s dog that wouldn’t eat his 
 Sunday dinner nowheres but on the meetin’-house back steps. 
 Humph! .. . What did you say, Cal?” 
 
 “Nothing.” 
 
 “Ain’t much use of sayin’ anything, is there? The boys 
 are sayin’ it, though. Josh vows he cal’lates Bologny must 
 have been one of Noah’s fo’mast hands. Says his whiskers 
 remind him of some of the pictures in the Sunday-school 
 books. . . . Say, Cal—” 
 
 “Well? What is it?” 
 
 “Cal,” Seleucus was serious enough now, “you don’t s’pose 
 it’s possible that—that Superintendent Kellogg’s gone crazy, 
 do you?” 
 
 “What do you mean?” 
 
 ’ “T shouldn’t wonder if you know what I mean. Don’t 
 you?” 
 
 Homer hesitated. “I don’t know anything,” he answered 
 after a moment. “And if I did it wouldn’t be my business 
 —or yours—to talk about it.” 
 
 “Humph! Well, all we can do is wait and see, I s’pose 
 likely, same as the old woman waited for the pullet to lay so’s 
 to make sure the critter wa’n’t a rooster.... Ah hum! I 
 always knew there was a lot of plaguy fools in this world, 
 but it don’t hardly seem as if the plaguiest ones could be 
 plaguy enough to— All right, a-all right; I’m through. But 
 don’t worry, Cal; this crew’s behind you.” 
 
 All that day Calvin waited, expecting one of the promised 
 “talks” with his visitor. But the latter made no move toward 
 a confidential interview. He was, as always, quiet, solemn 
 and for the most part gentle of speech and mild in demeanor. 
 He treated Homer with marked politeness, but he made no 
 explanation concerning the real reason for his visit. 
 
 ’ And on the following forenoon, the mystery was solved. 
 Kellogg drove down the beach in the buggy behind a sturdy 
 little bay horse. It needed but a glance at his superior’s face 
 to show Calvin that the district superintendent was not in a 
 
72 RUGGED WATER 
 
 pleasant frame of mind. His first question was concerning 
 Bartlett’s whereabouts. The latter was, at that moment, in 
 the boat room and thither went Kellogg, closing the door 
 behind him. The two men remained there for more than 
 half an hour. When the superintendent emerged he looked 
 more gloomy than when he entered. He laid a hand upon 
 Homer’s arm and motioned toward the keeper’s room. 
 
 “Come along with me, Calvin,” he said. “I want to talk 
 with you.” 
 
 They entered the bedroom and sat down. Homer upon the 
 bed and Kellogg on the only chair. There they looked at each 
 other. Kellogg seemed to find it hard to begin the conver- 
 sation, but as his companion remained silent he was obliged 
 to begin. He drew a long breath and spoke. 
 
 “Calvin,” he said, “I’ve got some bad news for you. I 
 never found that it did any good to mope around and growl 
 when I had the toothache; better have the thing out and be 
 done with it. Benoni Bartlett is going to be keeper of this 
 station. He’s got the appointment and the only question was 
 whether, after he’d come down here and looked the place 
 over, he’d want to take it. He does want to take it—fact is, 
 he’s just told me that he has made up his mind to take it— 
 so that’s settled. He’s the new keeper here at Setuckit.” 
 
 Calvin did not answer; at the moment he had no comment 
 to make. It was what he had feared, what he had increasingly 
 expected ever since his meeting with Bartlett aboard the 
 Wild Duck. The confirmation of his forebodings, however, 
 was not the less a shock. The injustice of it and the bitter 
 disappointment were overwhelming. He did not trust himself 
 to speak—yet. There were many things to say, and he in- 
 tended to say them, but he would let Kellogg finish first. 
 
 His feelings showed in his face and the superintendent 
 needed no words to understand them. He leaned forward 
 and laid a hand upon the young man’s knee. 
 
 “T don’t want you to blame me for this, Cal,” he said, 
 earnestly. “Speaking between ourselves here, with the door 
 shut, I don’t mind telling you that you can’t feel any worse 
 about it than I do. It’s a shame and, if it would do any 
 
 2 
 
RUGGED WATER 78 
 
 good, I’d write those fellows at Washington a letter that 
 would blister the paper, and finish up by handing in my 
 resignation. I’m district superintendent down here and I 
 generally figure to know what’s what and who’s who a whole 
 lot better than a parcel of politicians. I recommended you 
 as high as I ever recommended any man for any job. You 
 were in line for keeper here. You were fit for it; you’d 
 earned it; the men wanted you and I wanted you. As a 
 general thing the department lets me have my way and my 
 word goes. But here was a case where, for once, it didn’t 
 go. Twas the papers and the politicians that did us both. 
 Bartlett’s been played up as a hero from Dan to Beersheba. 
 He’s been preached about and speeched about every since 
 he was lucky enough to be hauled out of the surf there at 
 Crooked Hill. He’d got to be rewarded—that’s all there was 
 to it. And some smart Aleck decided that the fitting reward 
 for him was to make him skipper of the newest and best 
 station on this section of the coast. So they shoved you 
 and me to one side and made him that. And now he ts 
 keeper. See how it was, don’t you?” 
 
 Calvin nodded. “TI see,’ he said, shortly. “I don’t blame 
 you, Cap’n Kellogg.” 
 
 “TI don’t want you to. But let me say this much more: 
 Last time I talked with you I could see what was in the 
 offing and I did my level best to steer it off on another tack. 
 They were bound to make Bartlett cap’n of something and I 
 suggested making him keeper of his old station, at Crooked 
 Hill Shoal. Nothing doing. Crooked Hill was a smaller 
 station than this one, not so new nor so well found. And, 
 for some reason or other, Bartlett himself didn’t want to go 
 there. Just why he didn’t I’m not sure. He was always 
 queer and cranky, but since his narrow squeak he’s been 
 queerer and crankier still. He won’t talk about Crooked 
 Hill, won’t go near the place, acts—well, if you asked me, 
 I’d say he acted scared of the very name of it. He wouldn’t 
 hear of being captain of a Crooked Hill crew, that was that. 
 But when the dumb fools at Washington—is that door shut 
 tight ?—when they nosed in and began to talk of Setuckit 
 
74 RUGGED WATER 
 
 he pricked up his ears. And now it’s gone through... . 
 Calvin, what are you going to do about it?” 
 
 Homer smiled. “I’m going to look for another job,” he 
 said. 
 
 “Meaning you’re going to quit the service?” 
 
 “Of course.” 
 
 “T expected to hear you say so, but I’m hoping you'll 
 change your mind.” 
 
 “Why should I? Look here, Cap’n Kellogg. I hope I’m 
 not a quitter, generally speaking, but here is a case where 
 quitting is the only sensible thing for me to do, [ like this 
 job here. I don’t know why I do, but I do, and if I had 
 been made cap’n of this crew I should have stayed on and 
 done my darndest to make good. How long I should have 
 stayed I don’t know, for of course I realize that there is 
 mighty little future in it, but I’d have stayed for a good 
 while; until I decided I must make the move that I shall 
 have to make some time. But now—well, this looks like the 
 time, doesn’t it?” 
 
 “Maybe it does—maybe it does, Cal, in a way. But you 
 know what all hands will say, don’t you? They’ll say that, 
 when you couldn’t play the game your own way, you took 
 your dolls and went home. You won’t call it that; maybe I 
 won't; but about everybody else will.” 
 
 “Let them; I shan’t care.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, you will, you'll care a lot. It’s no fun to be 
 misjudged and lied about. You might lick some of the liars, 
 but you couldn’t lick ’em all, and two thirds of the lying will 
 be done behind your back. You say you like the service, and 
 I know you do; you and I are made that way—we can’t help 
 liking it. You tell me you were bound to quit 1t some time. 
 Well, I guess likely that’s pretty good judgment, for an am- 
 bitious young fellow. But when you do quit you'll find 
 
 considerable satisfaction in doing it just when you want to, * 
 
 not when other folks expect you to... . Eh? What is it?” 
 
 Calvin had smiled again, a sudden and bitter smile. Kel- 
 logg was talking to him much as he—Homer—had talked to 
 Wallie Oaks that day of the big storm. The irony in the 
 
RUGGED WATER 75 
 
 situation was, in its way, funny. But the smile lasted only 
 a moment. 
 
 “T suppose you’re right, Cap’n,” he admitted. “All you 
 say is true enough, but the fact is that this business—oh, 
 I guessed it when Bartlett came here; even before that, when 
 you were here last—this business has made me sick of the 
 whole game. I thought the United States Life-Saving Serv- 
 ice was one line that was out of politics. I’m no politician. 
 I don’t belong with ’em. I’m going to try for a job ashore. 
 I ought to be getting on in this world,-if I’m ever going to. 
 It is high time I did, I guess... . There are reasqns why 
 T must.” 
 
 Kellogg regarded him with interest. “Special reasons? 
 he asked. “What do you mean?” 
 
 Homer had said more than he meant to say. He had been 
 thinking aloud and the last sentence had slipped by his guard. 
 He hastened to protest. 
 
 “Oh, nothing, nothing,” he evaded. “I guess I didn’t mean 
 anything in particular, Cap’n.” 
 
 “Humph! ... Well, here’s another thing for you to con. 
 sider before you hand in your papers. This isn’t the only 
 open job in my district. Maybe I’ve got a little influence left, 
 in spite of politics. Somebody’s got to be keeper at Crooked 
 Hill. How would you like to go down there, Cal?” 
 
 Calvin’s reply was prompt and decisive. 
 
 “IT don’t know how I should like it,” he said. “I do know 
 I wouldn’t take it if it was offered me. This was my station 
 —and the only one I care about.” 
 
 Kellogg nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I thought 
 likely you’d feel that way. I didn’t think you’d be interested 
 in ‘seconds.’ I shouldn’t if I was in your shoes. But, Homer, 
 there is one thing you ought to care about. Something that, 
 knowing you, | honestly believe you do care about, same as 
 I care—it’s the good of this service.” 
 
 He had lighted a cigar. Now, tossing it, still alight and 
 smoldering, upon the little table, he leaned forward once 
 more and tapped his friend’s knee with his forefinger. 
 
 “The good of the United States Life-Saving Service,” he 
 
76 ~ RUGGED WATER 
 
 repeated. ‘That service you was talking about a minute ago. 
 I’m not much a hand to preach sermons—I ain’t a minister, 
 and you know it, boy—but sometimes I do feel like climbing 
 into the pulpit and letting her go. What keeps men like you 
 and me on the jobs we’ve got? It isn’t the pay—God knows 
 we don’t get any pay worth talking about. We get into the 
 work, first because of the—of the—well, of the kind of risk 
 and snap and fun there always is in taking chances, and then 
 we stay in it because we like it better than anything else. 
 And pretty soon we don’t think of anything but the work and 
 shoving it through. Don’t think of our own selves hardly 
 at all, do we? Course that don’t hold with the bulk of surf- 
 men, lots of them are here to-day and gone to-morrow; but 
 it does hold with fellows like Oswald Myrick, and me—and 
 you, unless I’m mighty mistaken. That being the case, when 
 things don’t go as we want ’em to, it looks to me as if we 
 didn’t have any right to jump overboard and wade ashore. 
 We ought to stick by the boat closer than ever. Calvin, 
 you've got to stay down here at Setuckit, a spell anyhow, on 
 just one account—the good of the service. . . . Where did 
 I heave that cigar?” 
 
 He found the cigar, which had fallen to the floor, re- 
 lighted it, and gazed intently at his friend, plainly anxious 
 to see what impression his “sermon” had made. And it was 
 just as plain that it had made little or none. It did resemble 
 the preachment Calvin had delivered to Oaks—Calvin him- 
 self was obliged to admit that—but this—this was different. 
 He was still stubborn. 
 
 “T can’t see that my staying here will help the service,” he 
 said. “And, honestly, Cap’n, I think it is time I thought 
 about myself a little.” 
 
 “Maybe it is, in a way, but in another way it isn’t. The 
 service—” 
 
 Homer interrupted. 
 
 “The service hasn’t thought much about me, I should 
 say,” he broke in impatiently. “Why should I think of it?” 
 
 “Because you should. Hang it all, Cal, you know you 
 ought to. It hasn’t thought of me—much. It has turned 
 
RUGGED WATER 77 
 
 down the strongest recommendation I ever made. Turned it 
 down flat. I’m as mad over this thing as you are and, just 
 like you, I was all for resigning. But I’ve made it a habit 
 to think a spell before I act and, after I had thought, I de- 
 cided I couldn’t resign. “Twas my job to stay and keep the 
 craft off the shoals. And it’s yours, too. You're going to be 
 needed, or I miss my guess.” 
 
 Calvin looked at him and the look was returned, intently 
 and earnestly. 
 
 “Just what do you mean by that?” demanded Homer. 
 
 “What I say. Cal, how much have you seen of this 
 Bartlett ?” 
 
 “Seen of him? Why, I sailed down with him in Myrick’s 
 boat, and I have talked with him a dozen times since. What 
 do you—” 
 
 “Wait! I’m going to tell you. Have you noticed any- 
 thing funny about him?” 
 
 “Why, I don’t know. He is a sort of crank on the Bible. 
 The men have noticed that. Any one would notice it.” 
 
 “I know. He’s that, and always was; but more so since 
 the wreck scrape. But have you noticed anything else? 
 Pretty—er—well, nervous sometimes, isn’t he?” 
 
 “Nervous ?” 
 
 “Yes. I ran across Peleg Myrick driving down just now 
 and Peleg told me how Bartlett yelled at him to be careful 
 when you fellows got aboard the dory. Course he told me 
 a lot more than that—he’d have been talking yet, if I’d 
 stopped to listen—but he did tell that about the dory. You 
 noticed it, of course?” 
 
 “Why—yes, I noticed that he did seem rather—er—nerv- 
 ous then,.as you say.” 
 
 “Um-hum. And he’s been as nervous as that every time 
 we have talked about the wreck and the upsetting of the 
 lifeboat. He doesn’t want to speak of that, and when he and 
 I drove down to Crooked Hill from Trumet a little while ago 
 he acted so queer that I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. I 
 caught him standing staring off at the breakers where the 
 schooner went to pieces—and it was a cold day, but I give 
 
78 RUGGED WATER 
 you my word the sweat was standing out on his forehead 
 like melting frost on a window.” 
 
 “T don’t know that that was so queer, considering how 
 near he came to being drowned with the rest in those very 
 breakers.” 
 
 “Maybe not. Maybe not; but there was a look in his eyes 
 that I didn’t like. I’ve seen that look in a man’s eyes before, 
 and—Cal, sometimes a close shave same as Benoni Bartlett 
 has been through has an effect that you wouldn’t expect. 
 Particuiarly where the man is as high strung and odd as 
 this fellow has been ever since I’ve known him—yes, and 
 getting more so every year. Sometimes—and I’ve seen cases 
 —a thing like that gets a man—‘gets his goat,’ as the boys tell 
 about. If it does get it, get it good, he—well, that man isn’t 
 liable to be the right one to take out a Setuckit life crew in 
 gales such as we have down here. ... There! I shouldn’t 
 say this to anybody but you. And of course you'll keep it 
 under your hat.” 
 
 “Of course. But, see here, Cap’n, you don’t think—” 
 
 “T don’t think anything—special. The appointment wasn’t 
 mine, and I’ve told you so. But this district is mine, and 
 this station is under me, and I’m responsible for it. Calvin 
 Homer, I want you to stay here, for a while anyhow, as Num- 
 ber One man of this crew. I can depend’on you and the 
 crew depend on you, too. Will you stay on?’ 
 
 Homer was silent. Kellogg waited a moment and then 
 made another attempt. 
 
 “There’s one thing more I might say,” he went on. “Poli- 
 tics or not, the skipper of one of my crews has got to make 
 good. There’ll be no favorites played while I’m district 
 superintendent. Now Bartlett will probably make good 
 enough. But if he doesn’t—well, then I will have the say 
 as to who takes his place. And you know who that will 
 bev 
 
 This move was a mistake. Calvin frowned. 
 
 “Never mind that,’ he said. “I shouldn’t stay anywhere 
 with the idea of taking another man’s place.” 
 
 “Nobody expects you to,” sharply. “Leave yourself out 
 
RUGGED WATER 7? 
 
 of it for a minute, can’t you? Your own concerns don’t 
 count a mite. Neither do mine, in one way. What does 
 count is what I’ve been preaching at you for half an hour— 
 the good of the service. J tell you the good of the service 
 calls for a man down here just now that this crew knows and 
 likes and will stand by. They don’t know Bartlett yet. They 
 do know you. If you’ve got to have something personal in 
 it—why, I’ll be the person. J want you to promise me you'll 
 hang on here as Number One man for three months, anyhow. 
 I need you. You can cuss the service if you want to, but 
 stick by it for three months—and stick by me. Come—will 
 you?” 
 
 For the first time Homer’s determination was really shaken. 
 He liked and respected his superintendent; every man in the 
 service did that. Kellogg he counted as a firm friend, and, 
 im spite of his assumed indifference, the appeal to his loyalty 
 to the service was effective also. He hesitated. 
 
 Kellogg grinned, and sighed in relief. 
 
 “You will,” he said. “I thought you would. And I don’t 
 believe you'll lose out in the long run. You stay the three 
 months and then we’ll see.” 
 
 “But—er—how do you know Bartlett will want me as his 
 Number One?” 
 
 “*Cause he said he did just now. Told me he liked what 
 he’d seen of you first rate and did hope you’d stay. But if 
 he didn’t it wouldn’t make any difference. I want you as 
 Number One, don’t I? Damn it all, man! do you think the 
 politicians have taken all the backbone out of me? My name 
 is Cyrus G. Kellogg, by holy! When I change it to Mush 
 and Skim Milk I'll let you know.” 
 
 Even then the matter was by no means settled. The most 
 that Calvin would concede was that he would think matters 
 over and give his decision to his superior before the latter’s 
 departure. Kellogg, however, seemed satisfied. 
 
 “That's all right,” he declared: “I'll be here tilliafter 
 dinner. You can say yes then, just as well as now, if you’d 
 rather... . There! I feel considerable better. Now we'll 
 go and give Bartlett a few points. He’s going to ride up to 
 
80 RUGGED WATER 
 
 the main along with me. He’ll be down to-morrow or next 
 day to take charge.” 
 
 His optimism concerning the decision was justified. When 
 dinner was over Calvin took his friend aside and gave the 
 latter his promise to remain at Setuckit as Number One man 
 until the first of March. It was now the middle of December. 
 
 “But I tell you, Cap’n,” he added, “TI still don’t like the 
 idea a bit. The way you argued it I don’t see how I can do 
 anything else, but I don’t like it. And you didn’t say so, but 
 I realize that you have another reason, besides those you 
 mentioned, for wanting me to stay a while. You figure the 
 crew—some of them—will flare up a little at having an out- 
 sider rung in as skipper, and you’re hoping I can smooth them 
 down. I'll do what I can, of course. But I do think it puts 
 me in a rotten position.” 
 
 Kellogg slapped him on the shoulder. “It puts you in 
 just the right position—for now,” he vowed. “And I'll put 
 you in a better one the first chance I get. And, meantime, 
 I shall sleep a little better nights.. Thanks, Calvin. . . . And 
 now—here’s another tooth to be hauled—we’ll collect Benoni 
 and break the news to the boys.” 
 
 The crew—even the man in the tower was called down 
 for the moment—were brought into the mess room and there 
 the superintendent told them of the new appointment. 
 
 “Cap’n Bartlett is to be your skipper now,” he said, in 
 conclusion. “The rest of you will keep your rankings just 
 as they are, with Homer as Number One. I shall count on 
 every one of you to do your best for the new keeper and 
 for me. Anybody that doesn’t will hear from me in a hurry. 
 Now maybe Cap’n Bartlett would like to say a word.” 
 
 Bartlett, thus appealed to, stepped forward. He was as 
 grave and unsmiling as ever, and his eyes, beneath their 
 heavy, grizzled brows, regarded the group before him. 
 
 “Men,” he said, “I didn’t take this appointment without 
 a whole lot of prayerful thinkin’. It does seem to be a call 
 on me that I hadn’t ought to put by. I’ve got a daughter 
 and she seems anxious to have me get on, and I’m takin’ it 
 full as much for her sake as my own. Course I realize that, 
 
RUGGED WATER 81 
 
 same as Cap’n Kellogg says, I’ve got to count on you to 
 help. You'll find me, I cal’late, a just man to them that do 
 justly by me and their work. I ain’t liable to be very strict 
 —it ain’t my way to be—but of course I can’t stand for any 
 rum drinkin’ or nothin’ like that. Rum’s a curse—one of 
 the worst on earth—and sailors and men alongshore suffer 
 from it full as much or more ’n anybody. I’ve been life- 
 savin’ a long spell and I tell you I’ve seen—” 
 
 He had raised his hand in a gesture, but Kellogg touched 
 his shoulder and, with a start, he dropped it and turned. 
 The superintendent whispered and Bartlett nodded. 
 
 “Yes—yes, that’s so,” he said, in acknowledgment of the 
 whisper. “Cap’n Kellogg says he and I have got to be 
 goin’,”’ he added, turning to the men. “So I sha’n’t say any 
 more now—nor any other time,” with an apologetic smile. 
 “T cal’late we'll all be too busy to make speeches or listen to 
 ’em. Til do my best to be square with you, and you will 
 with me, I know. And, with the good Lord’s help, we'll 
 make a go of it. . . . Er—lI guess that’s about all.” 
 
 A few minutes later he and the superintendent climbed 
 into the buggy and moved away up the beach. The men, 
 silent so far, watched them go. But Homer was quite aware 
 —and the expressions on their faces proved it—that they 
 would not remain silent long. There would be talk enough 
 as soon as they recovered from their astonishment. Would 
 it be talk and nothing more serious? That was the question 
 which troubled him most. His foot was on the threshold 
 of his own room—the room which, in a day or two, he must 
 relinquish to another man—but he turned back. 
 
 “See here, boys,” he said, earnestly, “I want you to listen 
 to me a minute. We're going to have a new skipper here 
 and when he comes I’ll be Number One man again; but until 
 he shows up I’m in charge. And I don’t want any growling 
 or fool business. Now get to your work. Rogers, you’re 
 on watch in the lookout, aren’t you? Tumble up there, lively. 
 Peleg says we’re going to have a blow before night. He 
 may be right—he is sometimes. On the job, all hands.” 
 
 He did not wait to see what effect his orders may have 
 
82 RUGGED WATER 
 
 had, but went into the skipper’s room. As he closed the door 
 he heard one word, it was Josh Phinney who uttered it. 
 
 “Hell!” exclaimed Josh. That was all, but no more, and 
 no deeper disgust could have been expressed in a volume. 
 
 All the rest of that day a gunpowdery atmosphere pervaded 
 the Setuckit Life-Saving Station. It was apparent always; 
 wherever Calvin happened to be he was aware of it. In the 
 mess room, in the kitchen, on the beach during signal drill 
 —wherever a group of the crew were gathered, there was 
 always that air of sullen rebellion and obstinate discontent. 
 During supper, usually the jolliest of station meals, the jokes 
 were few and most of these Homer himself supplied. The 
 men ate in silence, with occasional mutterings or sidelong 
 whispers. But when they were alone, when he was not of 
 the company, he knew they talked much. Seleucus Gammon 
 admitted it, under cross-examination. Calvin called Seleucus 
 into his room and there the admission was made. 
 
 “Of course the fellers are sore,” grumbled Gammon. “Why 
 wouldn’t they be? The heft of ’em are like me, they’ve been 
 at Setuckit a long time. Oaks is the only new one and he 
 ain’t much account and shouldn’t ought to be here, by rights. 
 We had Oz Myrick as skipper for years. He was a good 
 man, one of our own crowd and the boys liked him and was 
 for him. They like you, too, Cal—you’re one of the gang 
 they know—and all hands figgered you’d be made keeper, and 
 they wanted you to be. But now they’ve put this Bartlett 
 over us, a feller from outside. What for? That’s what all 
 hands are askin’. What for? Kellogg—” 
 
 Homer interrupted. “You mustn’t blame Kellogg,” he 
 said. “‘Not a bit. He is under orders, same as the rest of 
 us, and he obeys those orders and keeps his mouth shut. 
 That’s what you fellows are expected to do, and you will— 
 as long as I am in charge, anyhow.” 
 
 Seleucus flapped an enormous paw in protest. “Who said 
 we wouldn’t, Cal?’ he demanded. “You won’t have no 
 trouble. It’s this draggin’ in a whisker-faced, Bible-backed 
 outsider that makes the row. And shovin’ an able man like 
 you to one side. Why—” 
 
RUGGED WATER 83 
 
 “Hold on there! I’m the one who was shoved aside, as 
 you call it. And that is my business and not yours nor 
 Josh Phinney’s. You say you’re for me. That’s what you 
 said, wasn’t it?” 
 
 “You bet, Calvin!” with enthusiasm. ‘“We’re on your 
 side, every man Jack.” 
 
 “All right. Then do what I tell you to do, and go to 
 work and shut up. And when Cap’n Bartlett gets here give 
 him as fair a show as you would have given me. If you 
 want to prove you are on my side prove it that way.” 
 
 Seleucus pulled his mustache. “I don’t blame you for: 
 bein’ touchy, Cal,” he said, with an air of sympathetic toler- 
 ance which was exasperating. ‘“‘Heave ahead and lay into 
 me all you want to. I can stand it; 1 feel just the same as 
 you do.” 
 
 Calvin’s patience was on a hair trigger that afternoon. 
 “Oh, get out, you idiot!” he ordered. “But if you or any one 
 else shirks on his job and I find it out I'll make him step 
 lively. And if you take my advice you'll stop growling and 
 whispering and behave yourselves. As for the skipper’s ap- 
 pointment, do as |’m going to do—forget it.” 
 
 Which was comparatively easy as advice to give others, 
 but tremendously hard for the adviser to live up to. Calvin 
 could not forget; he thought of little else during his waking 
 moments, and they were many, that night. Myrick’s prophe- 
 sied “blow” amounted to little or nothing. The fair weather 
 continued and the crew were not called out. Homer devoutly 
 wished they might be. A risky launching and a hard, strenu- 
 ous adventure in the line of duty would be heaven-sent dis- 
 tractions just then. Disappointment, resentment—yes, and 
 discouragement, were his and he could not shake them off. 
 A dozen times he repented of his promise to Kellogg. How 
 could he hang on here, wasting his time, for another three 
 months? 
 
 And what would Myra Fuller say when she heard the 
 news? She had promised to marry him—he had promised 
 to marry her. The thought of that promise and what it 
 meant was more overwhelming than all else. Myra was am- 
 
84 RUGGED WATER 
 
 bitious; she had boasted of it. She was, most of all, ambi- 
 tious for him. He was to make good—in the service first 
 and in larger fields of endeavor afterward. She had declared 
 that she would make him successful—and the first step 
 toward that success was to have been his captaincy at Se- 
 tuckit. He groaned at the thought of her disappointment. 
 She was a wonderful girl—so clever and handsome, and so 
 greatly sought after. Why she should have chosen him he 
 could not comprehend, had given up trying to do so. But 
 she had so chosen and he ought already to be proving him- 
 self worthy of his luck. And now, within a few hours of 
 their betrothal, she would learn that he had been passed 
 over and the appointment upon which they had both counted 
 had gone to another. If it had happened before—if Kellogg 
 had told him the truth when he came to Setuckit on his for- 
 mer visit, if he had spoken out instead of hinting—then— 
 why, then he and Myra might not have become engaged. He 
 might not have called at the Fuller house, would not have felt 
 like calling anywhere, and the disappointment would have 
 been his alone and, therefore, so very much easier to bear. 
 Almost he found himself wishing that he had not made that 
 call. Then he realized that such a wish was ungrateful and 
 disloyal—even dishonorable. 
 
 It was a pretty bad night, and he was glad when morning 
 came. A clear, bright morning it was, so the distraction of 
 hard work for him and the discontented crew was not likely 
 to come that day. The discontent and undercurrent of re- 
 bellion were just as evident at breakfast. His pointed counsel 
 to Gammon had had apparently no effect. 
 
 Yet a distraction did come that forenoon and in an un- 
 expected way. A distraction not so much for him as for 
 the crew and, in particular, for Seleucus. The latter’s 
 brother-in-law, a man named Philander Jarvis, was what 
 Cape Codders call a “boat fisherman.” He owned a catboat 
 and went off to the fishing banks along Orham’s borders 
 after cod. He made his trips daily, except on Sundays, 
 winter and summer, and it took more than an ordinary gale 
 to keep Philander on shore. He owned a shanty, a tiny four- 
 
RUGGED WATER 85 
 
 room house at Setuckit, within a few hundred yards of the 
 station. This particular fall, and thus far into December, he 
 had been making his daily voyages from South Orham, and 
 living with his sister Jemima—Seleucus’s wife—at the Gam- 
 mon home in that village. 
 
 It has been already noted in this chronicle that Seleucus 
 was a married man. The casual stranger, seeing how closely 
 he stuck to his work at the Setuckit Station, how seldom he 
 visited the mainland, and how infrequently he availed him- 
 self of the one day in nine, the “shore liberty” allotted each 
 surfman under the regulations, might never have suspected 
 the fact that he possessed a wife. But he did—or she pos- 
 sessed him—and all Orham knew it and had talked and 
 chuckled over it for years. Seleucus was quite aware of the 
 gossip and the chuckles, but he never joined in them. The 
 jibes which he failed to appreciate were those dealing with 
 matrimony. The surest way to stir him to wrath was to 
 hint that his excuses for remaining at the station when he 
 might be at home were rather flimsy. One sly reference to 
 that effect and Seleucus was ready to fight. He boasted 
 loudly of Jemima’s smartness as a money-saver and house- 
 keeper; he often remarked that he missed her “like fury,” 
 and when the first of July came and the crew—the keeper 
 excepted—left Setuckit for their month’s vacation, he was 
 loud in proclaiming joy at the prospect of getting back to 
 the society of his life partner. But when, at the beginning 
 of August, the rest of the crew returned to duty, they usually 
 found that Mr. Gammon had arrived there a day ahead, and 
 with a more or less plausible excuse for so doing. 
 
 Never, except on rare occasions, and then only to particu- 
 lar friends like Calvin Homer, did he even intimate that his 
 married life was not a dream of bliss. Once—during Cap- 
 tain Myrick’s illness, when the latter’s wife was at the sta- 
 tion—Homer had found him, an open letter in his hand, 
 gazing dolefully from the tower window. 
 
 “What’s the matter, Seleucus?’ Calvin asked. “You 
 look as if you had given up hope. Bad news from 
 home ?” 
 
86 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Seleucus stuffed the letter into his pocket and turned away 
 from the window. 
 
 “Cal,” he demanded, with apparent irrelevance, “do I look 
 like a fellow that would be liable to try to be shinin’ up to an 
 old married woman with a sick husband ?” 
 
 Calvin laughed. “I shouldn’t say that you did—no,” he 
 replied. 
 
 “T guess not. And there ain’t no other females—except 
 hens and cats—down in this neighborhood this time of year, 
 is there ?”’ 
 
 “Not many.” 
 
 “Many? There ain’t nary one. Then what’s the use of 
 heavin’ out hints about not knowin’ what I may be up to, and 
 the like of that? And all on account of my not writin’ no let- 
 ters for three weeks. Crimus! One letter a month ought to 
 be enough for anybody—anybody that’s married, anyhow. 
 And ‘why don’t you get liberty days same as the other men? 
 —It looks pretty suspicious to me.’ Why don’t 1? With all 
 I have to do down here, now Cap’n Oczzie’s laid up! 
 Crimustee!”’ 
 
 On the forenoon of the day following the announcement 
 of Bartlett’s appointment, Homer happened to be in the 
 keeper’s room, writing a letter to Myra. It was a letter he 
 dreaded to write, for in it he would be obliged to tell her of 
 the dashing of their hopes. It was a hard task, but he had 
 rather she learned the news from him than from any one 
 else, so he settled himself to it. The letter was scarcely 
 begun when he heard a commotion outside the station. Some - 
 one was running up the beach, shouting as he came. 
 
 The men in the mess room heard the shouts and Calvin 
 heard them rising and moving to the door. Then that door 
 was flung open and Hezekiah Rogers’s voice was raised in 
 delighted announcement. 
 
 “Oh, boys!” yelled Rogers. “Boys, here’s the best fun 
 since they killed the pig. Haw, haw, haw! Who do you 
 think’s just come—come here to Setuckit to stay the rest of 
 the winter? Haw, haw! If it ain’t rich, then J don’t 
 know!” 
 
RUGGED WATER 87 
 
 They demanded, in concert, to be told what he was talking 
 about. Who had come? 
 
 Hezekiah’s joy made him scarcely articulate, but he did his 
 best. 
 
 “Philander Jarvis has just landed,” he proclaimed, “come 
 down in his catboat, he did. He’s goin’ to open up his 
 shanty and go coddin’ from here, ’stead of South Orham. . 
 Oh, hold on a minute! that ain’t nothin’; the rich part’s 
 astern. Who do you cal’late’s come to keep house for him? 
 Come to live right next door? Haw, haw, haw! Jemima 
 Gammon, that’s who. Seleucus spied ’em from the tower 
 and he was down to the beach when they landed. You’d 
 ought to see his face. He’s there now, helpin’ get the dun- 
 nage ashore. Come on, fellows, quick!” 
 
 There was a howl of ecstasy from the mess room and a 
 tumultuous exit. Calvin, leaving his letter, rose and followed. 
 In the cove the Jarvis fishing boat was anchored, a dory was 
 pulled up on the beach, and from that dory Mr. Gammon and 
 a stolid individual whom Homer recognized as Philander 
 Jarvis were lifting bundles and a battered trunk. Superin- 
 tending the trunk’s transfer was a little, sharp-featured 
 woman, with a protruding chin, and lips which snapped 
 together like the spring lid of a tin tobacco box. Surround- 
 ing the trio was the group of delighted life savers. 
 
 The little woman’s lips were shut only occasionally. For 
 the most part they were open and words—many words—is- 
 sued from between them. 
 
 “For mercy sakes be careful of that trunk!” she com- 
 manded, shrilly. “Look out! Look out, you’ll drop it right 
 souse into the water. Seleucus Gammon, if you get them 
 things of mine wet I declare I’ll make you go in swimmin’ 
 after ’°em. Be careful! Of course,’ with some sarcasm, “a 
 lady might think there was grown men enough standin’ 
 around here to bear a hand, but it appears everybody’s too 
 busy. I’ve heard,” the sarcasm more emphatic, “about how 
 busy some folks are down'here, but— Oh, how d’ye do, Mr. 
 Homer? I’m havin’ a time, ain’t I? Seleucus, you be care- 
 ful of that box! It’s got my—well, never mind what’s in it; 
 
88 RUGGED WATER 
 
 I don’t want it wet, anyhow. Nice day, ain’t it, Mr. Homer ?” 
 
 She and Calvin shook hands. Some of the men, appar- 
 ently a bit abashed by the lady’s hint, stepped forward and 
 assisted with the luggage. Mrs. Gammon continued to talk. 
 
 “T guess likely you’re surprised to see me comin’ here to 
 live,” she said. “Well, I’m kind of surprised to be here, 
 myself. But when a person’s got a brother who’s set on 
 livin’ in such a Lord-forsaken place, and a husband that 
 just seems to love that place a good sight better than he does 
 his civilized home and them that’s in it—well, then maybe 
 it’s time that husband’s wife came to find out what there is 
 makes him love it so much. One letter in six weeks, and 
 no sight nor sound of the man you’re married to, may do for 
 some folks, but it don’t for me. Thinks ?1l— Now, Ph-lan- 
 der, you and Seleucus take them things right up to that 
 shanty of yours quick ’s ever you can. And then you get 
 a fire agoin’. I’m as nigh to bein’ froze as I want to be in 
 this world.” 
 
 Philander and Seleucus took up the trunk. Phinney and 
 Bloomer followed carrying packages. Mrs. Gammon, car- 
 rying nothing but an umbrella, brought up the rear. The 
 little procession was suggestive of a funeral, so Homer 
 thought. Then he caught a glimpse of Seleucus’s face and 
 the suggestion changed; it was much more like a march to 
 the scaffold. Jemima, of course, was the sheriff and there 
 was no doubt whatever as to the identity of the condemned. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 P AHE joyful surprise of Mrs. Gammon’s arrival— 
 joyful to every one with one possible, even probable, 
 exception—furnished the distraction for which 
 
 Homer had been hoping. The surfmen at Setuckit Station 
 
 forgot for the time their discontent and incipient rebellion 
 
 and laughed and joked and behaved more than ever like 
 
 school children. Their treatment of Seleucus was that of a 
 
 group of sympathetic friends congratulating a comrade upon 
 
 his good fortune. They were so kind and thoughtful and 
 so ready to suggest opportunities for him to be with his wife. 
 
 If he happened to be busy at some task not immediately in 
 
 the line of duty one of them was certain to offer to take it 
 
 off his hands. For example: 
 
 “Now, now, Seleucus,”’ urged Phinney, “there ain’t any 
 need for you to be stayin’ in here paintin’ that door. Let 
 me do it for you. You run over and see Jemima. She’s 
 lonesome, I'll bet. You cruise right along and cheer her 
 
 up.” 
 
 Mr. Gammon, dripping paint brush in hand, was not as 
 grateful as he should have been. 
 
 “She knows I’ve got this door to do,” he growled. “It'll 
 take me half the mornin’ to finish it. I told her so. You’ve 
 done your part, Josh. ’Tain’t likely I'll shove mine off on 
 to you.” 
 
 Phinney’s generosity was touching. 
 
 “No shovin’ about it,” he declared. “If I couldn’t oblige 
 an old chum that much I’d be ashamed. Give me that brush. 
 Yes, yes; you will too. Jemima’s expectin’ you. I told her 
 I could do the paintin’s well as not and that you could come 
 right over.” 
 
 Seleucus turned. “You did!” he exclaimed. ‘What are 
 you interferin’ with my affairs for?” 
 
 89 
 
90 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Tnterferin’? Why, how you talk! I’m doin’ you a favor, 
 if you only knew it. Philander’s off coddin’ and she says 
 she wants you to chop up some kindlin’ wood. Said you 
 promised to do it this mornin’, afore you left, but you never 
 done it. She says she can’t understand why ’tis you have 
 so much work to keep you here at the station; said the rest 
 of us seem to have loafin’ time enough. Seemed to think 
 *twas kind of mysterious. I told her you was a whale of a 
 feller for workin’, was doin’ odd jobs about all the time 
 since Olive Myrick went; kind of takin’ up your mind, 
 seemed so.” 
 
 Mr. Gammon started and frowned. He deposited the 
 brush in the paint pot. 
 
 “What in time did you tell her that for?” he snapped. 
 “What’s Oz Myrick’s wife got to do with my mind, I want 
 to know?” 
 
 “She wanted to know that, too.—Jemima did,” confided 
 Josh solemnly. “I told her nothin’, of course—only that 
 when there was a nice pleasant woman around lots of odd 
 jobs got done of themselves, as you might say. I said you 
 was a great hand to help Olive when she was here, and 
 probably you kind of got in the habit of it.” 
 
 Seleucus rose and slammed out of the room. At the door 
 he turned, as if to speak, but meeting Mr. Phinney’s gaze 
 of kindly solicitude he changed his mind and said nothing. 
 
 The mess room now was minus his society during the off 
 hours of the day or evening, but his comrades called on him 
 at the Jarvis shanty quite frequently and seemed to find hap- 
 piness in so doing. During these calls Seleucus said little, 
 but his conversation was not missed. Wherever Mrs. Gam- 
 mon was there was sure to be talk sufficient. 
 
 Calvin had written Myra Fuller the fateful letter telling 
 her the bad news of his loss of the captaincy, and was now 
 awaiting her still more fateful reply. He and she had had 
 two conversations over the phone since the evening of their 
 betrothal, but these talks were brief and necessarily not 
 intimate. The telephone instrument was on the wall of the 
 mess room where the men spent much of their time, and, 
 
RUGGED WATER 91 
 
 as the engagement was to be kept a secret, no word of it 
 or other closely personal subjects could be mentioned. He 
 told her, during the most recent of these talks, that he had 
 written an important letter, but she had not then received it. 
 He promised to come up to Orham just as soon as he could 
 get away, but added that that was not likely to be for some 
 time. She would understand why when she read his letter. 
 She must have received and read ‘it before this, but he had 
 not heard from her again. 
 
 And, three days after his first visit, Benoni Bartlett came 
 again to Setuckit and took formal charge of the station. 
 Homer vacated the skipper’s room and stepped back into 
 his old place as Number One. The newspapers—Peleg 
 Myrick brought them down—gave columns to the Bartlett 
 appointment and much praise to the department for its wis- 
 dom in fitly rewarding the hero of Crooked Hill Shoal. 
 These praises were read by all at the station and its vicinity 
 —which included the Jarvis shanty and the home of the 
 lightkeeper two miles up the beach. There was lively com- 
 ment concerning those praises, comment which might have 
 burned the ears of the new skipper, had it reached them. 
 Calvin took care that it did not. Nor would he listen toa 
 any of the sympathy which his fellow surfmen were eager 
 to hand him. The thing was done—it was settled and 
 over—forget it and attend to business, these were his orders. 
 And, in a way, the men did appear to be forgetting it. 
 Nevertheless, he was quite aware that they were watching 
 Bartlett and waiting to see what sort of leader he was. 
 Prejudice was still there, plenty of it, but the new skipper 
 could overcome that, if he proved himself. 
 
 He was a peculiar man; that had been his reputation and 
 of its truth there was no doubt. Big, strong, and, to all 
 outward appearance, experienced and adequate; but as odd 
 and moody an individual as Homer had ever seen. In all 
 matters pertaining to the station routine he was alert and 
 exacting. The daily drills, beach, boat, signal, or the prac- 
 tice in resuscitating the nearly drowned, went on under his 
 eye precisely as they should. The watch and the patrols 
 
92 RUGGED WATER 
 
 were not permitted to shirk. He was likely to be up and 
 about at any hour of the night, and this the crew learned. 
 
 It was in his manner and, habits that the peculiarities 
 showed. The men commented on them. 
 
 “He’s the queerest old skate I ever come across,” declared 
 Phinney. “Talk with you sociable and folksey as can be 
 one minute, and the next march right by you and not see 
 you atall. Talks to himself, too, he does. Have you noticed 
 that? And he has the Bible right along his bed, so’s he can 
 gaffle into it night or day. Takes a dose of that Bible a 
 mighty sight more regular than he does his meals. I’ve found 
 out one way to start him goin’. Tell him you think rum is 
 a cuss to creation and he’ll tune up like a hand organ. Grind 
 away on that hymn for a week, he would, I cal’late. Wallie 
 Oaks has found that out. Wallie’s beginnin’ to pull a strong 
 oar with him already. Never mind, he’ll tumble to Wallie 
 pretty soon—if there’s any tumble to him.” 
 
 “It’s his eyes I notice ’special,”’ observed Seleucus, who 
 —because it was his turn to go out on the next patrol—was 
 temporarily free from the apron-string tether. “He’s got 
 the funniest eyes ever I see. One minute they’re blazin’ 
 under them big eyebrows of his like a clam-bake fire under 
 a heap of seaweed. And, next time you see him, they’re as 
 flat and fishy as them in the head of a dead haddock. Seems 
 to know his work, he does, too; but if he ain’t cracked some- 
 wheres then he’s liable to crack afore he dies. We ain’t had 
 a wreck to go off to yet since he’s been here. We can tell 
 better about him after we see how he handles one of them 
 jobs.” ; 
 
 The opportunity to watch the new skipper under stress of 
 active duty came the very next day. A thick fog, compli- 
 cated with a light snowstorm, decoyed a lumber schooner off 
 her course early that morning and daylight found her 
 aground on the lower end of the Hog’s Back, with distress’ 
 signals set. The fog had cleared and Bearse sighted her 
 from the tower. There was but a moderate sea running and 
 the job looked like an easy one. 
 
 Bearse called Homer and the latter notified Bartlett. The 
 
RUGGED WATER 93 
 
 two men went up to the lookout and each gazed at the 
 stranded vessel through the spyglass. Calvin expected a 
 prompt order to get out the boat, but that order was not 
 given immediately. Bartlett turned away from the telescope 
 and stood there, pulling at his beard. 
 
 “Come down to my room, mate,” he said, after a moment. 
 Homer followed him down the stairs to the skipper’s room. 
 There he waited, wondering at the delay. Benoni walked 
 the floor, his hands in his pockets and—so it seemed to his 
 companion—a peculiar expression on his face. Then he 
 turned. 
 
 “What do you think of it, Homer?’ he demanded. 
 
 Calvin did not understand. “Think of what?” he asked. 
 
 “Her—that schooner? I suppose we better go off to her, 
 hadn’t we?” 
 
 If he had asked whether or not the crew should be fed 
 that day the question, to Homer’s mind, could not have been 
 more extraordinary. 
 
 “Why—why, she is signaling for us, isn’t she?” he stam. 
 mered in amazement. 
 
 “Ves, yes, looks’s if she was. You think—you think, then 
 —Hum!... All right. Turn out the crew. Go ahead. 
 I’ll be right with you.” 
 
 Calvin hurried out to give the orders. At the door he 
 happened to look back. The skipper was standing by the 
 little table, his eyes closed, his head bent and his lips moving. 
 Was he praying? It certainly looked so. 
 
 But he was businesslike enough during the next few hours. 
 The boat was dragged to the shore, launched and headed 
 for the Hog’s Back. Calvin, tugging at the oar in his place 
 as Number One, could see the skipper’s face as he stood in 
 the stern and he watched it keenly. Bartlett, except for the 
 necessary orders, said not a word. He steered well, he gave 
 his orders crisply and in a voice that carried command. His 
 gaze was fixed on the vessel ahead and his lips, except when 
 he issued those orders, were shut in a grim line. Homer 
 could find no fault with his actions or manner. He seemed 
 to know what to do and how to do it, as of course he should, 
 
94 RUGGED WATER 
 
 considering his long experience. The only possible criticism 
 might have been that, for such an ordinary expedition, with 
 conditions as favorable as these, he appeared to be under an 
 unnecessary mental strain. But it was his first trip as cap- 
 tain of a crew and Calvin, realizing this, found it sufficient 
 excuse. In fact, he never would have noticed it—or fancied 
 that he did—had it not been for Superintendent Kellogg’s 
 hints and forebodings. And, doubtless, Kellogg’s words were 
 founded on prejudice and his own suspicions merely imagi- 
 “native. 
 
 He was more than ever convinced of this by Bartlett’s 
 behavior when they boarded the schooner. She was in no 
 pressing danger, lying easily on the very edge of the shoal, 
 and on an even keel. Moreover, the tide was rising and the 
 wind moderate and favorable. She could be floated at high 
 water, and this Benoni plainly realized and set about bring- 
 ing to pass. Her anchors were carried off to deep water, her 
 deck load of boards were cast overboard or shifted, and her 
 jib and foresail made ready for hoisting when the time came. 
 In all this—and it deepened Calvin’s favorable impression— 
 Bartlett was in absolute command and permitted no inter- 
 ference. The vessel’s captain was anxious and irritable, but 
 his suggestions and protests were ignored and, when the 
 schooner did swing off the shoal and started on her course 
 once more, the profuse thanks were ignored also. 
 
 “All right, all right,” said Bartlett, gruffly. “You needn’t 
 thank us—we ain’t nothin’ but the Lord’s instruments. 
 Thank Him; He’s the one to thank. . . . And keep a sharper 
 lookout when you come over these shoals next time.” 
 
 Altogether the new keeper’s first salt-water test was a 
 personal success. The crew—even the most exacting and 
 anxious to find fault—were obliged to admit that he had 
 come through satisfactorily. Gammon and Phinney, of 
 course, admitted it grudgingly. 
 
 “He handled everything all right enough,’ agreed the 
 latter; “but he’d ought to. *Twas a cinch. Only I wish he 
 wouldn’t be so everlastin’ solemn about everything. Every 
 time I looked aft while we was rowin’ out, there was his old 
 
RUGGED WATER 95 
 owl face starin’ at me. Never cracked a joke nor so much 
 as a grin. Don’t make things any easier, that don’t. Look 
 how jolly Cal Homer was when we went off to the Dawid 
 Cowes. And that cruise was somethin’ to be solemn about. 
 I don’t mind ownin’ up I didn’t feel much like grinnin’ that 
 day. But Cal was singin’ out his funny sayin’s half the time. 
 That’s the kind of skipper I like to ship along with.” 
 
 This was, of course, mild exaggeration. Homer’s jokes 
 on that strenuous trip had been few and these few limited 
 to its start and finish. During the rest of the time the up- 
 roar of wind and wave would have prevented the hearing 
 of his witticisms, even if he felt like uttering them—which he 
 most decidedly did not. But the crew remembered the one 
 or two, and willing imagination supplied the rest. 
 
 Seleucus chimed in. 
 
 “That’s so,” he declared. “TI like to laugh when I get my 
 orders. Ain’t any preachin’ against laughin’ in the Scriptur’s 
 that I know of.” 
 
 Just here the door opened and the diminutive figure of 
 Mrs. Gammon bounced in. As Bloomer described it after- 
 ward, her feathers were all on end. 
 
 “Oh, there you are!” she snapped, addressing her husband. 
 “Settin’ here spinnin’ yarns and I not knowin’ whether you’d 
 got back safe or had been drownded off to that schooner. 
 Wonder you wouldn’t come far’s the door and holler, any- 
 how. Long’s I’ve got a husband I wouldn’t mind bein’ sure 
 that he was alive.” 
 
 Seleucus stared at her in bewildered amazement. 
 
 “Why, Jemima,” he protested, “how you talk! If I’d been 
 drownded I guess likely you’d have heard of it afore this. 
 I was comin’ acrost in a minute. I was just settin’ here 
 warmin’ my feet; they got kind of chilly off yonder.” 
 
 It seemed a reasonable excuse, but the lady’s reception of 
 it was as frigid as her husband’s toes. 
 
 “You can bake your feet just as well over to my cook- 
 stove,’ she announced. “That is, after you do what you 
 promised to the very first thing this forenoon—fix it so’s a 
 body can build a fire in it without bein’ choked to death with 
 
96 RUGGED WATER 
 
 smoke. Come right along now. I'll keep you busy enough 
 to stay warm, if that’s all that ails you.” 
 
 She bounced out again—most of her movements were 
 bounces. Mr. Gammon slowly rose from his comfortable 
 chair. His expression was of funereal gravity. 
 
 “Well, Seleucus,” drawled Bloomer, “it looks to me as if 
 you'd got your orders. Why don’t you laugh?” 
 
 Mr. Gammon did not laugh; perhaps he thought that, 
 under the circumstances, more hilarity would be superfluous. 
 
 Homer, naturally, was more in the company of the new 
 keeper than any one else. Bartlett consulted him on various 
 points of station routine and, little by little, the pair grew 
 better acquainted. The acquaintanceship never developed 
 into anything closer. Benoni Bartlett’s peculiar character 
 was not one to make friends easily. His moods were much 
 more variable than the weather which, in spite of Peleg 
 Myrick’s dire predictions, continued surprisingly good for the 
 beginning of the week before Christmas. There were hours 
 during which the new keeper scarcely spoke to his Number 
 One man and others when he was almost confidential and 
 mentioned intimate matters not connected with work. He 
 told of his religious experiences, how he had been a “mighty 
 tough customer” in days gone by and how, later, at a revival 
 meeting in Trumet he had “seen the great light.” 
 
 “T tell you, boy,” he said, his eyes smoldering beneath the 
 shaggy brows, “I never knew what comfort of mind was till 
 I found the Lord. Since then I’ve cast my burdens on to Him 
 and He’s hauled me through. Why was I the one picked out 
 to be saved over yonder on Crooked Hill—the only one of a 
 dozen men?” 
 
 It was the first time Calvin had ever heard him mention 
 his recent harrowing experience, and he looked at him curi- 
 ously. Bartlett was quite unconscious of the look. 
 
 “Why was I saved?” repeated the keeper. “I know why 
 —know it just as well as I know you and I are standin’ here 
 this minute. *Twas because the Almighty was provin’ to me 
 that He looked out for His own. In all that mess over there 
 —when the boat capsized, and they was drownin’ all around 
 
RUGGED WATER 97 
 
 me—hollerin’ for help and—and screamin’—Lord above! 
 I—I hear that screechin’ yet—nights I hear it. IJ—I—” 
 
 He stopped abruptly. Homer spoke to him but he paid 
 no attention. Nor did he say more at the time. Instead he 
 walked away, his head bent and his lips moving. 
 
 These were the times when Calvin was inclined to be 
 doubtful of his complete sanity. But there were others when 
 he was chatty and reminiscent and even likable. This was 
 especially true when he spoke of his daughter, Norma, who 
 was, he said, a librarian in a mid-Massachusetts city. He was 
 tremendously proud of her. Here the sternly literal fol- 
 lower of the Scriptures had broken the law and set up an 
 idol to be worshiped. 
 
 “She’s an awful smart girl, Norma is,” he confided. “I 
 don’t care if she is my daughter and I say it—she is, and 
 you'll say so, too, when you see her. She'll be comin’ down 
 here to see me some of these days, she says so in her letters. 
 Writes me every twice a week, she does, and I write her full 
 as often. I don’t know’s I’d have felt like takin’ this job 
 here at Setuckit if she hadn’t been so set on my doin’ it. I— 
 I didn’t seem to have any hankerin’ for any more life-savin’. 
 I’ve been around boats and on salt water “bout all my life, 
 but after that—that Crooked Hill business, I—I—” 
 
 He stopped again, just as he had in their former conver- 
 sation. This time, however, Calvin brought him back by a 
 reference to his daughter. 
 
 “She wanted you to take it, did she?” he suggested. 
 
 “Hey? ... Oh, yes! yes, she did. All those pieces in 
 the paper they seemed to—well,” with an odd air of shy 
 apology, “‘they seemed to make her kind of proud of her old 
 papa. That’s what she calls me—‘papa’—same as she used 
 to when she was little. You see, she ain’t like me, she’s like 
 her mother. I’m rough and tough and onedicated—never 
 had much chance for schoolin’, I didn’t—but her mother, 
 now, she was pretty and smart, and knew everything. A 
 school-teacher, she was—yes, sir, a school-teacher. And she 
 married me! ... I never could understand it—or I never 
 used to. Now, of course, I realize that ’*twas the Lord’s 
 
98 RUGGED WATER 
 
 doin’. He had reasons of His own, same as He always does. 
 Same as He see fit to take her away when Norma wa’n’t 
 much more’n a baby. ‘He moves in a mysterious way His 
 wonders to perform.’ That’s poetry, boy. A hymn tune. 
 Did you ever read it? Mary—that was my wife’s name— 
 she used to read it to me. I get Norma to read it sometimes. 
 And it’s true, too. It ain’t for us to go pryin’ into God 
 A’mighty’s affairs. He knows—” 
 
 And so on. He was off again, his eyes alight. But this 
 little glimpse into his heart and of the love he bore his 
 daughter made Homer like him better and feel more chari- 
 table toward him. He was eccentric—almost unbalanced on 
 some subjects—but he was human and rather pitiable. Cal- 
 vin was still sore at the loss of the appointment which should 
 have been his, but he could not hold a grudge against the 
 man who had received it. 
 
 Myra Fuller could hold that grudge, however. Her letter, 
 when at last it did come, proved that. Badger, returning 
 from his “liberty day,’ brought down the station mail, and 
 the letter which Calvin had been expecting was there with 
 the others. He opened the envelope with fingers which 
 trembled a little. Considering that it was the first written 
 word he had received from the girl who was to be his wife 
 his feelings were strange—there was more dread than eager- 
 ness in them. He feared to read what she had written. 
 
 Yet, in a way, the fear was unjustified. Myra did not 
 blame him in the least. She said so, and more than once. 
 The manner in which he had been treated was mean and 
 wicked, but it was not his fault, of course. Superintendent 
 Kellogg was to blame, he and the idiots at Washington, and 
 the newspapers. She hated that Kellogg, never did like him, 
 and Calvin was to remember that she had said he was an 
 old fool. ‘But he zs old, Calvin dear,’ she wrote, “and that 
 is what we mustn’t forget. He can’t keep that position of 
 his much longer and when he resigns—or is forced out— 
 you and I know who should have the superintendency, don’t 
 we? And J know a few men in politics, myself. Perhaps 
 you think I am only a girl and can’t do anything to help 
 
RUGGED WATER 99 
 
 There are some things a girl can do—with men—better than 
 men can do them. Wait and see. Just wait and see.” 
 
 It was upon Bartlett that her resentment seemed to center 
 most fiercely. “I hate him, hate him, hate him,” she declared. 
 “T never met him, of course, but I have met that daughter 
 of his and so I know what the family is like. We’ll get even 
 with them, though, you and I. And it may not take so very 
 long, either. He is captain there at Setuckit, but he is only 
 on trial and you are Number One man under him and the 
 men all like you. It will depend on you and them whether 
 he makes good or not, after all. I mustn’t write any more 
 about what I mean—you understand why—but you must 
 make an excuse for coming to Orham very soon and when 
 you come we will have a long talk. But I am sure you under- 
 stand how to act and what to do every minute of the time 
 until then. You must not miss a chance, and for my sake 
 you won’t, will you, dearest... ?” 
 
 There was more, but the remainder was very intimate 
 indeed, and dealt not at all with Benoni Bartlett nor the 
 captaincy. And, after the signature, was an underscored 
 Pin, 
 
 “Burn this letter just as soon as you have read it.” 
 
 Homer followed instructions, so far as the burning was 
 concerned. He read the letter through twice and then put 
 it carefully upon the hot coals in the kitchen stove, not re- 
 placing the lid until he had seen the closely written sheets 
 crumble to ashes. Then he went out and took a walk up 
 and down the beach, thinking. 
 
 Myra had not blamed him—even in her great disappoint- 
 ment she had not done that—and so much was—or should 
 be—comforting. She still trusted in him and believed in 
 him. But it was evident that she was by no means resigned 
 to the situation. She considered it to be but temporary and 
 more than hinted that, at least, it could be made so. She 
 was going to help and she expected him to do so. But 
 how? If the meaning between her lines was what it seemed 
 to be he—well, but, of course, after all, she did not mean 
 that. But she was absolutely wrong about Kellogg. Kellogg 
 
100 RUGGED WATER 
 
 was not at fault. He was a fine fellow and a friend and 
 any scheme which involved forcing him out of the superin- 
 tendency must not be considered for a moment. He must 
 make her see that. He must contrive an excuse for getting 
 to Orham for that “long talk.” 
 
 And on the second day before Christmas the excuse came. 
 There were supplies, in the way of holiday “extras,” to be 
 brought down from the village, and there were also presents 
 and Christmas boxes waiting there at the express office and 
 post office. Josh Phinney was the lucky man who was to 
 have liberty on Christmas day, but Josh had received per- 
 mission from Bartlett to remain overnight. An expected 
 baby in the Phinney household was the reason for the ex- 
 tension of time and the happy father played that reason for 
 all it was worth. Possibly a little more than it was worth, 
 according to some of the skeptics. 
 
 “What’s the matter with you, Hez’” demanded the exul- 
 tant Mr. Phinney. “Don’t blame Bologny for lettin’ me 
 have a few hours extry, I hope. He see the right thing, 
 Bologny did, and done it. He’d ought to. Don’t have a baby 
 every day.” 
 
 “Humph! Some folks have one every year. And the 
 last couple or so I’ve heard you do more growlin’ than 
 hurrahin’ over. Didn’t know what you was goin’ to pay for 
 their board and clothes with, you didn’t.” 
 
 “That’s all right. I haven’t got to worry about this one’s 
 board yet awhile. It’s provided for. Go on, Hez! you’re 
 jealous, that’s what ails you.” 
 
 But the men expected their Christmas mail and boxes 
 before the holiday and, as Peleg was not going to Orham at 
 the time, some one else, they felt, should go. So Calvin, 
 seizing the opportunity, intimated to Bartlett that he had a 
 few necessary errands which should be done and the keeper 
 gave him permission to make the trip, provided he got back 
 before supper that same afternoon. Philander Jarvis was 
 laid up with an attack of lumbago and his catboat was idle, 
 so Homer and Phinney borrowed it. 
 
 The morning was mild and hazy, and the wind light but 
 
RUGGED WATER 101 
 
 fair. The pair got an early start and landed at the Orham 
 wharf before ten. Josh wished his comrade a merry Christ- 
 mas and hurried up to the shops to buy small presents for a 
 large family. Calvin waited until he was out of sight and 
 then walked away in the general direction of the Main Road. 
 He, too, intended visiting those shops, but his errand was 
 entirely personal to himself—and one other. 
 
 After a perplexing half hour in the store of Laban Bassett, 
 “Jewelery, Silver, Notions and Fancy Articles, Watches and 
 Clocks Repaired,” he at last, bought a ring which cost more 
 than he could afford but which Laban assured him was “the 
 newest and most stylish thing out.” With this, neatly boxed 
 and in his pocket—a pocket now otherwise very nearly empty 
 —he left the Main Road and, walking across the fields, came 
 out upon the West Main Road close to its juncture with the 
 Neck Road. Into the latter he turned, and, a few minutes 
 later, into the gateway of the Fuller home. He fondly imag- 
 ined himself unobserved. But he was not; Nellie Snow was 
 watching him, so also was her mother. To be unobserved 
 in Orham was then, as it is now, almost an impossibility, 
 especially in the winter months. 
 
 Mrs. Fuller answered his knock. She was in her morning 
 wrapper and her hair was somewhat disarranged. Alto- 
 gether her appearance was in marked contrast to what it 
 had been on the occasion of his former visit, and she seemed 
 quite aware of the fact. If Calvin had been of a critical turn 
 of mind he might have considered her expression, when she 
 opened the door, and saw him standing there on the step, 
 not one of overwhelming joy. She colored, frowned, and 
 was evidently embarrassed. But he, too, was embarrassed 
 so he did not notice these things. And her confusion was 
 but momentary. 
 
 She was so glad to see him. And so surprised. Myra had 
 not told her he was coming. He explained that his visit was 
 unpremeditated and asked if Myra was in. Why no, she was 
 not; she was at school. The vacation did not begin until 
 the following day; he had forgotten that? He had, of course, 
 and apologized. Oh, that was all right. It didn’t make a bit of 
 
102 RUGGED WATER 
 
 difference. Myra would be at home for dinner, and he must 
 come right in and visit. Oh yes, he must. And he would 
 dine with them? She wouldn’t take no for an answer—that 
 is, provided he wasn’t too particular and would be satisfied 
 with just an everyday, picked up meal. You see, having to 
 do her own housework, they lived very simply, and just got 
 along with as little as possible. Myra insisted on that. She 
 would not let her mother work too hard. She was the most 
 thoughtful daughter that ever lived, so Mrs. Fuller really 
 did believe. It was a good deal of a come-down for them 
 both, for in the old days, when the captain was living, every- 
 thing was so different. Then, when company came unex- 
 pectedly it was all right. They kept help then, of course, 
 and— 
 
 Homer, more embarrassed than ever, interrupted when the 
 lady paused for breath, and said that he guessed he would 
 not wait, but would come back later. He had not intended 
 to stay for dinner anyway, and— 
 
 But Sarepta would not hear of his going. He must come 
 right in. And he wouldn’t mind if the dinner wasn’t much, 
 would he? 
 
 “After ail, you’re one of the family now, Calvin,” she an- 
 nounced, with a smile, the archness of which was a sort of 
 faded reminder of her daughter’s. ‘And home folks aren’t 
 fussy, are they?” 
 
 So he entered the house and Mrs. Fuller, still protesting 
 her pleasure in seeing him and lamenting over the dinner 
 and begging his pardon for “looking so like fury’”’ because she 
 had not had a minute to change her clothes, relieved him of 
 his hat and coat, ushered him into the sitting room and de- 
 parted, tucking up the stray fringes of her hair as she went. 
 Calvin was vaguely conscious that that hair did not seem 
 to be as plentiful as when he last saw it. 
 
 Left alone in the sitting room, with the haircloth set and 
 the portraits of the departed, he waited. His hostess bobbed 
 in and out occasionally, to ask questions concerning affairs 
 at the station, or to deliver an item of local gossip. She 
 would have talked much concerning the Bartlett appoint- 
 
RUGGED WATER 103 
 
 ment, but he was discouragingly silent on that point. She 
 declared it to be a sin and a shame, and that everybody was 
 saying so—“Everybody that amounts to anything, that is,” 
 she added, with a somewhat tart emphasis. “There’s a few 
 that pretend to believe Kellogg did the best he could, but 
 they don’t say it when we’re around. Cap’n Ziba, here at 
 the corner, was standing up for the Kellogg man the other 
 day and Myra heard him. She told him what she thought 
 of it, you better be sure of that. Myra says Cap’n Ziba’s 
 all right enough—she and the cap’n are nice and friendly— 
 but it’s that daughter of his—that Nellie Snow—she can’t 
 bear. So many of the girls here in Orham are jealous of 
 Myra. She gets along real well with the men—the school 
 committee now, she can do anything she wants to with them, 
 but some of the women and girls are hateful as they can be. 
 Just jealousy, that’s all it is. They can’t stand superiority, 
 and Myra is superior. I guess you think she is, don’t you, 
 Calving) fa. thal? 
 
 With each appearance she was a trifle more ornamental. 
 The wrapper vanished, and was replaced by a becoming 
 gown. Her hair was neatly arranged, and it must have been 
 Homer’s fancy which had deemed it scanty, for now there 
 was an abundance. 
 
 He was alone when he heard Myra’s step on the walk. 
 The sitting room door was slightly ajar, and he heard her 
 enter—also her mother’s greeting. 
 
 “Why, Myra, where have you been?” cried Mrs. Fuller. 
 “You’re much as ten minutes late.” 
 
 Myra’s reply was tart in its impatience. 
 
 “Oh, I had to stop and listen to that ninny of a Ezra 
 Blodgett,” she explained. “He didn’t really have a thing to 
 say, but he is rich and is going to be on the committee next 
 year, so I had to look sweet and pretend I liked it. Silly 
 thing! Deliver me from soft-headed old men. And the 
 married ones or the widowers are the worst. I only wish 
 that old-maid sister of his could have seen the way he looked 
 at me. .. . Well, what are you making signs about? What’s 
 the matter with you?” 
 
104 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Then followed a brief silence—silence as far as the visitor 
 in the sitting room was concerned. Then Miss Fuller said, 
 “Oh!” and followed it with, “My goodness!” 
 
 But there were no traces of ill temper when she ran in to 
 greet her lover. And she was so pretty and so vivacious, 
 and her expressions of joyful surprise were so flattering, her 
 welcoming hug and kiss so intoxicating, that Calvin—whose 
 opinion of Mr. Blodgett—an opinion founded upon the lat- 
 ter’s local reputation—was anything but favorable—forgot 
 his momentary resentment. She closed the door, with elab- 
 orate and playful carefulness, and they sat together once 
 more upon that ancient sofa. 
 
 There was so much to say, so Myra declared, and such 
 a provokingly short time to say it in. Wasn’t he going to 
 stay for supper and the evening? Oh, he must! She had 
 to go back to that horrid school right after dinner and— 
 just think—they hadn’t seen each other for ages. And so 
 on. It was pleasant, and as wonderful as ever. But when he 
 explained that he had promised Captain Bartlett to be back 
 at the station by supper time, the young lady’s smile vanished. 
 
 “Promise!’’ she repeated, scornfully. “You don’t have to 
 keep a promise.to that man, I hope. What right has he got 
 to ask favors of you?” 
 
 It was not a favor asked, but an order given, so Homer 
 explained. The explanation did not help greatly. 
 
 “The idea of his giving you orders! He! You ought to 
 be the one to give orders down there. And you will be giving 
 them before long. Tell me, how is he getting on with the 
 men? They hate him, I know that.” 
 
 Calvin turned to look at her. “You know they hate him?” 
 he repeated. “Why, who said they did?” 
 
 “Ellis Badger for one. He told me lots of things. He 
 was up here on liberty, you know, a little while ago, and 
 I made it my business to see him. At first he wouldn’t say 
 much, he was afraid to, I guess; the poor thing doesn’t dare 
 call his soul his own when he is within a mile of home. But 
 I was ever so nice to him’’—she laughed at the recollection— 
 “and before we finished our talk he told me all he knew. 
 
RUGGED WATER 105 
 
 That wasn’t too much, for he doesn’t know more than enough 
 to get out of his own way, but he told me how mad the crew 
 were because you had been slighted and Bartlett made keeper. 
 He said every man was on your side, and would do anything 
 to help you. Of course I couldn’t speak plainly—I wouldn’t 
 have him guess what I was up to for the world—but I think 
 I dropped some hints that will do good. From what he said 
 I don’t imagine that Bartlett will have the smoothest time 
 that ever was. We'll see that he doesn’t, won’t we? And 
 now tell me; what have you done. ... ? Why do you look 
 at me like that? What is it?” 
 
 He was regarding her uneasily. All this sounded like 
 confirmation of the meaning he had at first fancied lay be- 
 tween the lines of her letter, and which he had dismissed as 
 impossible. Even now he could not believe she really meant 
 it. She could not expect him to— 
 
 Then came a discreet knock at the door and Mrs. Fuller 
 called to announce that dinner was ready. The meal was by 
 no means a bad one, in spite of Sarepta’s profuse apologies 
 for its “picked-upness.” Homer would not have noticed if 
 it had been. His appetite was not hearty just then. Myra 
 had not said much, it is true, but she had said enough to 
 trouble him greatly. The consciousness of impending crisis 
 was strong upon him. 
 
 And back once more 1n the sitting room, with the door 
 closed, she repeated her question. What had he done at 
 the station since the new keeper came? 
 
 He hesitated. “Done?” he said. “Why, I have done my 
 regular work, of course.” 
 
 “Oh, I know,” impatiently. ‘You have to do that, or 
 pretend to. But what else have you done—to help our 
 plan?” 
 
 He looked at her and then looked away again. 
 
 “T’m not sure that I know just what you mean,” he said. 
 This was not true; he was beginning to fear that he did 
 know only too well. 
 
 She laughed incredulously and tossed_her head. 
 
 “Rubbish!” she exclaimed. “Of course you know. I 
 
106 RUGGED WATER 
 
 mean what are you doing to help yourselfi—to help us— 
 down there? I haven’t done much yet, I haven’t really be- 
 gun, but I have done something. I gave Ellis Badger— 
 oh, if he wasn’t such a fool !—as broad hints as I dared about 
 Bartlett’s being unfit to be keeper, and how people felt 
 about it, and how no one expected him to get on with the 
 crew, and that no one blamed them for not paying atten- 
 tion to what he said. I told him—I said he mustn’t breathe 
 a word to any one, but of course he will and I meant him to 
 —that everybody worth while here in Orham expected Bart- 
 lett to fail, and was only waiting to see it happen. And I 
 praised you to the skies—not out and out, I had too much 
 sense for that—but in a roundabout way, and he agreed with 
 every bit of it. Oh, he will tell the others. You see if he 
 doesn’t. And it will help a lot. Now I want to know about 
 you. Are you keeping yourself in the front of everything 
 as you promised me you would?” 
 
 “T am doing my work as Number One. ... And I am 
 making the men do theirs.” 
 
 She cried out, sharply. ‘But you mustn't,” she protested. 
 “That is the very thing. Never mind the men. If they 
 don’t do as they should that isn’t your affair—now. It is 
 his—that Bartlett’s. Don’t you see? If he can’t keep order, 
 and if things don’t go right, as they used to go when Os- 
 wald Myrick was keeper—or when you took his place—then 
 there will be no one to blame but Bartlett. And everything 
 that goes wrong will be so much the worse for him and so 
 much better for you. Don’t you see, dear? Oh, you must 
 see !’’ f 
 
 He saw. The crisis had arrived. He drew a long breath. 
 
 “You mean,” he asked, slowly, “that you don’t want things 
 at the station to go right?” 
 
 “Why, of course! The worse they go the sooner there 
 will be a change. Kellogg will have to put him out and you 
 will get the appointment. That is what we both want, what 
 we are both working for, isn’t it?” 
 
 He did not answer. She was regarding him now and she 
 leaned forward to see his face. 
 
 39 
 
RUGGED WATER 107 
 
 “Well? What ails you?” she demanded, crisply. “Why 
 don’t you say something? Look at me.” 
 
 He turned then and looked, but his look did not 
 please her. 
 
 “Calvin,” she cried, “what is the matter with you? What 
 are you thinking. .. ? Has something happened that you 
 haven’t told me about ?” 
 
 He shook his head. “No,” he answered. “Nothing has 
 happened. I—I— See here, Myra, you don’t expect me not 
 to play straight with Cap’n Bartlett, do you?” 
 
 “Captain! For mercy’s sake, don’t you call him captain. 
 And what do you mean by playing straight ?” 
 
 “Why—why, working against him, behind his back, with 
 —with the men, and all that. You wouldn’t want me to do 
 that ?” 
 
 “Why wouldn’t I? Has he played straight, as you call it, 
 with you?” 
 
 “Yes, I guess he has. It isn’t his fault that they made him 
 keeper—not really, it isn’t.” 
 
 “Nonsense! Of course it is. He knew well enough that 
 you should have the place. But he schemed and planned until 
 he sneaked in. The miserable, ccntriving—” 
 
 “Now, now, Myra. He isn’t contriving. He wouldn’t 
 know how to be. He’s just—well, simple, sort of. And 
 queer. I kind of pity him, sometimes. Honestly, I do.” 
 
 Miss Fuller moved away from him on the sofa. Her eyes 
 were sparkling now, but the sparkle could hardly be called 
 a love light. 
 
 “Pity him!” she cried shrilly. “Pity him! Calvin Homer, 
 are you crazy?” 
 
 “No-o, I guess not. No more crazy than usual. But, you 
 see, Myra, I do pity him. He’s so—so all alone. He must 
 know the men don’t like him. I think he realizes, in a way, 
 that he wouldn’t be liked by most people. He talks to me 
 more than he does the rest. I don’t know why, unless it is 
 because—because—”’ 
 
 “Because he is trying to keep you friendly, of course. He 
 knows you could make trouble for him—and ought to—and 
 
108 RUGGED WATER 
 
 he is smart enough to make up to you and head that trouble 
 off. If he can soft soap you, why, he thinks you will help 
 him. with the men—and the superintendent. It is plain 
 enough. I should think any fool could see that.” 
 
 Calvin shifted uneasily. “It isn’t that, Myra,” he declared. 
 “You haven’t seen him. You haven’t heard him talk. If 
 you had you would know that he couldn’t soft soap anybody. 
 
 . Oh, I don’t like him, especially—” 
 
 “I should hope not!” 
 
 “But I don’t hate him, or anything like that. And— 
 and, honest, Myra, I don’t like the idea of working under- 
 hand against him while he is my skipper. It doesn’t seem 
 fair to me.” 
 
 “It is just as fair as he has been to you—yes, and fairer. 
 Can’t you see this is a fight for your rights? Are you going 
 to knuckle down and let him walk all over you? What ails 
 you? Haven’t you any fight in you?” 
 
 “T guess I have. But that kind of fight isn’t square. Men 
 —decent men—don’t fight that way. If it was a fair, stand- 
 up scrap I could—” 
 
 “Oh, don’t be so ridiculous! And how about being fair 
 to me? You are going to be my husband some day. I tell 
 you here and now, I don’t intend to marry a man who is 
 contented to play second fiddle in a life-saving station. You 
 and I promised each other to work ever and ever so hard for 
 each other. You were going to try in every way to push 
 yourself forward and I was going to help you. And I am 
 doing my part. What have you done? Nothing—except 
 make friends with the very person who stands most in our 
 way. Is that fair to me?” 
 
 Calvin hesitated. His resolution was as strong as ever, 
 but the question made a certain appeal to his sense of justice. 
 After all, she had been planning and working to help him, 
 And they had promised to work and plan for each other. 
 At the time when the promise was made he had had no clear 
 idea of its meaning—surely not of any such meaning as hers 
 must have been—but she, perhaps, thought he had. And, 
 always with him, was the conviction of her superiority, her 
 
RUGGED WATER 109 
 
 beauty, her popularity, the incomprehensibility of her choos- 
 ing him from her list of suitors. He shook his head. 
 
 “No,” he admitted. “Maybe you’re right, Myra—from 
 your way of looking at it. Perhaps it isn’t just fair to you. 
 ... I guess it isn’t... . But—” 
 
 “But what? . .. Go on!” 
 
 “But I—I can’t—it seems as if I couldn’t play politics 
 down there at Setuckit. And such dirty back-door politics, 
 too.” 
 
 “Thank you for the compliment, I’m sure.” 
 
 “Oh, I don’t mean you see it that way. I know you 
 don’t. But I can’t see it any other... . And I can’t do it, 
 that sally sd just'can' tt 
 
 She rose from the sofa. The fire in her eyes was ominous. 
 
 “You can’t?’ she sneered. “That means you won't, I 
 take it.” 
 
 He nodded, wretchedly. “I hate to have you put it that 
 way,’ he said. “But I can’t do what you want me to, Myra.” 
 
 “Indeed! . . . Then I suppose you understand what that 
 means, so far as you and J are concerned ?” 
 
 “Yes. ... LT supposeI do. ...tIam sorry. It isn’t your 
 fault. It’s mine, I guess. . . . I’m afraid it was all a mis- 
 take, anyway, your taking a fellow like me.” 
 
 She made no answer to this confession. He, too, rose from 
 the sofa and stood there, waiting for his dismissal. But that 
 dismissal was not given. There was a long moment of silence 
 and then, to his amazement, she came to him, put her arms 
 about his neck and looked up into his face. 
 
 “Calvin,” she breathed. 
 
 Were there tears in those expressive eyes of hers? There 
 must be, for her voice trembled as she spoke his name. 
 
 “Calvin—oh, Calvin, dearest!’ she whispered. 
 
 He groaned, in conscience-stricken misery. 
 
 “T— It isn’t fair to you, Myra,” he stammered, chokingly. 
 “T know it isn’t. You’re doing everything for me, but—but 
 I can’t help it. I’m made stubborn, I guess. . . . Oh, I don’t 
 know what is the matter with me.” 
 
 She kissed him. “I do,’ she declared. “You’re just a 
 
110 RUGGED WATER 
 
 dear, sweet innocent boy, who is so honest himself that he 
 thinks every one else is the same. And he needs some one 
 to look after him, doesn’t he? Yes, he does. And he has 
 some one, only he mustn’t be cross to her and he must pay 
 attention when she tries to help him, because she knows best. 
 
 . And now we won’t quarrel any more, will we? We 
 won't say another word about the old life-saving station. 
 We'll sit here on the sofa and talk about no one but just our 
 very selves.” 
 
 And they did, Miss Fuller doing most of the talking. The 
 station, nor Bartlett, nor her plans, nor the sharp difference 
 of opinion concerning them, were mentioned at all. And 
 when he attempted to mention them she would not let him 
 do so, but whispered that he must not be naughty any more— 
 and wasn’t he ever and ever so happy? Of course he said 
 he was—but even as he said it, a disturbing doubt returned 
 to trouble him. 
 
 When the time came for her to go back to the school he 
 walked with her as far as the turn of the Main Road. There 
 they separated. The real farewells had, of course, been said 
 in the Fuller sitting room; this public parting was but a casual 
 handshake and good-by, for the benefit of watchful Orham. 
 
 He called at the post office, the express office and the 
 grocery store. The various boxes and heavy packages he 
 arranged to have sent to the wharf in the grocer’s delivery 
 wagon. And toward that wharf he strolled, meditating 
 deeply. He took the longest way, over the fields and around 
 the two-mile curve of the Shell Road. There was plenty of 
 time—he must wait until the grocer’s, boy came—and mean- 
 while he did not care to meet acquaintances, He wanted to 
 be alone—and think. 
 
 He had foreseen a crisis and that crisis had come—and 
 burst—and then apparently was not. But had it gone, defi- 
 nitely and forever, or was it merely waiting around the next 
 corner, ready to jump at him later on? Had Myra been con- 
 vinced that she was wrong and he was right, and would she 
 hereafter be contented to let matters at Setuckit take their 
 regular course, trusting to luck and his own hard work to 
 
RUGGED WATER 111 
 
 bring him promotion and advancement, there or elsewhere? 
 Knowing her and her ambitions he could scarcely believe it. 
 She had yielded for the time—or, at least, had refused to let 
 him go—but had she actually given up one iota of her schemes 
 for ousting Bartlett—and Kellogg? And wouldn’t she con- 
 tinue to “play politics’ and do her best to make him play 
 them, too? He would not play them—he was as resolute as 
 ever on that point—but would she understand that and not 
 keep trying? He went over their recent disagreement and 
 reconciliation word for word and he could not remember 
 that she had said anything which indicated relinquishment of 
 her designs. If she meant to go on, then the final settlement 
 between them had been only postponed. Nothing at all was 
 really settled. 
 
 He.almost wished it had been. If she had bade him go 
 and never speak to her again—well, then at least, his trouble 
 would have been present and tangible. He would have known 
 the worst and could face it, whereas now it was clouding his 
 whole future, like a fog bank, with all sorts of possible perils 
 behind it. He wished it was cver and done with. 
 
 He wished— 
 
 Then he awoke to a realization of what he was wishing 
 and felt ashamed of himself. He swore aloud, jammed his 
 hands into his pockets and one of them came in contact with 
 a small, square package. 
 
 It was the package containing the ring he had bought of 
 Laban Bassett that forenoon. He had meant it as an engage- 
 ment ring and a Christmas present combined. The distressed 
 scene in the Fuller sitting room had driven all thought of it 
 from his mind. He had actually forgotten to give it to her. 
 Now he knew there was something the matter with him. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 IS first move, after realization of his criminal for- 
 H getfulness, was to look at his watch. Was there 
 
 time in which to return to the Fuller home and 
 leave the ring? Scarcely—and yet he could do it if he hur- 
 ried. But Myra would not be there, she was at school, and 
 Sarepta had said something about going to sewing circle. 
 If he ran he might reach there before she left, but what would 
 the neighbors think if they saw him galloping up to the door 
 as if he were going toa fire? The idea of visiting the school- 
 house and facing a brigade of sniggering youngsters was not 
 tenable. He could not present the ring in person, he must 
 send it by a messenger—if he could find one. 
 
 Wide awake now and with the thought of that messenger 
 foremost in his mind, he walked briskly on. As he climbed 
 the hill where the Shell Road emerges from the pines beyond 
 the big swamp, and came in sight of the bay, he realized that 
 he had lingered too long. The morning haze—a haze more 
 befitting a day in May than December—had become some- 
 thing more definite and disturbing. The whole western hori- 
 zon was piled high with fog. The mainland of the Cape 
 beyond Denboro was gone, the beach ended just past Harniss. 
 Setuckit was still visible—that is, he could see the speck which 
 he knew was the tower of the life-saving station above the 
 last low-lying dune—but behind it was but a gray curtain. 
 The breeze had died almost entirely; there was scarcely 
 enough left to give steerage way. If he was to make good 
 his promise to Bartlett and get back to the station before 
 supper he must start at once. Even then, unless the wind 
 freshened, he would barely make it. 
 
 He heard the rattle of a cart on the road below and to his 
 left and, turning, saw the grocer’s wagon approaching. That 
 was good; he would not be kept waiting for his Christmas _ 
 
 TI2z 
 
RUGGED WATER 115 
 
 freight. The cart was a covered affair and he could not see 
 the packages and boxes, but of course they were there. There 
 seemed to be two persons on the driver’s seat. He did not 
 stop to look longer; it was the contents of the vehicle, not 
 its passengers, which interested him. He left the road, 
 vaulted the rail fence, and hurried down through the bay- 
 berry and beach-plum bushes to the landing. 
 
 The cart reached there before he did and was drawn up 
 at the outer end of the wharf, only its rear showing beyond 
 the walls of the fish house. Jimmie Kelley, the grocer’s boy, 
 a chubby youth of seventeen, was unloading the bundles and 
 boxes and piling them on the planks at his feet. Among them, 
 to Homer’s surprise, was a leather suit case. Jimmie heard 
 his approach and greeted him with a grin. 
 
 “Hello, Cap’n Cal,” hailed Jimmie. “Beat you to: it, 
 didn’t I? MHere’s your stuff. Want me should help you 
 stow it aboard?’ 
 
 Calvin shook his head. “TI guess I can handle it,” he said. 
 Then, mindful of his determination not to do any more 
 forgetting, he added, “I’d rather you took the time to go 
 back by way of the Neck Road and do an errand for me. 
 Can you?” 
 
 Jimmie’s grin widened. “Sure thing,” he declared. 
 “Where’s the errand to; up to Myra’s?” . 
 
 Homer’s hand was in his pocket and the package contain- 
 ing the ring was in the hand. But there it stayed. He 
 hesitated. 
 
 “Take it just as well as not,” urged Jimmie. “Glad to. 
 Myra ain’t to home now, though; she’s up to school.” 
 
 The hand was removed from the pocket—empty. Its 
 owner frowned. 
 
 “Who said anything about—about her?’ he demanded 
 tartly. Was it absolutely impossible to keep a secret in 
 Orham? 
 
 “Why—why, nobody did, as I know of. Only you said 
 the Neck Road—and she lives there—and of course—well, 
 everybody says—I just thought—” 
 
 Calvin interrupted. ‘Never mind,” he snapped. “Let the 
 
114 RUGGED WATER 
 
 errand go. You can help me with these things here. Whose 
 suit case is that ?” 
 
 But Jimmie was troubled. “Ain’t mad, are you, Cap’n 
 Cal?” he queried. “I didn’t mean nothin’. I was just—” 
 
 “Oh, forget it! What is that suit case doing here?” 
 
 Young Kelley’s grin returned. He winked, and pointed 
 over his shoulder. 
 
 “Tt’s hers,” he said. 
 
 “Hers? Whose?” 
 
 “Sshh! She’ll hear you. She’s right here on the wharf. 
 Gee, she’s a pippin, too! You won’t be mad when you see 
 her, Cap'n Cal. She’s goin’ down to Setuckit along with you. 
 Her old man don’t know it; it’s his Christmas surprise.” 
 
 Homer stepped forward and peered around the corner of 
 the fish house. At the further edge of the wharf a girl was 
 standing. Her back was toward them and she was looking 
 out over the water. He stepped back again. 
 
 “Who is it?” he whispered. Jimmie was eager to supply 
 the information. 
 
 “It’s that—er—what’s-her-name—Normal Bartlett. ’Tain’t 
 Normal, but it’s something like it. Old man Bartlett’s girl, 
 you know; the one they put the picture of in the paper; the 
 one that ’tends libr’y up to Fairborough. She came down 
 on to-day’s train and wanted to be took to Setuckit right off. 
 Nobody didn’t know how they was goin’ to get her there, 
 until Mr. Eldridge at the store, he recollected you was up to 
 town and was goin’ back this afternoon. He cal’lated you’d 
 just as soon take her down as not. Old Seth Burgess, he was 
 hangin’ ’round as usual, and he says— He, he!—he said, 
 ‘Cal won’t mind takin’ her. Judas!’ he says, ‘I’d be willin’ to 
 take her ’most anywheres, myself... .’ And he was dead 
 right, too. Say, she’s a peach, Cap’n. Honest she is! Wait 
 till you see her.” 
 
 Calvin did not speak. At that moment he was profoundly 
 irritated. In his present state of mind solitude and his own 
 thoughts were unpleasant enough, but they were far prefer- 
 able to the society of any one else, least of all a stranger— 
 and a girl. 
 
RUGGED WATER | 115 
 
 Young Kelley chattered on. He was an impressionable 
 youth, and enthusiastic. 
 
 “She said she’d ride down to the wharf along of me in the 
 team,” he confided, ‘and she done it. Asked me a lot of 
 questions about things down to the station, and the like of 
 that. Gee, she’s all right! Not a mite stuck up, lots of fun 
 to her. And you ought to hear her laugh—and see her do 
 iblss;cus Geet 
 
 Homer could not help smiling. “She hit you hard, didn’t 
 she, Jim?” he observed. 
 
 Jimmie blushed under his freckles, but he stuck to his guns. 
 
 “I don’t care; she’s all right,’ he declared. “I ain’t the 
 only one. You'd ought to seen old Ezra Blodgett stare at 
 her when she came out of the store. He was goin’ by and 
 he stopped dead still and just gawped. He—” 
 
 But Calvin had no more time to waste. “Come, pick up 
 some of this stuff and put it aboard,” he ordered. “T’ll take 
 the rest. Hurry up!” 
 
 Jimmie made a grab for the handle of the suit case. 
 
 “TI might’s well take this,” he said quickly. “It’s handy to 
 lug. Come on, Cap’n.” 
 
 The girl turned to meet them as they came out from be- 
 hind the wagon. Calvin, although in no mood to receive 
 favorable impressions, was nevertheless willing to concede 
 that Jimmie’s enthusiasm was not altogether unwarranted. 
 A pair of clear gray eyes, a provoking nose, a wide mouth 
 parted in a smile which seemed not at all forced, and a firm 
 little chin. She wore a heavy coat of rough cloth, with the 
 collar turned up, and a neat and becoming turban. Under 
 the edges of the hat and against the background of her coat 
 collar her brown hair was bunched in rebellious masses. She 
 was a good-looking girl—there was no doubt of that—not 
 handsome and statuesque like Myra Fuller—no, not at all 
 like Myra. And least of all like what he had expected 
 Benoni Bartlett’s daughter to be. Benoni had spoken of his 
 daughter, and more than once, but if he possessed her photo- 
 graph, he had never shown it to his Number One man. 
 
 She came to meet them, smiling and unembarrassed. 
 
116 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “I suppose you are Mr. Homer,” she said. “I am Norma 
 Bartlett. How do you do. ...? Oh, please don’t trouble 
 to shake hands—now. Your hands are full.” 
 
 They were, both of them. And Calvin was embarrassed, 
 as he usually was when meeting strange young women. He 
 started to put down his load of boxes and bundles, then 
 decided not to do so, and immediately wished he had. 
 
 “How do you do, Miss Bartlett?” he stammered, inanely. 
 ig) ey CERO 
 
 She saw that he was embarrassed, and helped him out. 
 
 “You are surprised, of course,” she said. “I don’t wonder. 
 But I hope I am not making you a lot of trouble. I came to 
 spend Christmas week with father. I didn’t write I was 
 coming, for I wanted to surprise him. ' It never occurred to 
 me that the station might be such an out-of-the-way place to 
 get to. When they told me you were going down there I— 
 well-—I invited myself. If there isn’t room—” 
 
 He assurred her there was plenty of room. 
 
 “Get the dunnage aboard, Jim,” he ordered. “We'll have 
 to hustle, with no more wind than this.” 
 
 The packages and the suit case were stowed in the little 
 cabin of the catboat. Jimmie personally attended to the 
 stowing of the case; he refused any assistance so far as that 
 was concerned. He would have helped Miss Bartlett into 
 the boat, but she did not appear to need help, catching a 
 halyard and leaping lightly from the stringpiece to the deck 
 as if she were used to boats. Homer lingered a moment 
 before following her. Young Kelley reluctantly clambered 
 up and stood beside him. 
 
 “How about that errand, Cap’n Cal?” he queried. 
 
 Calvin frowned. Then he took the ring box from his 
 pocket. 
 
 “Leave this at the Fullers’,” he said. “Tell Mrs. Fuller 
 it is something I meant to—well, something I forgot. Tell 
 her I’ll write, or telephone, and explain.” 
 
 Jimmie regarded the little parcel with consuming curiosity. 
 
 “?Tain’t for Sarepta, is it?’ he queried. “Shall I say it’s 
 for her?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 117 
 
 “No, no,” sharply. “You tell her what I told you. She'll 
 understand.” 
 
 Jimmie winked. “I’m on, Cap’n,” he declared. “I know 
 what to say, I guess likely. And I guess likely you don’t 
 want me to say nothin’ to nobody else neither. Eh? Ain’t 
 that so?” 
 
 Homer did not answer. His passenger did not appear to 
 be listening, but she must have overheard the dialogue. Not 
 that that made any difference, but the whole business was 
 vexing. He had a feeling that Myra would not like the idea 
 of his having forgotten to give her the ring. She might not 
 like his sending it in this offhand fashion.. He was tempted 
 to change his mind for the third time and wait and deliver 
 his gift in person later on. But Jimmie’s next remark de- 
 cided the matter. 
 
 “TY understand, Cap’n,’ he whispered. “Day after to- 
 morrow’s Christmas, eh? T’ll fix things all right for you. 
 I’m used to doin’ errands and things for folks. Why, one 
 time old man Blodgett give me a quarter for takin’ a letter 
 to—well, never mind who ’twas to. I told him I’d never 
 tell, and I ain’t—so far.” 
 
 It was apparent that he wanted to tell very much, but he 
 received no encouragement. Calvin took a coin from his 
 pocket—it happened to be a half dollar—and gave it to him. 
 
 “There! take that,” he commanded. “And clear out.” 
 
 He jumped aboard the catboat and set about hoisting the 
 sail and casting off. As the boat swung lazily away from 
 the wharf Jimmie called after them. 
 
 “Merry Christmas, Cap’n,” he shouted. “Merry Christ- 
 mas, Miss Bartlett.” 
 
 The young lady returned the wish. She laughed merrily. 
 
 “He isn’t exactly a shy boy, is he?” she observed. 
 
 Calvin grunted. He was busy with the wheel and the 
 sheet. 
 
 “He talked steadily all the way to the wharf,” contmued 
 the passenger. “I asked him one or two questions and he 
 ‘answered at least twenty. He likes you, Mr. Homer. He 
 told me ever so many things about you.” 
 
118 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Homer glowered at her. He wondered just exactly what 
 had been told. Jimmie Kelley, in his opinion, was altogether 
 too wise for his age. 
 
 The breeze had freshened a little by the time they reached 
 the harbor entrance, but there was no promise of constancy 
 init. The fog was drawing nearer. 
 
 Miss Bartlett gazed ahead over the smooth, oily waves of 
 the bay. 
 
 “Where is it we are going?” she asked. “Where is Se- 
 tuckit ?” 
 
 Homer pointed. ‘About ten miles off yonder,” he replied. 
 “Tf it was clear you could see the lighthouse and the tower 
 of the station.” 
 
 “But you can’t see them now. That is fog ahead, isn’t 
 itr 
 
 “Yes. It is coming in fast. It will be thick enough in 
 half an hour.” 
 
 “Really ?” 
 
 “Yes. But there is nothing to worry about. We'll get 
 there all right, and before supper, if the wind holds.” 
 
 “Oh, I’m not worried. I suppose you will steer by com- 
 pass when the fog comes.” 
 
 “Yes. *You’re ased to’ boats, Lf guess.” 
 
 “T ought to be. I lived in Trumet until I was fifteen, 
 before I went away to school. I was in a boat, or about 
 boats, a great deal of the time. I love all this—the salt 
 water and the sand and the gulls—yes, even the fog. You 
 don’t, I imagine—the fog part, at least?” 
 
 “No. I’ve seen too much trouble come from the stuff.” 
 
 “Of course. Father hates it, too. So do all the men in 
 the life-saving service. ... Tell me a little about father, 
 Mr. Homer. How is he?” 
 
 “Why—he is all right, I guess. He is well—or he was 
 this morning.” . 
 
 “Do you think he is quite himself? Does he seem nervous 
 or anxious? Oh, you know what I mean! Does he eat and 
 sleep as he should?” 
 
 “Yes, I should say so. He is—of course he is new to his 
 
RUGGED WATER 119 
 
 job there at Setuckit and new to the station. Naturally, 
 getting used to things may worry him a little at first.” 
 
 “So you think he does worry? I was afraid of it.” 
 
 “T don’t know that he worries any more than any other 
 man would. There is a good deal of care about the keeper’s 
 job and—well, Cap’n Bartlett has been through a lot lately. 
 It was enough to upset any man’s nerves, that Crooked Hill 
 business.” 
 
 She shuddered. “I know,” she said. “It was terrible— 
 terrible! I knew all the men who were drowned. Some of 
 them I had known since I was a baby. I went down there, 
 you see, just after it happened, and stayed with father until 
 he was well enough for me to leave. I was there when they 
 picked up the bodies, and I met some of the widows and— 
 But I don’t want to talk about that. I won’t. I dream about 
 it even now. I must get it out of my mind.” 
 
 She paused. Homer remembered her father’s confession 
 concerning his own dreams. 
 
 “You said something about upset nerves,’ she went on. 
 “Do you mean you think father’s nerves are upset?” 
 
 “Why—why, no, not especially. I mean—I meant it 
 wouldn’t be surprising if they were.” 
 
 “I’m afraid his are. Mr. Homer, I suppose you think my 
 father is a very odd man. You do think that, don’t you?” 
 
 It was not at all the question he expected, and he was not 
 ready with an answer. She noticed his hesitancy and drew 
 her own conclusions. Her tone changed. 
 
 “T can see you do,” she said quickly. “Most people do. 
 They don’t know him, that’s all. There is no better man in 
 this world than my father.” 
 
 “Why—why, I don’t doubt it, Miss Bartlett. I didn’t 
 say—” 
 
 “Tt doesn’t make any difference what any one says. I 
 know him—and they don’t, that’s all. He is very religious, 
 and that is unusual, goodness knows, in the life-saving serv- 
 ice; and those that don’t understand him call him a crank, 
 behind his back. They never call him one before his face— 
 or mine,” with a defiant toss of her head. 
 
120 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Homer had—in thought at least—more than once called 
 his new keeper a “crank.” He did not know what to say. 
 
 “How is he getting on with his work?” she persisted. “Do 
 the men like him?” 
 
 Here was another embarrassing question. 
 
 “Why—why, yes, sure,” he answered, with almost too 
 much emphasis. “He’s doing first rate. We haven’t had 
 but one call since he has been there. That was a lumber 
 schooner aground on the Hog’s Back and he got her off in 
 no time. I never saw a job handled better. Didn’t he write 
 you about that?” 
 
 “Yes.” She turned and looked at him, and again her 
 expression had changed. “He writes me every day,” she 
 said. ‘Sometimes I don’t get the letters for three or four 
 days, but then I get them together. He writes me every- 
 thing. He has written me often about you.” 
 
 “Oh—has he?” 
 
 “Yes. He says you are as dependable a mate as he ever 
 signed with. That is a good deal for father to say. You 
 ought to be proud, Mr. Homer.” 
 
 He did not feel particularly proud. He was rather glad 
 to know that Bartlett had seen fit to praise him in those 
 letters. And undeniably thankful that, in his own conver- 
 sations with Kellogg and the men, while they had hinted and 
 criticized, he had said nothing. It made him feel less like 
 a hypocrite. A girl as straightforward and outspoken as this 
 one seemed to be would have little use for hypocrites. Not 
 that her opinion was of great importance to him, but his own 
 was. 
 
 “Father says you obey orders and he thinks he can trust 
 you,” she went on. “Loyalty is a strong point in his religion. 
 He is a crank on that, if you want to call him so. So am I, 
 for that matter.” 
 
 Calvin murmured that loyalty was a fine thing. He was 
 thinking of Myra Fuller and the after-dinner scene in the 
 sitting room. 
 
 “The fog is almost on top of us now,” he observed. 
 
 But she would not look at the fog. “I want to ask you a 
 
RUGGED WATER 12% 
 
 little more about father,” she said. “I may not have as good 
 a chance as this again. Mr. Homer, please tell me the exact 
 truth; do you think his taking this place at Setuckit was a 
 mistake ?” 
 
 This girl should be a lawyer. She certainly had a talent 
 for cross-examination. 
 
 “Why—I don’t know what you mean,” he said. 
 
 “T mean just that. Do you think it would be better—for 
 him—if he had not accepted the appointment ?” 
 
 “Why shouldn’t he accept it? He wanted it, didn’t he?” 
 
 “He didn’t apply for it. Of course you know that. It was 
 offered to him and I think no one was more surprised than 
 he when the offer was made. And he wasn’t sure that he 
 ought to take it. Neither was I.” 
 
 This statement was surprising. Calvin looked at her. 
 
 “He told me—yes, and he told the men—that he took the 
 place on your account,” he said bluntly. “He said you wanted 
 him to do it.” 
 
 She was troubled. “Did he say that?’ she asked. “I’m 
 sorry. And yet it is true, in a way. If I had said no, he 
 would have refused. He would do anything to please me. 
 But of course I wouldn’t say it. He had been in the service 
 for years and it was time he got some recognition. And he 
 certainly deserved the appointment—or anything they could 
 do for him. Didn’t he?” 
 
 “Why—why, yes.” 
 
 “What makes you say it that way? Don’t you know he 
 deserved it? Can you think of any one who should have 
 had it rather than he?” 
 
 He could, but he could not tell her so. And he was grow- 
 ing tired of the witness stand. 
 
 “Took here, Miss Bartlett,” he said in good-natured des- 
 peration, “I don’t just see what you are trying to get at. 
 I didn’t say Cap’n Bartlett shouldn’t be keeper at Setuckit. 
 I didn’t say anything like it. You were the one who started 
 this thing. You asked me if I thought his taking the job 
 was a mistake.” 
 
 She caught the change in his tone instantly. She, too, 
 
122 RUGGED WATER 
 
 smiled, and then burst into a laugh. That laugh was all that 
 Jimmie Kelley had said of it—pleasant to hear—and see. 
 
 “T’m sorry, Mr. Homer,” she cried. “I beg your pardon. 
 You and I haven’t known each other but a few minutes and 
 I have been scolding at you like a schoolma’am, JI am sure 
 you must think that, no matter whether father is a crank 
 or not, there isn’t a bit of doubt about his daughter. You 
 see, I am very anxious about him. That is what I meant 
 by a mistake. I am, I suppose, in a way responsible for his 
 staying on in the service and taking those new cares. Per- 
 haps he shouldn’t have done it. Perhaps I should have in- 
 sisted on his getting away from the Cape and the sea and 
 everything connected with them. It might have been better 
 for his health—and happiness. That is why I flew at you 
 so. I have been flying at myself in just the same way. It is 
 my conscience. Don’t you wish sometimes you didn’t have 
 any—any conscience, I mean?” 
 
 Here was something to be answered without the least 
 equivocation. 
 
 “You bet!’ he exclaimed devoutly. 
 
 She laughed again. “And now I'll try to behave,” she 
 declared. ‘Oh, my! here is the fog.” 
 
 It was—plenty of it. It dropped upon them like a blanket, 
 but with none of the blanket’s warmth. Heavy, wet and raw 
 it swept over the boat and the sea. The moment before all 
 astern had been pleasant and, for the season, almost warm. 
 Now there was nothing—astern, ahead, and at the sides— 
 nothing. They were cut off from the rest of creation, 
 wrapped in a salty, soggy stillness. And the raw chill pene- 
 trated through wraps and underclothing to the skin. Fog 
 at any time is likely to be cold, but this was a December fog. 
 
 Miss Bartlett buttoned her coat and drew the collar more 
 closely about her face. Homer was looking up at the sail. 
 There were flabby bulges in its surfaces. 
 
 “Ts anything wrong?’ she asked. 
 
 “Nothing but the wind. And the only thing wrong with 
 that is that there isn’t any worth talking about. It’s next 
 door to a flat calm.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 128 
 
 “You'll have to use the compass now, won’t you?” 
 
 “Yes. The compass box is in the cabin, I suppose. Could 
 you take this wheel just a minute?” 
 
 She took his place beside the wheel. There was no hesi- 
 tancy in her manner. 
 
 “It seems like old times,” she said. “I used to love to 
 steer.” 
 
 He disappeared in the cabin, the interior of which was a 
 conglomerate of oilskins, rubber boots, nautical odds and 
 ends, semidarkness, bad air and odors. She heard him 
 rummaging. 
 
 “Have you found it?” she asked. 
 
 “Not yet. I’ve found about everything else. Phew! 
 Smells like a codfish graveyard. Here! here’s something for 
 you.” 
 
 His head and shoulders appeared through the hatchway 
 and he tossed a stained and crumpled oilskin “slicker” in her 
 direction. 
 
 “Put that on over your other things,” he said. “That is, 
 if you don’t mind fish scales. There’s nothing like oilclothes 
 for keeping out cold.” 
 
 She donned the slicker. It engulfed her from ears to toes. 
 She was obliged to turn back severa! inches of sleeves in 
 order to free her hands. 
 
 “Now I do feel like a sailor,” she announced. 
 
 “Might as well make a clean job of it. Better give me 
 your hat. The fog will turn it into a dishrag in no time.” 
 
 “Never mind. It isn’t a new one—not very.” 
 
 “No use spoiling it. There’s half a barrel of sou’westers 
 down here, more or less. Try that one.” 
 
 He threw out an ancient sou’wester, creased and sticky, 
 and, like everything else aboard Mr. Jarvis’s boat, decidedly 
 odoriferous. He watched as she, in seamanlike fashion, 
 steadied the wheel with her body, and then used both hands 
 to remove her hat. She caught his look and laughed. 
 
 “T know I’m a sight,” she said, the eternal feminine 
 prompting the eternal observation. “But I don’t care. This 
 is fun,” 
 
124 RUGGED WATER 
 
 He could have told her what sort of sight she was, bare- 
 headed and laughing, against the gray background. But 
 complimenting young ladies was not one of his accomplish- 
 ments. And the thought was but momentary and casual. 
 What did cross his mind, as it had crossed it more than once 
 before during their very brief acquaintance, was the incredu- 
 lity of the fact that the grumpy rough old fanatic who com- 
 manded at Setuckit should have a daughter like this. Benoni 
 had said she was like her mother. It must be true—cer- 
 tainly she was not like him. 
 
 She pulled the sou’wester down upon her head and but- 
 toned it beneath her chin. 
 
 “There !”’ she exclaimed, leaning forward to hand him the 
 discarded hat. “Now I’m ready for anything. But how 
 about you? Are there more things like these in that place?” 
 
 “Enough to fit out a Banks schooner—if the hands weren’t 
 particular. There is everything here except money—and that 
 compass. I haven’t found that yet.” 
 
 Nor did he find it. Ten minutes of rummaging and over- 
 hauling the contents of that cabin resulted only in absolute 
 proof that the compass was not there. 
 
 “By George!” he exclaimed emerging. “I remember now. 
 Philander said that he had got to make himself a new compass 
 box. Said it last week. I’ll bet he took the old one, compass 
 and all, ashore with him and it’s in his shanty now... . 
 Humph !” 
 
 “Then you can’t tell how to steer, can you?” 
 
 “Not very well, so long as this fog holds. . . . Oh, we'll 
 be all right. There is nothing to be frightened about.” 
 
 “I’m not frightened.’”’ Indeed she did not look as if she 
 were. He struggled into another of the Jarvis slickers and, 
 after several trials, found a sou’wester which fitted well 
 enough. 
 
 “T’ll take the helm now,” he said. 
 
 “Do you want to? I don’t mind steering, if you have 
 anything else to do. I like it—really I do. . .. But there 
 isn’t anything to steer for.” 
 
 “No, not much. The foghorns ought to help a little, but — 
 
RUGGED WATER 125 
 
 unless the wind breezes on we shan’t make any headway. 
 The tide is about full. When it begins to go out it’ll carry 
 us along some.” 
 
 “Then there really isn’t anything to do but wait... . And 
 there are so many foghorns, aren’t there?” 
 
 There were, a dozen of them. Some faint and distant, 
 others nearer. They sounded from aft, ahead and to port. 
 And their tones varied from thunderous bass to querulous 
 treble. 
 
 “Those little ones are aboard vessels off yonder,” he ex- 
 plained. “The big one astern is at Orham. There! hear 
 that? That’s the one we want to head for, if we can. It’s at © 
 Setuckit light, a couple of miles this side of the station. Two 
 long toots and then a short. Get it?” 
 
 She listened. “I think I do,” she said, doubtfully, “but 
 they’re awfully mixed up. There is hardly amy wind now. 
 How far away is Setuckit ?” 
 
 “About five—no, about six miles.” 
 
 “Tt will take us a long time to get there at this rate.” 
 
 “Take forever if we don’t get a breeze. . . . But don’t 
 worry. There isn’t any danger.” 
 
 “I’m not worried about that,” scornfully. “I’m not a land- 
 lubber. But I know you feel you ought to be there. 1 sup- 
 pose they know we’re on the way—know you are, at any 
 rate. They must have seen us through the glass before the 
 fog came, don’t you think?” 
 
 He smiled. “You do know the ropes, don’t you?” he 
 observed. 
 
 “T ought to. I’ve looked through the Crooked Hill glass 
 ever so many times. It was a treat I used to tease for when 
 I was a little girl, Oh!” suddenly. “You don’t suppose they 
 saw me, do you? If father knew I was coming it would 
 spoil the surprise. And he might worry.” 
 
 “Nobody down there knows you but Cap’n Bartlett. And 
 the fog hit Setuckit long before it did us. No, they may 
 have seen the boat, but they couldn’t tell who was aboard of 
 her. One thing we’ve got to look out for, and that is not to 
 get aground. There isn’t too much water around here. If 
 
126 RUGGED WATER 
 
 you don’t mind hanging on to that wheel I’l! go for’ard and 
 watch for shoals. Every chance you get keep her in towards 
 that foghorn.” 
 
 He left her and going forward stood there, in the little 
 space between the mast and the catboat’s bow, peering into 
 the fog, or, stooping, tried to see the sand or weeds on the © 
 bottom. This, easy enough in the sunshine, was practically 
 impossible now. An hour passed. The breeze was as light 
 as ever. 
 
 Once she called to him. “Do you think that foghorn 
 sounds any nearer?” she asked. 
 
 “Precious little. The tide is setting out and it may have 
 carried us further out into the bay.” 
 
 At last he gave up his task as lookout and came aft 
 again. 
 
 “This is too bad, Miss Bartlett,” he declared. “It looks 
 as if we might be here all night. It is half past four and 
 getting dark already. Are you frozen?” 
 
 Her laugh was reassuring. ‘Frozen!’ she repeated. 
 “With these things on? I’m roasted—or boiled. A roast 
 doesn’t drip. Look at me.” 
 
 The fog was hanging in drops on her sou’wester and 
 slicker and her cheeks were beaded with it. He knew she 
 must be uncomfortable, because—toughened by experience 
 as he was—he was chilled. And even as she spoke he saw 
 her shiver. 
 
 “Here!” he exclaimed. ‘This won’t do. We've got to 
 get ashore somehow.” 
 
 “T don’t mind, except on your account. I’m having a real 
 adventure. This is a change from handing out books in the 
 Fairborough library. But I know you feel you should be 
 back on duty. If the Setuckit people saw us don’t you sup- 
 pose they might send a boat... ? Oh, I beg pardon! 
 That was a landlubber’s question, wasn’t it?” 
 
 He grinned. “If they sent a boat for me,” he said, “in 
 Orham Bay, in a flat calm—well, I'd jump overboard when 
 I saw it coming. It would be better than waiting to hear 
 what the men said when they got here, If Cap’n Bartlett 
 
RUGGED WATER 127 
 
 knew you were aboard he might send for you, but not for 
 his Number One man. Well, hardly.” 
 
 “Of course. It was stupid of me. When I was ten or 
 twelve I knew better than to dream such a thing. So we'll 
 just keep on waiting and hoping for less fog and more wind. 
 We ought to whistle for a breeze, hadn’t we? I wonder if 
 1 could whistle. I used to,” 
 
 She tried and succeeded remarkably well. The effort, too, 
 was becoming, particularly when the whistle changed to a 
 laugh. 
 
 “I was thinking how father used to scold me for whist- 
 ling,” she said. ‘He was forever quoting the proverb about 
 ‘whistling girls and crowing hens.’ Mr. Homer, you brought 
 ~ him down to Setuckit on his first trip, didn’t you? I re- 
 member now, he wrote me you did. And now you are bring- 
 ing me. That’s an odd coincidence. Father will say it is 
 the workings of Providence. He sees special acts of Provi- 
 dence in everything. But he means it; he is absolutely sin- 
 cere,” she added, loyally. 
 
 Calvin sniffed. “If it is Providence that got us into this 
 scrape, it must have a grudge against me,” he vowed. Then, 
 realizing that the speech was not altogether gracious, he 
 added, “Of course I don’t mean that I wasn’t glad to bring 
 you down, Miss Bartlett. But I don’t see how sticking us. 
 out here in a fog is going to help anything much. Do you?” 
 
 “Well, it makes us better acquainted.” 
 
 “Yes. Yes, I~” 
 
 He could not think of anything to add to the affirmative. 
 And she did not wait for more. She changed the subject. 
 
 “T know what is the matter with me,” she exclaimed. “I’m 
 actually hungry. And it isn’t five o’clock. It must be the 
 sea air. I’m ashamed of myself.” 
 
 He looked at her. ‘Where did you get your dinner?” he 
 asked. 
 
 She hesitated. “Oh, that was all right,” she replied hur- 
 riedly. ‘‘My dinner was all right.” 
 
 “Did you have any?” 
 
 She colored slightly, “Well, no, I didn’t,” she confessed, 
 
128 RUGGED WATER 
 
 - 
 
 after a moment. “But that doesn’t make any difference. I 
 quite often go without lunch. It is good for me. And I just 
 know I shall eat too much down here. . . . Why, what is 
 iy 
 
 He had been sitting on the wheel box. Now he rose, 
 briskly and with determination. 
 
 “There’s a little more breeze,” he announced. “We're go- 
 ing ashore.” 
 
 “You mean we can get to Setuckit ?” 
 
 “T don’t know about that—how soon we'll get to the 
 station; but we’re going ashore as straight as we can and 
 without any more fooling.” 
 
 He put the wheel over and the sail swung lazily across. 
 
 “Here, Miss Bartlett,” he ordered, “you take the helm and 
 keep her just as she is. I’m going forward again.” 
 
 For another twenty minutes he peered over the bow. Then 
 he came back. | 
 
 “T’ll take her now,” he said. “And would you mind going 
 up there and keeping a lookout? We ought to be getting in 
 close by this time and I don’t want to run on a flat. If you 
 see anything either ahead or underneath, sing out.” 
 
 She obeyed. “It seems to me that big foghorn sounds 
 nearer than it did,” she said, pausing a moment and listening. 
 
 “Tt ought to. We must be pretty close to the beach.” 
 
 “But I don’t see how you can tell where the beach—or 
 anything else—is now.” 
 
 “Tt’s all beach—miles of it—on this side. We'll hit it 
 somewhere.” 
 
 “And then? When we do hit it?” 
 
 “Then we'll anchor this craft and go ashore. Unless I’m 
 completely turned around we can’t be far from Halfway 
 Point and there are some shanties there. Somebody lives in 
 one of ’em—an old fellow named Myrick. He’ll give us a 
 cup of coffee and maybe something more substantial. After 
 that—well, we’ll see.” 
 
 “Mr. Homer, you’re not doing this just because I was 
 silly enough not to eat any lunch?” 
 
 His answer was emphatic. “I’m doing it,” he declared, 
 
RUGGED WATER 129 
 
 “because I’m sick of roosting out here in this ice chest. Keep 
 a sharp lookout and be sure and sing out if you see any- 
 thing.” 
 
 Seeing anything was next to an impossibility, for, between 
 the fog and the lateness of the hour, it was almost dark. The 
 boat moved slowly on before the fitful breeze. 
 
 “Siehted anything yet?” he called, after an interval. 
 
 “No. 33 
 
 A few moments later she spoke. 
 
 “Mr. Homer,” she said, eagerly, “look! Look off there— 
 there to the right. Isn’t there something there? Something 
 tall like—like a tree—or a pole? Yes—yes. It’s a mast, 
 isn’t it?” 
 
 He peered under the sail. 
 
 “It’s a boat,” she cried. “It’s another boat, with the sail 
 down.” 
 
 It was a boat, at anchor. He steered close by its stern. 
 
 “Good!” he exclaimed. “It’s the Wild Duck. She belongs 
 to the old fellow I was telling you about. We’re luckier than 
 we have any right to be. We've hit Halfway Point right 
 in the bull’s-eye. Come aft now. I’m going to anchor.” 
 
 A minute more and their catboat, its anchor over the side, 
 swung lazily in the tideway. The sail lay in a crumpled heap 
 on the deck. 
 
 “And now what?” asked Miss Bartlett excitedly. 
 
 “Now I’m going to yell. You can help, if you want to.” 
 
 Leaning over the rail he began to shout. 
 
 “Peleg!” he roared. “Peleg Myrick! Ahoy there, Peleg!” 
 
 She called, too, but stopped, breathless and laughing. 
 
 “All I can think of to scream is ‘Fire!’ ” she declared. 
 
 “That'll do as well as anything. Oh, Peleg! Peleg My- 
 rick! Here! Turn out! Pe-leg!” 
 
 From the darkness came the sound of a door banging open. 
 Then a hoarse voice made answer. 
 
 “Here I be,” it bellowed. “Who is it? What’s the mat- 
 ter with ye?” 
 
 “Tt’s me, Cal Homer. We want to come ashore. Got 
 your dory there?” 
 
130 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Eh? Yes, I’ve got her. Hold on a minute and I’ll come 
 
 > 9? 
 
 off to ye. Keep ahollerin’, 
 
 They kept “ahollerin’.”’” Then followed the clatter of oars, 
 grunts and profane ejaculations. Then the measured click 
 and squeak of those oars moving between thole pins. Out of 
 the darkness emerged the dory and Mr. Myrick. 
 
 “Hello, Cal,” observed the latter, bringing the dory scrap- 
 ing along the catboat’s side. “What’s the matter with ye? 
 Kind of off your course, looks like to me. Ain’t took sick, 
 be ye? Eh? Who’s that? Anybody I know?” 
 
 “No. Tl tell you all about it when you get us up to that 
 shanty of yours. Now, Miss Bartlett. Easy does it.” 
 
 The caution was unnecessary. She was in the dory even 
 as he spoke. And, once in, she showed none of her father’s 
 nervousness. Calvin followed. Peleg pushed off. 
 
 “T don’t see how you can tell where to go,” observed the 
 young lady. “It all looks alike to me.” 
 
 Myrick grunted. “Chuck me overboard anywheres in 
 Orham Bay and I’d guarantee to drift here or hereabouts,” 
 he declared. “It comes natural to me, I cal’late. I can smell 
 home, same as a cat.” 
 
 By way of proof he jammed the dory’s bow hard and fast 
 on the slope of the beach. Above, on the crest of that beach, 
 a blur of vellow lamplight showed. 
 
 “And see, amid the darkness, 
 Shine out the lights of home,’ ” 
 
 quoted Miss Bartlett joyfully. 
 
 “Eh?” said Peleg. ‘“Yus-yus. And it’s nine chances to 
 one the durn lamp’s smokin’, too, ’*Twas startin’ out to 
 when you folks hollered. I’ve got to buy a new wick next 
 time I go up to the main. The robbers charge six cents 
 apiece for ’em, too, they do. Livin’s expensive these days, 
 Cal, did you know it? I wisht I was rich, then I might be 
 wuth money.” 
 
 “~ 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 <s A ND now what?” asked the young lady. She and 
 
 Homer were seated at the oilcloth-covered table in 
 
 Mr. Myrick’s combined parlor, dining room and 
 kitchen. Peleg had played the hospitable host so far as ir 
 him lay. He had set before them warmed-over baked beans, 
 pilot crackers, half of an “evaporated apple’ pie and a decoc- 
 tion which he called coffee. There was more of the latter 
 left than of anything else. Miss Bartlett had eaten until, as 
 she said, she was thoroughly ashamed but thoroughly happy. 
 
 “Have another cup, won’t you, Cal?” begged Peleg, flour- 
 ishing the by no means glittering coffee pot. 
 
 Calvin declined. His fellow voyager had refused already. 
 
 “What’s the matter? Good and hot, ain’t it?’ demanded 
 Peleg. 
 
 “Ves, it’s hot.” 
 
 It was the only good thing he could truthfully say con- 
 cerning it. 
 
 “Flavored right, too, ain’t it? ... Hey? Ain't it?” 
 
 “Tt is flavored.” 
 
 “T bet ye! That’s good coffee. You came just the right 
 time for it. JI made that potful fresh day afore yesterday. 
 Well, if you won’t you won’t. Git down, you Sou’west! 
 Think I set table for you to eat off’n? Beats the divil what 
 dumb animals know, don’t it? Got sense same as a human, 
 that cat has. Leave anything to eat around and he’ll locate 
 it inside of ten minutes. Seems to know—he does.” 
 
 The cat, a huge gray and white one, was anything but 
 dumb just then. He made another attempt to jump on the 
 table. His master caught him just in time. 
 
 “Sshh!” he ordered. “There, there! I'll put you out- 
 doors if you don’t stop bellerin’. Make more noise than the 
 Setuckit foghorn. There’s another thing about that cat; 
 
 q31 
 
132 - RUGGED WATER © 
 
 when he’s hungry he’ll ask for his grub just same as a 
 Christian. Smartest cat as ever I owned, that Sou’west is.” 
 “Ts that his name—Southwest?” asked Miss Bartlett. 
 
 “Um-hum. I named him that ‘cause he’s so nice and 
 pleasant, same as a sou’west wind is liable to be. I had one 
 one time and I labeled him No’theaster. He was cranky— 
 don’t talk! Brush past him with your breeches’ laig and he 
 was just as liable as not to haul off and fetch you a scratch 
 that would make you hop to Jericho. Had claws on to him 
 like the teeth on a clam hoe. I don’t wear no shoes and 
 stockin’s ‘long in summer—don’t need ’em down here, you 
 understand—and I give you my word that critter made my 
 underpinnin’ look like a piece of plowed ground. I got tired 
 of it after a spell and give him away—to a friend of mine.” 
 
 “That dog of yours died, didn’t he, Peleg?’ inquired 
 Homer. “Let’s see; what was his name?” 
 
 “Skeezicks? Yes, he died. The weather down here kind 
 of worked through and killed him finally, seemed so. He was 
 one of them Mexican Chinee dogs, them kind that don’t have 
 no fur on ’em, you understand. Bald all over, like—like an 
 egg. A feller off an English ship that was wrecked abreast 
 here give him to me one time. He was a good dog, too, but 
 he couldn’t seem to stand the winters. He’d set there back 
 of the cookstove and shake and shiver and shiver and shake 
 till I cal’lated he’d come apart. And the worst of it was 
 the kind of sad, blamin’ sort of way he’d look at me with them 
 big pop eyes of his—as if ’twas my fault ’twas so cold.” 
 
 Calvin laughed. “Probably he thought it was,” he said. 
 
 “He knew you were the boss weather prophet in these lati- 
 
 tudes.” 
 
 Myrick shook his head reminiscently. “I don’t know about 
 that,” he observed. “All I know is he just shook himself to 
 death, as you might say. Got thinner and thinner— Say, Cal, 
 you know how sort of—er—loose the hide is on one of them 
 kind of dogs; hangs slack, and slats like a sail in a calm? 
 Um-hum. . . . What is it, ma’am?” 
 
 Miss Bartlett, whose eyes were sparkling, chokingly de- 
 clared that she had not spoken. Peleg nodded. 
 
 it i a ie ge 
 
RUGGED WATER 138 
 
 “Oh, I thought I heard you say somethin’,’” he said. “Well, 
 the skin on that Skeezicks dog was slack enough to begin 
 with, but it kept gettin’ slacker and slacker till I snum if he 
 didn’t look like somethin’ sewed up in a bag. Finally he 
 hauled down the flag and died. I was sorry enough to lose 
 him, poor thing; but ’twas a kind of relief, in a way, to have 
 him quit shiverin’, Yes, twas. I’ve stuck to cats ever since. 
 The colder it gets the more hair a cat gets on, seems so. 
 And the warmer it gets the more comes off onto everything 
 else,’ he added, regretfully... . “Well, Cal, to change the 
 subject, what you figgerin’ to do now? That was what you 
 was askin’ a minute ago, wan’t it, Miss What’s-name?” 
 
 The young lady answered that it was. “I wondered what 
 the next part of your plan might be, Mr. Homer,” she said. 
 “T am on dry land, thanks to you; and, thanks to Mr. Myrick, 
 I’m not a bit hungry. But what am I to do next, please?” 
 
 Calvin was ready with an answer. “You'd better stay 
 right here for a while,” he said. “I’ve been thinking it over 
 and I guess the quickest way to get things moving is for me 
 to go across the beach and up to the halfway shanty. I can 
 telephone from there to the station and probably your father 
 will get one of the men to come down here with the horse and 
 cart after you. That is, if you don’t mind riding in a cart. 
 It’s too dark for anybody to see you—and, anyway, we aren’t 
 very fussy around here; are we, Peleg?” 
 
 But Miss Bartlett was not entirely satisfied with this ar- 
 rangement. It was not riding in the cart to which she ob- 
 jected—it was riding at all. 
 
 “All this telephoning and harnessing, and everything will 
 take time and make a lot of trouble,” she declared. “You 
 are not going to wait for any cart, I suppose, Mr. Homer ?” 
 
 “Oh, no, I’m going to walk. It is only three miles or so.” 
 
 “That is what I thought. Well, I am going to walk, too. 
 And we'll start this very minute.” 
 
 Calvin protested. It would be difficult walking, part of 
 it, at least. And it was wet and pitch dark and— 
 
 “And you think I’m a city girl and might collapse and 
 have to be carried, I suppose. Well, I’m not, and I shan’t. 
 
134 RUGGED WATER 
 
 I walk more than three miles every day of my life, for ex- 
 ercise. As for the wet—do you think it will be any wetter 
 than it was aboard that boat? And we can borrow those 
 oilskins, can’t we? Or keep on borrowing them?” 
 
 She had her way, of course. Homer left the Jarvis cat- 
 boat in Myrick’s charge; he would come after it in the morn- 
 ing, or send some one. He borrowed a lantern of Peleg, a 
 battered and smelly affair, which even its owner confessed 
 gave “about as much light as a white bean.” 
 
 “It’s liable to go out on you,” he explained; “the wick’s 
 kind of short in the reach. And you can’t see much by it, 
 the glass is so smurry. But you better take it, Cal. It’ll 
 be kind of company for ye.” 
 
 So, arrayed once more in the oilskins, they started, Myrick 
 and Sou’west whooping farewells from the door of the 
 shanty. Into the dripping, soggy blackness they trudged, he 
 leading the way with the lantern and she following. Up and 
 over and down dunes, sometimes through sand more than 
 ankle deep, then through tangles of blackberry vines and 
 stunted bayberry bushes; or stretches of coarse beach grass 
 amid which bits of driftwood and sun-bleached wreckage were 
 scattered like the white bones of long-drowned sailors. After 
 one particularly trying ascent she stopped. 
 
 “What is it?” he asked, turning. “Are you tired? Shall 
 we rest a while?” 
 
 “No-no, I’m all right,’ she panted, “I’m out of breath, 
 that’s all. These Oilskins are so dreadfully long. I try to 
 hold them up, but I can’t seem to do it.” 
 
 “T told you you shouldn’t try the walk,” he said anxiously. 
 “We might go back, you know. We haven’t got very 
 far yet.” | 
 
 “Go back!” indignantly. “I guess not! I was just won- 
 dering if—if—” 
 
 “What ?” 
 
 “Why, I thought perhaps if I took your arm we might 
 get ahead faster. I—you see, I should be nearer the lantern 
 and I could see where to step. But it would tire you, I’m 
 afraid.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 135 
 
 He was angry at himself for not having thought of it, 
 As a matter of fact, his thoughts had wandered from Se. 
 tuckit beach and were hovering about the Neck Road in 
 Orham. He was again wondering what Myra would think 
 of his having forgotten to give her the ring, and then sending 
 it by the Kelley boy. And the scene in the sitting room; he 
 went over it once more. No, it had not settled anything. 
 Why hadn’t it? It should have. He should have gone on 
 with it to the finish. If he had not been a coward— 
 
 His musings had brought him to this unpleasant convic- 
 tion when Miss Bartlett’s breathless appeal shook him out 
 of them and back to her and the present. He turned hastily. 
 
 “T—I’m sorry,’ he stammered. “I don’t know what— 
 Pshaw! What ails me, anyhow?” 
 
 He went back to where she was standing and offered his 
 arm. She hesitated. 
 
 “You’re sure it won’t tire you?” she asked. “T’ll try not 
 to hang too heavily.” 
 
 “No, no. The only thing that makes me tired is that I 
 didn’t have sense enough to think of it. Cruising on ahead 
 there and leaving you to get along on your own hook in the 
 dark! I don’t know what your father will say to me for 
 getting you into this scrape.” 
 
 “But you didn’t get me into it. I invited myself into your 
 boat and you couldn’t get me out of it. Besides, it has 
 been a lot of fun.” 
 
 “Fun!” 
 
 “Why, yes. I’m enjoying every minute of it. It is just 
 what I told you it was—the whole of it—an adventure. Of 
 course adventures don’t mean anything to a life-saver, but 
 they do to librarians. Now I’ve got my breath again. Shall 
 we go?” 
 
 They floundered on, but now Calvin was not thinking of 
 Myra Fuller and the late unpleasantness. How could he, with 
 this girl clinging to his arm, stumbling occasionally, but never 
 complaining, treating it all as a joke and making light of 
 briers and bushes and holes and hummocks? Another half 
 mile of this and they came over a high dune and down upon 
 
136 RUGGED WATER 
 
 hard, sloping sand. Before them—and close to them—were 
 the surge and boom and liquid hiss of great waves in tu- 
 multuous advance and retreat. 
 
 “There!” he exclaimed. “Here is the outer beach. We're 
 across, thank goodness! Now it will be plainer sailing for 
 you. Are you tired to death?” 
 
 She was breathing quickly, but she could still laugh. 
 
 “Of course not,” she declared. “Why should I be? What 
 do you think I am?” 
 
 His reply was involuntarily uttered, but it was emphatic. 
 
 “You’re a good sport,” he declared. “I'll say that for you.” 
 
 The way thereafter was, as he said, almost plain sailing. 
 
 The tightly-packed sand uncovered by the ebbing tide was 
 easy to walk upon and they could really hurry. The fog 
 was as thick as ever and the darkness as pitchy, but the 
 exercise and the oilskins kept them warm and the knowl- 
 edge—-on Homer’s part, at least—that the anxiety of their 
 adventure was happily past, brought a care-free sense of 
 relief much more stimulating than the Myrick coffee. Miss 
 Bartlett chatted and questioned and, without realizing it, he 
 began to speak of himself, to tell her of his early life, his 
 father’s death and his boyhood with his mother at Orham. 
 This led, naturally enough, to his entering the service, and 
 then to the Setuckit crew and what fine fellows they were. 
 He told of the life down there, the jokes and gossip, of 
 Seleucus Gammon and of Mrs. Gammon’s unexpected ar- 
 rival. As he thought it over afterward, it seemed to him 
 he had told this comparative stranger, this girl, everything 
 even remotely connected with himself or those associated 
 with him. But he had not; he had never mentioned his hopes 
 and disappointment in the matter of the keeper’s appoint- 
 ment; nor had he so much as hinted at the existence of 
 Myra Fuller. 
 
 Peleg’s lantern had sputtered itself out long before, but they 
 did not need it now. They passed the lighthouse, its beacon 
 a yellow smudge high up in the fog an eighth of a mile 
 from the beach; and the clamorous screech of the foghorn 
 vibrated against their eardrums. They made a wide circle 
 
RUGGED WATER 137 
 
 where the shore curved inward and began to mount a high 
 dune which, so Homer told her, was only a little way from 
 the station. And, as they climbed, a new sound made itself 
 heard, a whistle and dry rush and rustle quite different from 
 the tumult of the sea. 
 
 “Hello!” cried Calvin. “Hear that? That’s wind through 
 the grass and bushes. Here comes a good breeze at last. 
 That ought to blow things clear.” 
 
 It was a true prophecy. The wind met them at the top 
 of the dune, crisp, sharp and piercing. It whipped the light 
 sand against their faces. And, in another minute, the fog 
 had gone. They stepped from wet blackness out into 
 the clear cold of a starlit night. Below them, and only a 
 little way off, was Setuckit Station, its lighted windows 
 agleam. 
 
 “Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Miss Bartlett. “It is—it is 
 like getting home, isn’t it?” 
 
 “Tt is home,’ declared Calvin. “And here’s the patrol 
 going out.” 
 
 The patrolman was Sam Bearse, oilskinned, sou’westered, 
 Coston signal at his belt and lantern in hand. He met them 
 at the foot of the dune and raised the lantern to peer inte 
 their faces. 
 
 “Why, hello, Cal!’ hailed Sam in surprise. ‘What in time 
 you doin’ out here on the beach? We cal’lated you was be- 
 calmed off in the bay somewheres. Hez spied you from 
 the tower just after you left Orham and we didn’t know but 
 you'd anchored to wait till it blew clear. The old man’s 
 havin’ a conniption fit. A body’d think you’d never been to 
 sea afore. Of all the fuss—” 
 
 Homer hastily interrupted. He explained the situation. 
 
 Bearse nodded. “I see—yes, yes,’ he said. “Hez said 
 it looked to him as if you had a passenger aboard. So ’twas 
 the cap’n’s daughter, eh? Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Your 
 father’ll be glad enough to see you both, I guess likely. So 
 long.” 
 
 Five minutes more—minutes during which both were silent 
 —they opened the door of the station mess room. The men 
 
138 RUGGED WATER 
 
 there, off duty, greeted their associate with a shout and then, 
 seeing his companion, stopped abashed. 
 
 ‘“Where’s Cap’n Bartlett?” asked Calvin. 
 
 He was in his room, they told him. 
 
 “In there, through that door,” he said. “Go right in, Miss 
 Bartlett.” 
 
 She did so. They heard a gasp of surprise and then a 
 choking exclamation. The door closed and Homer turned 
 to face the eager questions of his fellow surfmen. His ro- 
 mantic adventure as squire of dames was over, but the talk 
 concerning the unexpected visitor had only begun. 
 
 She occupied her father’s room that night, as, in fact, 
 she did during the nights to follow, Bartlett sleeping in the 
 spare room on one of the cots. She did not join the crew 
 at their five o’clock breakfast, but she came to the table for 
 the eleven o’clock dinner and that meal was more decorous 
 and orderly in consequence. Not that she “put on airs” or 
 was unduly dignified, but the men themselves were bashful 
 and quiet. She insisted on helping with the cooking—and 
 the results of the latter were apparent and welcome. After 
 the dishwashing she called Homer to one side and announced 
 that she was going to try to make the place look a little more 
 “Christmassy.” 
 
 “T don’t suppose there is a bit of evergreen on this beach, 
 is there?” she asked. 
 
 He shook his head. “Not a bit nearer than the Orham 
 woods, so far as I know,” he said. 
 
 “Oh, why didn’t I think to bring some holly or something 
 from Boston? I could have just as well as not. Doesn’t 
 anything grow around here—anything that stays green all 
 winter, I mean?” 
 
 He thought it over. “Well,” he said, doubtfully, “seems 
 to me there’s a little patch of hog cranberry in the hollow 
 up back of the lighthouse. That might be better than noth- 
 ing.” 
 
 “Tt would be splendid. Now tell me just where to find it.” 
 
 “Some of the men would be glad to get it for you, I know. 
 I’ll ask ’em to.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 139 
 
 “Indeed you won’t! They are busy and I haven’t any- 
 thing to do. I'll get it myself.” 
 
 And she did, returning from her quest with an oat sack 
 full of the glistening vines of the wild cranberry. , 
 
 “Now,” she said, this time addressing her remark to Mr. 
 Gammon, who happened to be in the mess room, “I wish I 
 had some of those bayberry plums—or the branches with the 
 plums on them. There must be lots around here.” 
 
 Seleucus snorted. “Them bayberry balls, you mean?” he 
 queried. “Crimus! if that’s all you want I can get you 
 a bushel in no time. Bayberries ain’t no more good to nobody 
 than miskeeters and hoptoads; that’s why there’s so many 
 of all of ’em runnin’ wild in these latitudes.” 
 
 He brought a huge armful of the fragrant bayberry limbs, 
 with their clusters of gray berries. She looped the windows 
 and the lamp brackets with the green vines and tucked the 
 bayberry sprays among them. Seleucus and Ed Bloomer and 
 Ellis Badger watched the decorating and expressed approval. 
 
 “There!”? vowed Gammon. “Ain’t that pretty? Ed, you 
 and me and Ellis never’d thought of that. If anybody’d told 
 me that hog cranberry vines was good for anything but to 
 catch your feet in and trip you and set you to swearin’ I’d 
 have laughed at ’em.” 
 
 “And all I ever cal’lated bayberry balls was for,” said 
 Badger, ‘“‘was to load a young one’s blowgun with and shoot 
 around in school when teacher wan’t lookin’, You never 
 can tell, can you?” 
 
 “Not till you try. I’m standin’ here larnin’. Next sum- 
 
 mer I’m goin’ to hang some strings of hoptoads and wood 
 ticks up around and see how they look. [I'll let you catch 
 ’em for me, Ed.” 
 _ Mr. Bloomer grunted. “Won’t be any trouble to catch 
 the ticks,” he declared. “All I’d have to do is cruise a little 
 ways through the beach grass yonder and then brush off 
 my pant laigs.” 
 
 Hez Rogers had walked up to Myrick’s after breakfast and 
 the Jarvis catboat was now at anchor before its owner’s 
 shanty. Its cargo of bundles and boxes, and Miss Bartlett’s 
 
140 RUGGED WATER 
 
 suit case, was brought ashore. As Sam Bearse said, they 
 were now “all sot” for Christmas. 
 
 “Be our luck though,” he added, “to have it blow a howlin’ 
 no’theaster and snow like a busted feather bed by to-morrer 
 mornin’. ’Member last Christmas, fellers? We spent two 
 thirds of the day tryin’ to haul a three-master off the Sand 
 Hill. And we had to give her up finally, at that, and be 
 satisfied to get the crew ashore. We've been luckier this 
 year, so fur’s weather’s consarned, than I can remember since 
 I’ve been at the station. We'll make up for it by and by; 
 maybe to-morrer’ll be the beginnin’, Course the Gov’ment 
 signals are set for fair, but they ain’t final. Peleg Myrick’s 
 the real thing. Pity old Peleg ain’t here so’s we could hear 
 from his port elbow.” 
 
 Apparently, however, the Myrick joints were in normal 
 condition and the Government’s weather prophets right, for 
 Christmas day was, although much colder, clear and fine. 
 After breakfast the various bundles were opened. There 
 were the presents from home; every man had some, inex- 
 pensive always, homemade very often; but down there at 
 Setuckit the value of home or gifts was not judged by price 
 or quality. 
 
 “Look at that!’ shouted Rogers, proudly exhibiting a 
 mysterious casket, gorgeous in crimson and blue silk tufting. 
 “My Emeline made that all herself, out of a cigar box and 
 a shirtwaist of her mother’s—yes, and a piece of her grand- 
 mother’s weddin’ dress. And only nine year old, too.” 
 
 “Which is nine year old?’ demanded Badger. “Her 
 grandmother or the weddin’ dress?” 
 
 “What’s your wife doin’ with a cigar box?” asked Bearse. 
 “Gettin’ kind of extravagant, ain’t she? If I was you I’d 
 tell her to stick to a pipe and save money. . . . There, there, 
 Hez, keep your hair on. Can’t you take a little foolin’? 
 It’s real kind of cute and pretty, though, ain’t it?’ examin- 
 ing the gift, and sniffing at the tufting. “ATI dolled up with 
 smell-um-sweet, too. What's it for, Hez?” 
 
 The proud parent looked a trifle foolish. 
 
 “She got the receipt for makin’ it out of a magazine or 
 
RUGGED WATER 141 
 
 9 99 
 
 somethin’,” he explained with a grin. “She says it’s for me 
 to keep my neckties in. Ha, ha! Yes, neckties is what she 
 says. All right, I'll keep all I’ve got there, except on liberty 
 days—then I[’ll have to wear it.” 
 
 There was an abundance of this sort of thing; the jokes, 
 like the presents, were crude and homemade, but nobody 
 was overcritical. Seleucus was on tower watch that morning, 
 but had breakfasted at the Jarvis shanty. He returned to 
 duty looking rather glum and Homer, noticing this, tried 
 to cheer him up. 
 
 “How is Philander this morning?” he asked. 
 
 “He’s all right again, pretty nigh. Him and—and her’ll 
 be over for dinner.” 
 
 There was no doubt as to the identity of the “her”; the 
 gloomy emphasis was unmistakable. Mr. Gammon seemed 
 inclined to say more, but hesitated. 
 
 “What is it?” queried Calvin. “Nobody can hear you 
 —they’re making too much noise. What have you got 
 on your mind?” 
 
 “Say, Cal, look here. You know that crazy bed-com- 
 forter I won up to the Harniss Odd Fellers’ Fair; the one 
 Cap’n Ozzie took a ten-cent chance for me on?” 
 
 “Nes,” 
 
 “Well, I’ve had it down here, you know, ever since Olive 
 fetched it for me. I was cal’latin’ to take it home some one 
 of my liberty days, but I ain’t had but one since, and then 
 I forgot it. So, after Jemimy come, thinks I, ‘T’ll give it to 
 her for Christmas.’ ’Twas sort of bright and—er—gay, 
 Cal; I’ll leave it to you if ’twan’t.” 
 
 “It was gay, all right. Did your wife like it?” 
 
 “Like it!’ Seleucus groaned. “Say, Cal, when she found 
 it twas Olive fetched it down she—she— Oh, crimustee! 
 I told her Olive never made it nor give it to me, neither. I 
 told her I won it in a ten-cent raffle.”. 
 
 “Well, that ought to have settled it, I should say.” 
 
 “Settled it! She switched round and laid into me for 
 givin’ her a ten-cent present.” 
 
 “What did she give you?” 
 
142 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Eh? All she give me was the divil—but I got plenty 
 of that.” 
 
 Bartlett took his Number One man aside and showed the 
 latter a sweater and a pair of fur-lined gloves which his 
 daughter had brought. He was overflowing with pride. 
 
 “She didn’t forget the old man, Calvin,” he boasted. 
 “Course those gloves are too good for me to use, but I 
 don’t tell her so. Ill keep ’em to look at and for goin’ 
 ashore. And here’s somethin’ else she brought. I haven’t 
 showed it to anybody and I don’t want you to say anything 
 about it. Those men out yonder are wanderin’, in darkness, 
 most of ’em, and they wouldn’t understand. But you—well, 
 I shouldn’t be surprised if the Lord had put his mark on you, 
 boy, and he’ll lead you to the fold some day. . . . That’s the 
 way I feel about her—Norma. It troubles me sometimes, 
 when I realize that she ain’t found salvation yet, and what 
 might happen if she was took away sudden afore she done 
 it. Yet—and yet”—he seemed to be arguing the matter 
 with himself—‘I can’t think she’d go to hell. Seem’s if the 
 Almighty’d make allowances. Don’t you think he would?” 
 
 Homer stared at him. “What are you talking about?” he 
 exclaimed, in amazement. 
 
 “Eh? ... Oh, nothin’, nothin’, Was I sayin’ somethin’ 
 I hadn’t ought to? I—I—humph! I get to thinkin’ too 
 hard, I guess. Comes over me by spells, lately, it does, seems 
 so. Well, this is what else she brought me. Look at it, 
 boy.” 
 
 It was a leather-bound Bible with his name on the cover. 
 He held it in his big hands and patted it reverently. 
 
 “T opened it when I was alone in my room just now,” he 
 went on, “and what do you suppose ’twas I found? Hadn't 
 been readin’ but a little ways afore I come to it. Listen. 
 ‘Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest 
 them all.’ “Thou excellest ’em all.’ That’s what I found, 
 boy. Those are the words He sent to me. And they’re 
 right to the point. She does excel ’em all. ... Amen! 
 Praise the Lord!” 
 
 Calvin made no comment. His mind was in a state be- 
 
RUGGED WATER 143 
 
 tween pity and foreboding. And yet Benoni’s next speech 
 was rational enough. 
 
 “She tells me—Norma does,” he went on, “that you was 
 mighty kind and accommodatin’ to her the other afternoon. 
 She says nobody could have been nicer and more thought- 
 ful than you was, gettin’ her down here. She’s much 
 obliged and so am [. I tell her that I’ve come to count on 
 you a whole lot, Calvin. You're straight with me, and—and 
 I ain’t so sure about some of the rest of ’em.” 
 
 The interview ended there, before Homer could ask what 
 he meant. But the concluding sentence was surprising, for 
 it showed a degree of perspicacity which he had not believed 
 his eccentric commander possessed. 
 
 The Christmas dinner was an elaborate affair. Its ma- 
 terials had been ordered in Orham and, of course, brought 
 down in the Jarvis catboat with the presents. They—the 
 turkey and canned plum pudding and the rest—were paid 
 for with the contents of the station “kitty.” This was a 
 time-honored institution in the service. On the mantel in 
 the mess room stood a battered earthen bean pot. Each 
 pay day every member of the crew—keeper included—put 
 a certain very small percentage of his wage into this pot. 
 Sometimes extra dimes and nickels were added—as, for 
 instance, if some one had had a windfall or happened to 
 be “flush.” This accumulation was the kitty and was to 
 be spent to provide the wherewithal for special celebrations, 
 such as Thanksgiving, Washington’s Birthday, or Christmas. 
 
 Mrs. Gammon and Philander Jarvis joined them at din- 
 ner. It was the first time the former had met Norma Bart- 
 lett, and her gimlet eyes looked as if they might bore holes 
 in the young woman. Norma and her apparel were scru- 
 tinized and itemized from head to foot. If a vote of the 
 rest of the assemblage had been taken it would have been 
 unanimous in the opinion that she was worth any amount of 
 scrutiny. The men’s gaze followed her as she bustled about, 
 clear eyed, laughing, self-possessed and unaffected. Ed 
 Bloomer tapped Wallie Oaks on the knee beneath the table- 
 cloth. 
 
144 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Steady, Wallie, steady,” he whispered. ‘Remember that 
 wife of yours ashore.” 
 
 Oaks started and grinned sheepishly. 
 
 “For thunder sakes, Ed,” he whispered in return, “how 
 did old Bologny come to have a girl like that?” 
 
 It was the question Calvin Homer had asked himself 
 during the voyage down in the Jarvis catboat—and which, 
 at that moment, he was asking again. It is possible that 
 Seleucus Gammon also was asking it, for he, like the rest, 
 watched Miss Bartlett intently, and then, turning, caught 
 his wife’s eye. Jemima, evidently, had been watching him. 
 Seleucus was a large man and he filled his clothes well, but, 
 under the influence of that searching glare, he seemed to 
 shrink into them. As Hezekiah Rogers described it, he 
 “puckered up like a baked apple.” 
 
 At five o’clock was performed a ceremony which, ordi- 
 narily, was a part of the Sunday routine. The keeper was 
 supposed to be the principal performer—Captain Myrick 
 had always filled that position—but, as Benoni Bartlett was 
 a newcomer and unacquainted with the families of his surf- 
 men, Homer had by request taken charge and kept it. He 
 did so now. Standing before the telephone instrument in the 
 living-room wall, he called up, one after the other, the houses 
 of his comrades, in Orham, in South or West Harniss, 
 wherever they might be. Some of the men had no telephones 
 of their own, but these had arranged by letter for some rep- 
 resentative of the family to be at the house of a neighbor 
 possessing one, to receive and exchange news and gossip. 
 
 Calvin did all the telephoning. The men stood about in 
 an eager circle. They took their turns, according to ranking, 
 and were allowed three minutes each—no more. 
 
 “You're next, Hez,’ announced Homer. “Yes. ... Is 
 that you, Mrs. Rogers? ... Yes, he’s well and wishes all 
 hands a merry Christmas. . . . No, we haven’t been turned 
 out for a week; having an easy time down here just now. 
 ... Eh? ... She wants to know how your chilblains are 
 and if you’re using the Eureka liniment same as she told 
 you to. ... Yes, he says they’re better and he'll need an- 
 
RUGGED WATER 145 
 
 other bottle pretty soon. ... Yes, he liked the mittens and 
 they fitted tip-top. ... He wants to know what’s the 
 news? ...I1 see... . Hez, she says your Willie got into 
 a scrap with the Bearse boy—that’s your Ike, Sam—and 
 blacked his eye. She says it was all Ike’s fault.” 
 
 A strenuous protest here from the indignant Mr. Bearse. 
 
 “T know a darn sight better. Ikey’s as quiet a kid as ever 
 lived. Me and his ma tell him to mind his own business and 
 he does. That young one of yours, Hez, is all the time raisin’ 
 hob over in our yard and—” 
 
 “Sshh!” this from Homer, at the phone. “Settle that 
 by and by. All right, Mrs. Rogers; I’ll tell him what you 
 say. Good-by.... Time’s up, Hez.... Wallie, you’re 
 next.” 
 
 And so on. The after-supper hour was a lively discussion 
 of the telephoned news, spiced with spirited argument be- 
 tween the fathers of the recently-embattled William and 
 Tsaac. 
 
 Norma was hugely amused by all this. She listened 
 eagerly, her eyes shining. Her father, grave and absent- 
 minded, did not seem to heed, but she was tremendously in- 
 terested. When she and Calvin happened to be alone for a 
 few moments, she voiced her thought. 
 
 “How like children they are, every one of them,” she 
 declared. “Just like grown-up boys, that’s all. Interested 
 in little childish things, and making so much of them. And 
 yet they are all grown men with families. Isn’t it funny— 
 and queer ?” 
 
 He smiled. “It’s funny enough,” he admitted. “Some- 
 times a lot funnier than it was just now. Mrs. Oaks and 
 Josh Phinney’s wife got into a row a while ago over a hen 
 that some kid had killed with a sling shot, and Wallie and 
 Josh all but had a mix-up right in the mess room. They 
 didn’t speak for ten days and even now it isn’t a safe sub- 
 ject to play with. Yes, it’s funny, but I don’t know that it 
 is so queer. When things do happen around a life-saving 
 station they are big things, but they happen only once in 
 while. The rest of the time nothing happens and the lit- 
 
146 RUGGED WATER 
 
 tle things get to look big, that’s all. Yes, we are like chil- 
 dren. And the longer we stay in the service the more child- 
 ish we get, I suppose.” 
 
 She looked at him. “But you are not,” she said, with the 
 directness which seemed so essentially a part of her. “You 
 are not childish at all, Mr. Homer. And you aren’t like 
 the rest of the men here, either.” 
 
 “That is because I haven’t been here but a year or two. 
 Give me time and I’ll develop—backwards.” 
 
 “T don’t know. I don’t believe you will. But, at any rate, 
 I am very glad you are here now.” 
 
 “Why ?” 
 
 “On father’s account. On the way down in the boat you 
 remember I asked if you thought he was worried—if the 
 cares and responsibilities here were troubling him. I can see 
 for myself now, and they are. And I am almost certain that 
 it was a mistake, his accepting the appointment.” 
 
 There was no “almost” in Calvin’s certainty, although he 
 made a pretense of protesting. 
 
 “Oh, he’s all right,” he said. “He'll get along first-rate, 
 I guess.” 
 
 It was merely a Yankee habit which added the “I guess,” 
 but it was an error in addition. Those two words were the 
 ones she pounced upon. 
 
 “You guess?” she repeated. ‘Why do you only guess?” 
 Then, before he could reply, she put out her hand. “Oh, 
 never mind, Mr. Homer,” she added. “Of course you didn’t 
 mean anything in particular. And please don’t think I am 
 going to persecute you with more questions, as I did in that 
 boat. Father is perfectly able to get along as keeper of 
 this station. I never had a doubt of that,’ with a scornful 
 little laugh. ‘‘What I started out to say was that I am glad 
 he has a mate like you to relieve him of some of his petty 
 worries. You will help him all you can, won’t you?” 
 
 “Why—why, I’ll do my best, Miss Bartlett.” 
 
 “He knows you will—and so do I. We are both relying 
 on you, you see. Thank you, Mr. Homer.” 
 
 She nodded and went away, leaving him in what might. 
 
RUGGED WATER 147 
 
 be called a mixed state of mind. It was—yes, it was pleasant 
 to have her say such things, and think them. But they made 
 his position more difficult, and additional difficulties were 
 quite unnecessary. If things went wrong she would blame 
 him. She would think he had failed to give the help he 
 had promised, and he did not wish her to think that. She 
 had said she trusted him. It was quite wonderful—to be 
 selected as a confidant by a girl like Norma Bartlett. 
 
 But there was Myra Fuller. She, too, believed in and 
 trusted him. His conscience smote him. Before turning in 
 he wrote Myra a long letter, explaining his forgetfulness 
 in the matter of the ring, and asking her forgiveness. He 
 said nothing concerning their disagreement. That subject he 
 avoided in the letter, but he could not avoid it in his think- 
 ing. For both she and Norma were demanding of him 
 loyalty—and a kept faith. 
 
 The next morning Josh Phinney should have returned 
 to duty, but he did not. At ten the telephone bell rang and 
 Bloomer answered the call. He chuckled as he hung up 
 the receiver and went to the tower to report to Captain Bart- 
 lett. Later he made a more elaborate report to his fellow 
 surfmen. 
 
 “Josh just called up,’ he said. “There’s a new Phinney 
 up to his house. A boy—and all hands gettin’ along fine. 
 Josh says for us to drink an extry dipperful of water to 
 George Dewey Phinney, that’s the young one’s name. He'll 
 be down—Josh will—this afternoon. Orrin Hendricks is 
 goin’ to drive him down with a horse ’n’ team. Say,” he 
 added, in a whisper and with a significant wink, “I shouldn’t 
 be surprised if Josh had had more’n one dipper of somethin’ 
 stronger’n water. He sort of sounded so to me. Hope he 
 don’t land here scuppers under. Cal’late old Bologny’d froth 
 up some if he did. Eh?” 
 
 As it happened Captain Bartlett and his daughter were 
 not at the station when the missing member returned from 
 his “liberty.” The afternoon drill was over and the skipper 
 and his daughter had gone for a walk to the lighthouse, 
 Homer was in the boat room, inspecting some of the gear 
 
148 RUGGED WATER 
 
 which he was inclined to think needed replacement. He heard 
 the station dog—‘Hard Luck” was the animal’s name, and 
 it looked it—barking excitedly, but paid little attention. A 
 few minutes later, however, he heard shouts of laughter in 
 the mess room. Sauntering leisurely in he found a group 
 of surfmen gathered about the stove and firing questions 
 at a man, who, bundled in heavy coat, mittens and sweaters 
 —shore-going togs—was sprawled in a chair, his countenance 
 expressing the most hopeless misery. This was Joshua 
 Phinney. In another chair a person whom Calvin recognized 
 as Orrin Hendricks, an Orham longshoreman, was reclining. 
 Mr. Hendricks, however, was smiling—broadly, even vacu- 
 ously. 
 
 No one noticed Homer’s entrance. The crew were en- 
 joying themselves. 
 
 “Brace up, Josh,’ advised Ed Bloomer. “It might be 
 worse, you know.” 
 
 “If you’re goin’ to cry, Josh,’ observed Sam Bearse, “let 
 me fetch the slop bucket to catch the tears. No use splashin’ 
 up the clean floor. Look at Orrin. He ain’t cryin’, be you, 
 Orrin?” | 
 
 Mr. Hendricks, thus appealed to, declared that he wasn’t 
 crying by a considerable sight. To prove it he burst into 
 song. He stridently advised his audience to “Drop the 
 anchor, furl the sail. We are safe within the—within th’ 
 jail. Haw, haw! Thash good one, ain’t it? Eh, Cal? 
 That’s stuff, ain’t it? Merry Chris’mas ’n’ ’appy New Year. 
 Letvier gol’ 
 
 Bearse, Bloomer and the others, thus apprised of the 
 presence of their Number One man, looked somewhat 
 abashed and a trifle apprehensive. Hendricks favored the 
 company with another selection. This time his choice was 
 “After the Ball.” 
 
 Homer turned to Gammon, who was grinning in the door- 
 way. 
 
 “When did they get here?” he asked. 
 
 “Few minutes ago. Come in Orrin’s hors’ ’n’ buggy. 
 It’s outside here now.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 149 
 
 “All right. Put Orrin aboard the buggy and one of you 
 drive him down as far as the Orham Station. Seleucus, you 
 do it. Then turn him over to the men there and let them 
 get him home. Hurry up! Lively!” 
 
 Seleucus looked peeved. “And then J’ll have to hoof it 
 all the way back, I presume likely?” he said. 
 
 “Ves,” 
 
 “Well, say, Cal—” 
 
 “You can say it afterwards. Do you want Cap’n Bartlett 
 to see ’°em here—like this?” 
 
 Seleucus was stirred to instant life. 
 
 “You're dead right, I don’t,’ he declared. “Come on, 
 Orrin; come on. You can do the rest of your Moody and 
 Sankyin’ outside. Nobody’ll have to hear you there but 
 me and the gulls. And the gulls ain’t particular. Come 
 on!” 
 
 He pulled the protesting vocalist to his feet and piloted 
 those feet to the door. Homer crossed to where Phinney 
 was sitting and laid a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 “You better turn in, Josh,” he ordered. ‘The skipper ’ll be 
 back pretty soon and he’d better not see you.” 
 
 To his surprise Mr. Phinney burst into tears. He sobbed 
 bitterly. 
 
 “What’s the matter with you?” demanded Calvin. “Stop 
 that crying. Stop it.” 
 
 But Josh did not stop. He lifted up his voice and wept. 
 
 “You—you'don’t know’s what’s—whash happened up to 
 my house,” he sobbed. 
 
 Calvin remembered the important event which had called 
 the man home. His tone changed. 
 
 “Why, what is it, Josh?” he asked sympathetically. “The 
 baby isn’t—nothin’s happened to the new baby?” 
 
 The tears flowed down the Phinney cheeks, but the Phin- 
 ney head was shaken. 
 
 “Baby’s all right,” said Josh. “Baby’s fine. George Dewey 
 —thash name. Little Georgie Dewey Phinney. Poor little 
 kid !” 
 
 “Poor little—! Why, what— Is your wife—?r” 
 
150 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “My wife’s fine. She’s fine woman. She’s all right. But 
 —oh dear!” 
 
 Homer’s apprehensions were relieved, but his patience was 
 wearing. 
 
 “What are you crying about?” he demanded sharply. 
 
 Josh raised his head. Then he gave utterance to a remark 
 which was destined to be added to the list of Setuckit Station 
 jokes and to go down in history. 
 
 “T—I cal’late you’d cry if—if your mother-in-law had— 
 had burned her foot with a flatiron,” he wailed. 
 
 Even Calvin was obliged to join in the hilarious howl which 
 greeted this touching disclosure. But he was the first to 
 recover. 
 
 “Get him to bed,” he commanded. “And hurry up. Keep 
 him quiet there, if you can, and he’ll feel better in the morn- 
 ing. ... And, look here,” he added gravely, “don’t say 
 anything about this. If Cap’n Bartlett hears of it—well, 
 you know how he feels about drinking.” 
 
 The grief-stricken son-in-law of a scorched parent was 
 dragged up to the sleeping quarters. When the Bartletts 
 returned all was quiet. Calvin reported that Phinney had 
 come back, but that he was pretty well used up and, under 
 orders, had turned in. 
 
 “They've got a new baby up there,” he added, “and Josh 
 is tired out, I guess.” 
 
 The explanation was accepted as satisfactory and Homer 
 was relieved. Phinney, when on duty, was a first-class surf-~ 
 man—his lapses from rectitude were few—and Calvin did 
 not care to have him get into trouble. It looked as if that 
 trouble had been avoided. 
 
 But, later on that evening, Wallie Oaks touched his arm, 
 winked, and asked him to step outside for a moment. 
 
 “Say, Cal,’ he whispered, “you know what’s happened 
 this afternoon, don’t you? About Josh and Orrin, I 
 mean?” 
 
 “Happened? They were both drunk; I know that.” 
 
 “Um-hum. Sure! But that ain’t the whole of it. They 
 
RUGGED WATER 151 
 
 fetched down a jug along with ’em. It’s hid around here 
 somewheres, too.” 
 
 Homer turned on him. “How do you know?” he asked, 
 sharply. , 
 
 “Sshh! Don’t talk so loud. I wouldn’t want none of ’em 
 to know I was tellin’ you. I didn’t see the jug myself, but 
 I smelled whisky on Hez Rogers’s breath when he went out 
 on patrol just now, and I’ve seen him and Ed and the rest 
 of ’em whisperin’ and laughin’ together. They never told 
 me—they’ve got a grudge against me, anyhow—but I tum- 
 bled all right, and I thought you ought to know about it. 
 Only,” anxiously, “don’t let ’em know I give the thing away, 
 will you?” 
 
 Calvin hesitated. This was not entirely unexpected. 
 Smuggling liquor to the life-saving stations was done oc- 
 casionally. Not that the men were drunkards, far from it, 
 but liquor was strictly forbidden—therefore, obtaining it was 
 in the nature of a lark. It was one more instance of the 
 schoolboy’s delight in outwitting his teacher, that was all. 
 But the situation must be handled with diplomacy, as the 
 clever teacher handles mischief in the schoolroom. Over- 
 severity would be a fatal mistake. And Benoni Bartlett was 
 a fanatic. 
 
 Wallie whispered again. 
 
 “You'll tell the cap’n, won’t you, Cal?” he asked. 
 
 In his eagerness he clutched his companion’s arm. Homer 
 shook him off. 
 
 “No, I shan’t tell him,” he said, emphatically. “And don’t 
 you do it, either. You keep your mouth shut; do you under- 
 stand? I'll attend to this thing myself.” 
 
 Wallie’s disappointment was obvious. 
 
 “Why, see here, Cal,” he protested, “one of the very things 
 Bologny-—Cap’n Bartlett, I mean—said when he took this 
 job was that he wouldn’t stand for any rum drinkin’! If 
 he knew-—” 
 
 “He mustn’t know. There is no need of his knowing. 
 I’ll see there is no more drinking. But as for you, Wallie, 
 you keep still. If the men knew you were telling tales they 
 
152 RUGGED WATER 
 
 would—well, it wouldn’t help that grudge you were talking 
 about.” 
 “But—but, Cal—good Lord! you ain’t goin’ to give me 
 
 away, are you?” 
 “Not if you keep quiet.” 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 Prrerreste came to breakfast with the rest. His 
 
 appetite was far from robust and his spirits were 
 
 still low. There was a general atmosphere of the 
 “morning after” surrounding him, but he made no reference 
 to the accident which had befallen his wife’s mother and 
 Homer was certain that Bartlett would notice nothing unusual 
 in his manner. So far the situation was satisfactory. It 
 remained to be seen, however, what might develop later on. 
 If Oaks’s suspicions concerning the jug were founded on fact, 
 developments were to be expected. 
 
 The first symptoms of these developments appeared before 
 the forenoon was over. The weather was thick and threat- 
 ening, so beach patrol was necessary. The spirits of certain 
 members of the crew were unusually high. The skylarking 
 in the mess room became so noisy that Norma remarked 
 it. She was quite unsuspecting. 
 
 “They are full of fun this morning, aren’t they, Mr. 
 Homer?” she observed. “They were making such a racket 
 just now that father said he was going to teil them to stop; 
 but I wouldn’t let him do it. Rogers and Bloomer were 
 teasing Walter Oaks, plaguing him about something he said 
 when you were all off at some wreck or other. Something 
 about his wife. They were shouting so that I couldn’t help 
 hearing it. They’re boys, just as I’ve said so many times, 
 but they are more boylike than ever to-day, it seems to me.” 
 
 Calvin made some sort of excuse for leaving her and went 
 to investigate. Outside, at the rear of the station, he found 
 the two she had mentioned. Badger was there also, an inter- 
 ested spectator. Wallie Oaks, a sullen expression on his 
 face, was backed against the wall, while Hez and Ed were 
 putting him through some sort of exercise. 
 
 “Hello there, Cal!” hailed Bloomer. ‘You’re just in time. 
 
 153 
 
154 RUGGED WATER 
 
 It’s Wallie’s birthday and he’s goin’ to sing a song for us. 
 He’s goin’ to sing ‘Nancy Lee.’ It’s one of his pet songs, 
 all about his wife ashore. 
 
 *“*And there she stands 
 And waves her hands, 
 And waits for me—’ 
 
 Come on, Wallie, now! Go to it! We'll all join in the 
 chorus,” 
 
 Oaks puffed sullenly at his pipe. Rogers, a broad grin 
 on his face, slapped his big hands together. 
 
 “Go on, Wal,” he ordered. “If you won’t sing, then Ed 
 and I’ll walk you Spanish three times around the station. A 
 man’s got to either sing or dance on his birthday. Maybe 
 Ed and I can’t make you sing, but we can make you dance— 
 and step high, too; eh, Ed? Ho, ho!” 
 
 Oaks took his pipe from his mouth. “You lay a hand on 
 me and you'll wish you hadn’t, Hez Rogers,” he threatened. 
 “T can stand foolin’ all right, but enough of it’s enough. Es- 
 pecially when—” 
 
 The remainder of the sentence was an inarticulate mutter. 
 
 “Eh? What’s the last of that?” demanded Bloomer. 
 “Say it out loud.” 
 
 “Tl say it when I get good and ready. And maybe I'll 
 say it—” 
 
 Homer broke in. 
 
 “That'll do, Wallie,” he snapped. “No, you keep still. 
 Look here, Hez, you and Ed and Ellis are making more noise 
 than a camp meeting; did you know it? You'll have the 
 skipper out after you, first thing you know.” 
 
 Rogers laughed. 
 
 “Let him come,” he proclaimed. “We ain’t scared of any 
 Crooked Hill heroes, I guess. Let him come! Maybe he’ll 
 sing a hymn tune for us, after Wallie gets through. Ho, ho! 
 Good idea; ain’t that so, Ed?” 
 
 Bloomer joined in the laugh. “Sure thing,” he agreed. 
 “What are you buttin’ in for, Cal? You ain’t skipper nowa- 
 
RUGGED WATER 155 
 
 days, worse luck. And you ain’t playin’ up to old Bologny 
 —after the mean trick he worked on you!” 
 
 Calvin smiled. “I’m not playing up to anybody and you 
 know it, Ed,” he said. “But we’ve got a visitor down here. 
 You don’t want her to think we’re a gang of rough-necks, do 
 you? She says you are the finest crew she ever saw. 
 You’ve made a hit with her, boys.” 
 
 Hez grinned. “Say, she’s a peach, that girl, even if she 
 is old Bible-back’s daughter,” he announced. “We’re the 
 finest crew afloat, eh? Good for her! Good judgment, that 
 js, and I can lick any man that says we ain’t. You say we 
 ain’t, will you, Wallie?” 
 
 “She won’t think so if you start a fight with her father. 
 If you’ve got to raise a ruction this morning why not raise 
 it where she can’t hear you? Take your racket somewhere 
 else.” 
 
 Badger offered a suggestion. “I tell you what let’s do, 
 boys,” he said. “Seleucus is over to the shanty cleanin’ fish 
 for Jemimy’s dinner. Let’s go over and start him and her 
 goin’. We'll tell her Seleucus is dead gone on this Bartlett 
 girl, follers her around like a dog. That ought to raise one 
 or two sprouts—eh ?” 
 
 The idea was received with delight. Oaks was forgotten. 
 
 “But where’s Josh?” asked Hez. “He'll want to be in on 
 this. Oh, Josh!” | 
 
 From the door of the stable Phinney himself made answer. 
 His morning-after depression had mysteriously disappeared. 
 He appeared to be in high good humor. 
 
 “Here I be, fellers,’ he answered. “Ahh... ! I feel 
 better... . Where you bound? I’m with you, wherever 
 tis.” 
 
 He concluded with another “A-ah,” expressive, apparently, 
 of complete satisfaction. Also he smacked his lips. Bloomer 
 and Rogers explained matters in concert. The trio, accom- 
 panied by Badger, moved noisily away in the direction of 
 the Jarvis shanty. Oaks and Homer were left alone. 
 
 “Wallie,” said Calvin, “you go on patrol as soon as Bearse 
 comes off. You’d better go now and get ready. It’s my 
 
156 RUGGED WATER 
 
 tower watch. The skipper’s up there now, but I'll relieve 
 him in a minute.” 
 
 Oaks turned toward the door of the station. He was still 
 gloomy and morose. 
 
 “T’ll stand this kind of thing from those fellers about so 
 far and no farther,’ he muttered. “I’m gettin’ sick of it. 
 You know what’s the matter with that gang, don’t you, Cal? 
 You know what I told you last night ?” 
 
 Homer did not answer. As soon as he was alone, how- 
 ever, he walked briskly to the stable, entered, and closed the 
 door carefully behind him, Port and Starboard turned their 
 heads to regard him over the sides of their stalls, and “Slab- 
 sides,’ one of the station cats, in the barn on a mouse hunt, 
 came running to rub against his legs. He and Slabsides 
 were great friends, but just now the latter was not treated 
 to his customary petting. Calvin, too, was on a hunt, and 
 he must locate his prey quickly, if he hoped to do so unob- 
 served. 
 
 He sniffed the air in the dark, shut-up stable. There were 
 the usual smells, of course—horse, hay and leather. But— 
 unless his imagination was affecting his nostrils—there was 
 also a faint suspicion of another fragrance, an odor which 
 he had noticed while in conversation with Bloomer and 
 Rogers, and in particular when Josh Phinney passed him as 
 he came out of that barn a minute or two before. He sniffed 
 again. Then he began a systematic search of the lower floor. 
 The mow, according to his experience, was as likely a place 
 as any, but he would try the lower floor first. 
 
 The mangers, under the horses’ noses, were empty except 
 for the rations of hay which should be there. Leaving them 
 he walked over and threw up the lid of the oat bin. The 
 moment he lifted that lid he knew he had found the hiding 
 place. That bin was redolent less of oats than of rye. His 
 fingers, burrowing amid the grain, encountered a smooth, 
 rounded surface. He dragged from the bin a gallon jug, 
 the contents of which gurgled liquidly. 
 
 He thrust the jug beneath his coat, lowered the lid of the 
 bin, and walked to the door, Slabsides galloping playfully 
 
RUGGED WATER 157 
 
 before him, His idea was to go somewhere among the 
 dunes at the rear of the barn, pour out the whisky, and then 
 bury the empty jug in the sand. But as he stepped across 
 the threshold he realized that this ceremony must be post- 
 poned. Not only was Sam Bearse returning from patrol, 
 approaching the station, but Norma Bartlett was standing 
 by the back door and had seen him. Moreover, she was 
 already walking in his direction. 
 
 The morning was raw and damp and, when he left the 
 station, he had hurriedly donned a long oilskin slicker— 
 one which he had borrowed from Philander Jarvis’s store in 
 the catboat’s cabin and which had not yet been returned. 
 It was hanging by the kitchen door and he had taken it be- 
 cause it was more convenient than his own heavy coat, which 
 was in the sleeping quarters. Now he blessed the luck which 
 had prompted the action. A gallon jug is hard to conceal, 
 but the skirts of a long slicker hide it as well as any gar- 
 ment can. 
 
 Nevertheless, a jug doesn’t hide itself and it requires sup- 
 port. To cling to the handle beneath one’s coat and appear 
 unconscious and casual while carrying on a conversation 
 with a young woman is no easy task. Also, the jug was 
 bulky and, although the slicker was large, Calvin was 
 conscious of a manifest bulge of the garment in its 
 vicinity. 
 
 Miss Barlett, however, did not seem to notice the bulge. 
 Nor, at first, did she appear aware that Homer was ill at 
 ease. She walked briskly to meet him. She was wearing 
 her father’s pea jacket, which enveloped her from chin to 
 knees, and above its turned-up collar her hair tossed in the 
 wind, for she was bareheaded. Already the sea air and 
 breeze had replaced the city pallor with a light coat of tan. 
 Her cheeks were crimson and her eyes bright. 
 
 “Where are the men?” she asked. “It was so quiet, all at 
 once, that I came out to see what had happened. I hope 
 you didn’t take too seriously what I said about their being 
 so noisy. I didn’t mind a bit, really. You didn’t send them 
 away on my account, did your” 
 
158 RUGGED WATER 
 
 He shook his head. “No—oh, no,” he replied uneasily. 
 “T believe they’ve gone over to the Jarvises’ to see Seleucus. 
 ... It—it’s a nice day, isn’t it?” 
 
 She laughed. “Is it?” she repeated. “It doesn’t seem so 
 very nice to me. Almost as if it were going to rain—or 
 snow. And father has just hoisted the weather signals and 
 they forecast high winds and a storm of some kind. But 
 I suppose Mr. Myrick might give us a real prophecy if he 
 were here. I hope I shall see him again, before I go. He 
 is lots of fun.” 
 
 Homer agreed, absent-mindedly. The jug was occupying 
 his thoughts. 
 
 “And you can’t think the weather so very good,” she went 
 on. “You are wearing your oilskins. Where have you 
 been ?”’ 
 
 “Oh, just—just out to the barn, that’s all. To—to see 
 the horses.” 
 
 “Ts it your turn to do that? I understood father to say 
 Mr. Bloomer was stable man this week. But I suppose you, 
 as Number One, have to keep a sort of general eye on every- 
 thing.” 
 
 “Yes—er—sort of. Er—going for a walk, were you?” 
 
 “No, I just came out, as I said, to see why it was so quiet 
 all at once. . . . What is the matter, Mr. Homer? Has 
 anything gone wrong?” 
 
 “Wrong? No, no. Nothing is wrong. Why—what 
 made you ask that?” | 
 
 “There is nothing wrong with the crew? No trouble of 
 any kind?” 
 
 “Trouble? What sort of trouble could there be? Every- 
 thing is all right. Where is your father?” 
 
 “He is in the tower with Walter Oaks.” 
 
 “Eh? With Wallie? What is Wallie doing there? He 
 ought to be starting on patrol.” 
 
 “He is going to, I believe. He is dressed for it. But 
 he went up to see father. Said he wanted to see him about 
 something. . . . Are you sure everything is all right, Mr. 
 Homer ?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 159 
 
 “Eh? Yes—yes, Miss Bartlett. I’m sure. Yes, in- 
 deed.” 
 
 “Have you hurt your arm? Why do you hold it that 
 way?” 
 
 “Eh ... ? Oh, that’s all right. I—er—well, I must be 
 going. It’s my watch in the tower.” 
 
 He walked hastily away. With every step a musical 
 “swash” sounded from beneath the skirt of the slicker. As 
 he turned to enter the station he looked back; she was watch- 
 ing him intently. He felt remarkably like a fool and was 
 quite sure that he must look like one. 
 
 He went directly to the crew’s quarters—fortunately there 
 was no one else there—for Bearse was warming his hands 
 by the kitchen stove—and, turning back the blankets of his 
 cot, hid the whisky jug beneath them. Then he hastened 
 ' up to the tower. He met Oaks on the stairs. 
 
 “What are you doing up here, Wallie?”’ he asked, sus- 
 piciously. “You’re late for patrol, did you know it?” 
 
 Oaks scowled. “I don’t know’s that’s any of your busi- 
 ness,’ he said. “You ain’t skipper no more, are you?” 
 
 Calvin ignored the question. ‘What are you chasing the 
 cap’n for?” he demanded. 
 
 Wallie stopped. “Who said I was chasin’ him?’ he 
 blurted. “Who said—” 
 
 “Miss Bartlett said you told her there was something you 
 wanted to see him about. Look here, Wallie; you remember 
 what I told you about keeping your mouth shut? It was 
 mighty good advice, if I did give it.” 
 
 The other’s face flushed. “I ain’t sayin’ ’twasn’t, am I?” 
 he protested. “I went up to ask Cap’n Bartlett if I couldn’t 
 have an extry day off next week. That’s all, if you must 
 know.” , 
 
 Bartlett, when Homer reached the tower room, had almost 
 nothing to say to his mate. He seemed, so the latter thought, 
 gloomy and morose, and, a few minutes later, went be- 
 low. 
 
 Rogers returned from the Jarvis cottage a short time 
 afterward and visited Calvin in the tower. It was his week 
 
160 RUGGED WATER 
 
 as cook, so he had left Bloomer, Badger and Phinney and 
 come back to get dinner. He was full of chuckles. 
 
 “They’re raisin’ heigho over there, them fellers,” he de- 
 clared. “Stringin’ Seleucus about this Bartlett girl. You 
 recollect Norma’s readin’ that piece out of last week’s Globe 
 about the seagull—piece of poetry twas? Um-hum. Well, 
 Josh he sort of hinted that she was readin’ it to Seleucus 
 especial, and that set Jemimy goin’. She wanted to know 
 if that was all Seleucus had to do in his spare time, set 
 around and read poetry with women. Well—you know 
 Seleucus—he got all het up and laid into Josh, and course 
 that only made things worse so far as his wife’s concerned. 
 How any sane critter can be jealous about a homely old 
 pickle tub like Seleucus mercy only knows; but Jemimy ain’t 
 sane—she’s crazy as a loon on them subjects. If J was 
 married to her I’d straighten her out with a tholepin; but 
 Seleucus he just sets and takes it. And he’s big enough to 
 eat a shrimp like her for breakfast, at that. Only if he did 
 I cal’late she’d pison him.” 
 
 “You’d better get down to your cooking, hadn’t you, 
 Hez?” suggested Homer. 
 
 “Yes, I cal’late likely I had, but there ain’t any rush—not 
 to-day. I’ve got a second steward, did you know it? 
 Norma’s making turkey soup out of the Christmas left- 
 overs. Yes, and she’s makin’ a sugar cake for us, too. What 
 do you think of that? We’ll live high while she’s around, 
 won't we, Cal? Well, I guess I'll go down and give her a 
 hand. Ain’t a bad job, standin’ close alongside of that kind 
 of steward. I wouldn’t mind signin’ up for a consider’ble 
 cruise with a pippin like her. Eh? What do you say, 
 Cal?” 
 
 Calvin looked at him. “If I were you, Hez,” he observed, 
 “TI wouldn’t stand too close to her just now.” 
 
 “Why not?” 
 
 “Because she might notice that you’d been taking some- 
 thing besides coffee.” 
 
 Rogers’s hand moved involuntarily to his lips. 
 
 “Sho! he muttered. “Humph! T’ll have to chew a stick 
 
RUGGED WATER 161 
 
 of cinnamon or somethin’. Wouldn’t want old Bologny to 
 get on. Say, Cal, how’d you tumble? Josh tell you?” 
 
 “Nobody needed to tell me. Stuff like that advertises 
 itself. Don’t forget that cinnamon, Hez.” 
 
 The turkey soup and cake received high praise, but Homer 
 had little appetite. He was awaiting the explosion which 
 he believed was in the air. Benoni Bartlett’s behavior was 
 what troubled him most. The skipper was silent and frown- 
 ing all through the meal. Calvin, remembering Oaks’s con- 
 ference with Bartlett and, putting two and two together, was 
 fearful. There was the incriminating evidence hidden in _ 
 his bed. He must get rid of it somehow, but opportunities 
 for doing so before nightfall and unobserved were likely to 
 be few. Bartlett, bigoted and fanatical, might do almost 
 anything. His standing with the crew was precarious 
 enough already. If he made a mistake now—if, by some 
 ill-advised action, he changed the men’s prejudice to active 
 enmity—then the situation at Setuckit Station would become 
 serious indeed. 
 
 For himself, Homer cared little. Nothing that could 
 happen to him was worth consideration. If the worst did 
 happen and the whisky was discovered where he had hidden 
 it, he made up his mind to say nothing and take the conse- 
 quences. Later he could tell Kellogg the truth and the super- 
 intendent, a wise man of long experience, would understand. 
 But the fat would be in the fire, so far as Bartlett’s relation- 
 ship with the crew was concerned. That relationship would 
 become impossible. A. life-saving crew that hated its cap- 
 tain could and would—for similar experiences at other 
 stations were matters of service gossip—make the latter’s 
 life miserable and, more than all, absolutely wreck the effi- 
 ciency of the outfit. Tact, tact, and more tact—that was 
 what was required. And Benoni Bartlett, so Calvin Homer 
 believed, possessed no tact whatever. And there was his 
 daughter! She would not understand. 
 
 The dinner ended without any untoward happenings, but 
 within an hour the trouble came. It was the afternoon set 
 apart by regulation for beach drill, but the keeper gave no 
 
162 RUGGED WATER 
 
 orders to that effect. Instead he left the table and went 
 away, apparently to the boat room. The surfmen, those off 
 duty, lounged in the mess room or went outside. Calvin, 
 anxious and apprehensive, joined the outside group a little 
 later. Rogers, Bloomer and Phinney were standing near the 
 back door, whispering excitedly. The whispering ceased 
 when he appeared. Bloomer turned to him. 
 
 “Say, Cal,’ he queried, “what’s the old man doin’ out in 
 the barn?” 
 
 Homer looked at him. “Out in the barn?” he repeated, 
 with as casual an appearance of unconcern as he could mus- 
 ter.) tedon’t'khowcnils whe there? 
 
 “Yes. Come out of the front door a few minutes ago 
 and went straight to the barn. I sung out to him, but he 
 never answered. What’s he up to, anyway?” 
 
 “Give it up. Looking things over, I suppose. What 
 ciate’ 
 
 “Nothin’. Only what set him—” 
 
 He was interrupted. Ellis Badger came hurrying to join 
 the group. 
 
 “Say, boys,” he whispered, excitedly, ignoring Calvin alto- 
 gether, “he’s pawin’ around in there like a dog chasin’ rats. 
 He’s been to the bin.” 
 
 His comrades stared at him, then at each other. Phinney 
 spoke. 
 
 “To the bin!’ he exclaimed, "He has...) fe Welle? 
 
 “That’s the funny part of it,” went on Badger. “TI peeked 
 in through the side window just as he lifted up the lid. I 
 see him, with his head and shoulders down inside that bin 
 for much as five minutes. He took time enough to count 
 the oats, seemed so to me. And then he just slammed down 
 the cover again. That’s all there was to it.” 
 
 His comrades continued to stare. “What do you mean— 
 that’s all?” demanded Rogers. 
 
 “T mean just that. He never found nothin’, or, if he did, 
 he— Eh? Oh, hello, Cal! Well, what of it, Hez? Cal’s 
 all right; he’s no tattletale. Anyhow, Bologny never found 
 anything. I saw his face when he slammed down that cover 
 
RUGGED WATER 163 
 
 and ’twas sour as last week’s milk. He was huntin’ and he 
 didn’t strike ile, ll bet on it. He’s up in the mow now. 
 Huntin’ there, I presume likely.” 
 
 Bloomer turned to Phinney. “You was the last one in 
 that barn, wasn’t you, Josh?” he asked. ‘“‘Nobody’s been 
 there since dinner ?” 
 
 Josh shook his head. “Nobody that I know of,” he de- 
 clared. “Seleucus came over from his shanty with you and 
 me and Ellis; and, anyhow, he didn’t know anything about 
 —we didn’t tell him. He relieved you up in the tower, 
 didn’t he, Cal?” 
 
 Homer nodded. 
 
 “Um-hum,” grunted Josh. “I thought so; he’s up there 
 now. And Satn’s inside smokin’; you can see him. And 
 we didn’t tell him yet, either. And Wallie— Eh? Where’s 
 Wallie ?” 
 
 Calvin answered. “He is out on patrol,” he said. “It’s 
 time he was back. You go out next, don’t you, Ellis?” 
 
 They paid no heed to the question. Phinney was frown- 
 ing. 
 
 “Wallie was on, I guess likely,” he observed thoughtfully. 
 “He as much as said so when we was guyin’ him a spell ago. 
 And he’s always playin’ up to the old man, makin’ out to 
 us that he ain’t got any use for him, but playin’ pet dog to 
 him every chance he gets. Say! you don’t suppose Wal- 
 lie—” 
 
 Again Homer cut in. It seemed to him high time. 
 
 “What are you fellows talking about?” he asked. “Wallie 
 went on patrol just after you went across to Philander’s. 
 And he hasn’t got back yet. What is all this, anyway?” 
 
 Bloomer laughed, sheepishly. ‘Oh, nothin’, Cal,” he an- 
 swered. “Just a little joke, that’s all. Tell you some time. 
 Josh, if it wan’t Wallie, then who was it? The only one 
 left is Cal here, and he didn’t know. And Norma—where’s 
 she ?” 
 
 “She’s readin’ a book in the keeper’s room. Sshh_ here’s 
 Bologny. He looks like heavy weather, don’t he? Be inno- 
 cent. All hands.” 
 
164 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Bartlett, his hands in his coat pockets, came striding from 
 the barn. His brows were drawn together and his jaw, 
 beneath the beard, was set. He stopped before the group. 
 “Well, Cap’n,” observed Rogers cheerfully. “Be gettin’ 
 ready for drill pretty soon, I presume likely, won’t we?” 
 
 The skipper grunted. “Come inside, all hands of you,” 
 he ordered. “I’ve got a word to say.” 
 
 They followed him into the station. As they did so, Oaks 
 appeared returning from patrol. He joined them in the 
 mess room. Bearse was already there. Seleucus was in 
 the tower, but Bartlett called him down. The men stood or 
 sat. Their captain paced the floor a moment, then he swung 
 about and faced them. He was tugging at his beard and 
 in his eyes was that peculiar glitter which Homer had seen 
 there before when the man was excited. 
 
 “Look here,’ he began, suddenly. “Look here, you. 
 When I first came here to this station, when I took this job, 
 Cap’n Kellogg asked me to say a word and I did it. You 
 was here, all hands of you, and you heard me. You recol- 
 lect I said I’d act square with you and I expected you to act 
 square by me? ‘That’s what I said and I told you that, with 
 the help of the Lord A’mighty, we’d get along together. You 
 heard me say that, didn’t you?” 
 
 No one answered. 
 
 “Eh? Didn’t you?” he repeated, raising his voice. 
 
 Still no answer. Calvin, glancing at his companions, saw 
 the look of puzzled bewilderment on the faces of Bearse and 
 Gammon, the pair not in the secret. Phinney, Bloomer and 
 Badger were, according to instructions, pictures of bland 
 innocence. Wallie Oaks was the most interesting study. 
 Unless Calvin was very much mistaken, Wallie was fright- 
 ened. 
 
 “Why don’t you say somethin’ ?” demanded Bartlett, almost 
 in a shout. “You heard me say that about actin’ square, 
 didn’t you?” 
 
 Seleucus grinned. “I did, for one,” he observed. “I can 
 hear you now, too. You don’t need to holler.” 
 
 The door of the skipper’s room opened and Norma came 
 
RUGGED WATER 165 
 
 out. She looked at the men, then at her father, and, coming 
 over, put her hand on his arm. 
 
 “Why, father!” she exclaimed. “What is it? What is 
 the matter ?” 
 
 Bartlett looked at her. Then he shook his arm free. 
 
 “Never mind,” he growled. “I don’t want you to bother 
 me now. I’m talkin’ to the crew.” 
 
 “But, father, what is it?” 
 
 “Sshh! Let me alone. I know what it is—and so do 
 they. You—you men—you heard me say that one thing I 
 wouldn’t stand for was rum drinkin’. I said I wouldn’t 
 have rum around this station. I meant it. Rum is the 
 devil’s work. I tell you I know it. I’ve seen it. I tell 
 you—” 
 
 “Father—father! Don’t shout so. They hear you.” 
 
 “They’re goin’ to hear me. I know somebody has brought 
 liquor down here. [I tell you I know it. There’s been rum 
 drunk here—to-day. And there’s some of it hid somewheres, 
 I ain’t found it yet, but I will find it. And I’ll find out who 
 brought it and who hid it. J—I—” 
 
 He paused, choking and inarticulate, his clenched fists 
 shaking. His daughter again put her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 “Father—please don’t!” she begged. She looked at the 
 faces of the crew. Her gaze met Calvin’s and rested there. 
 There was appeal in the look. He had not meant to speak, 
 but he found himself doing so. 
 
 “Cap'n Bartlett,” he said, quietly, “don’t get excited. Tell 
 us about it. What makes you think—” 
 
 Benoni interrupted. “Think!” he shouted. ‘“There’s no 
 thinkin’ about it. I know. I know rum was brought here 
 and I can guess who brought it. I don’t know where it is 
 now, but I know where ’twas. *Twas in the grain box out 
 yonder in the barn. I smelt it. That bin is rank with it. 
 Don’t tell me I was mistaken. I know the smell of the devil- 
 ish stuff too well. Too well I know it. When I was a young 
 man, afore I found salvation, I—I-—‘Tt biteth like a sarpent 
 and stingeth like an adder.’ I won't have it here. I—” 
 
 “There, there, father! Hush, hush, you’ll make yourself 
 
166 RUGGED WATER 
 
 sick. You frighten me. Please, for my sake. .. ! That’s 
 better. Now tell them quietly.” 
 
 Bartlett’s fist opened. He drew his hand across his fore- 
 head. 
 
 “Well—well, all right, Norma,” he said. “I—I didn’t 
 mean to let the thing run away with me so. And—and I 
 didn’t want you to know about it; I knew ’twould plague 
 you. Now, you men, listen to me. I won’t have liquor 
 here. I won’t have it. I’m a just man—I am—but I won’t 
 stand that. No, and J ain’t through with this either. I’ve 
 only begun. Somebody took that bottle, or jug, or what- 
 ever ’twas, out of that bin and hid it somewheres else. I'll 
 find it, though. I willif I have to hunt through every man’s 
 kit—every one. And the man that’s got it had better look 
 out, that’s all. He better look out. I— Oh, all right, 
 Norma. What made you mix up in this... ? All right, 
 I’m through for now. But,” with an ominous scowl in the 
 direction of the others, “I ain’t through with the man who 
 fetches rum to this station—or drinks it after it gets here. 
 I ain’t through with him. And I'll find where it’s hid... . 
 Now go back to duty. We'll turn out for drill in five min- 
 utes.” 
 
 He drew his hand across his forehead once more and 
 turned away. His daughter put her arm about him. 
 
 “Come in here, into my room, father,’ she said gently. 
 “You must rest. And I want to talk to you.” 
 
 The men looked at each other. Homer led the way to the 
 back door and the others followed. Once outside, feelings 
 were expressed, and with fluent emphasis. 
 
 “Gosh!” exclaimed Bearse, with contemptuous disgust. 
 “That was a pretty piece of play actin’, wan’t it? What the 
 blue blazes does he mean talkin’ to us like that! Say, I'll 
 tell you one thing; the man that starts overhaulin’ my kit 
 is goin’ to wake up on the floor with a black eye—no matter 
 who he is, keeper or not.” 
 
 “Crimus!” snorted Seleucus. “Don’t call him a keeper 
 of no life-savin’ station. He’s a Sunday-school teacher, and 
 a loony one at that. Well, I told you he looked like a damn 
 
RUGGED WATER 16% 
 
 fool when he come here. Eh? Now didn’t I? Crimustee!”’ 
 
 Homer put in a word. “He’s cracked on temperance, 
 boys,” he observed. “But we knew that before. Now let’s 
 take it easy and pay no attention. He'll get over it. He 
 isn’t going to search anybody’s kit. Besides, his daughter 
 is here, and we don’t want a row to spoil her vacation. She’s 
 going to-morrow. Think of that cake she made for dinner 
 —and be thankful.” 
 
 Oaks spoke next. 
 
 “Anyhow,” he protested, eagerly, “what’s he mean by 
 sayin’ there’s rum hid around the station? J ain’t heard of 
 none. There ain’t any, is there?” 
 
 Ed Bloomer’s laugh was not entirely humorous. “Maybe 
 that ain’t the main question, Wallie,” he said. “The thing 
 some of us want to know is who told the skipper there 
 was.” 
 
 Drill passed without unusual incident. Bartlett conducted 
 it in businesslike fashion. He seemed nervous and shaken 
 —and, or so Homer fancied—rather abashed and self-con- 
 scious. Nothing further was said by him during that after- 
 noon or evening in reference to the liquor or his outburst 
 concerning it. But heavily upon Calvin’s mind weighed the 
 thought of the jug hidden in his cot. He must get that 
 away, out of the station and out of sight—and soon. 
 
 He turned in with the rest of the crew—except those on 
 duty in the tower or on patrol—at ten o’clock. He lay there 
 wide awake, his feet touching the jug, until eleven. Then, 
 certain that his comrades were asleep, he cautiously rose, 
 partially dressed, slipped on the Jarvis slicker once more, 
 and tiptoed downstairs, through the mess room and out at 
 the back door. The jug was clutched tightly in his hand. 
 
 Outside, in the raw cold of the winter night, he breathed 
 easier and walked faster. Behind a dune he dug a hole in 
 the sand and, after pouring out the whisky, put the jug in the 
 hole and covered it carefully. Then he walked back to the 
 station. That source of trouble was dead—and buried, 
 
 But his self-congratulation was short lived. He was tip- 
 toeing cautiously through the mess room, past the door of the 
 
168 RUGGED WATER 
 
 skipper’s room—his daughter’s room now—when that door 
 opened. Miss Bartlett herself came out. She was fully 
 dressed. Apparently she had not been in bed at all. 
 
 He looked at her and she looked at him. He wanted very 
 much to say something, but he did not know what to say. 
 She spoke first. 
 
 “Well, Mr. Homer?” she asked, coldly. 
 
 “Why—why, Miss Bartlett!’ he stammered, inanely, 
 “Are you—are you up?” 
 
 “Yes. And so are you. Why?” 
 
 “Why—why, I just—I was—” 
 
 She motioned toward a chair. “Would you mind sitting 
 down a minute?” she went on. “I want to talk with you. 
 I have been waiting for you. I saw you when you went out.” 
 
 He hesitated, and then sat down by the table. She sat 
 opposite him. 
 
 “I saw you when you went out,’ she repeated. “I ex- 
 pected to see you. Mr. Homer, I think you and I ought to 
 have a plain understanding. I know what you have been 
 doing—or I can guess.” 
 
 “You—er—I don’t know what you mean.” 
 
 “Of course you do,” impatiently. “You know exactly 
 what I mean. You have been getting rid of that whisky that 
 father is so excited about. And you were the one who took 
 it out of the grain bin. You had it under your coat when I 
 met you coming from the barn this afternoon. . . . Oh, don’t 
 deny it, please! I’m not quite an imbecile. I knew then that 
 you were hiding something. When you walked I could hear 
 it. And I didn’t need to hear; your face was enough. You 
 looked—but there! we won’t waste time arguing over a cer- 
 tainty. I want to hear your explanation—if you have one.” 
 
 Her tone was coldly sarcastic, and it was a mistake. It 
 helped him to recover from his surprise and chagrin; also 
 it aroused his resentment. After all, why should he answer 
 her questions? And he had done nothing of which to be 
 ashamed. 
 
 “T don’t know that there is any explanation,” he said. “If 
 there is, I—well, why should I make it to you?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 169 
 
 Her eyes flashed. “Why should you make it to me?” 
 she repeated. “Because you owe it to me. I am Captain 
 Bartlett’s daughter.” 
 
 “But you aren’t Cap’n Bartlett. If he asks me I shall 
 tell him—perhaps. Or perhaps not. I’m not sure of even 
 that.” 
 
 She rose and stood facing him. “Indeed!” she exclaimed, 
 scornfully. “I see. You might tell father—perhaps! But 
 you didn’t tell him. You knew how he felt about—about 
 such things. And how nervous and—and broken he is just 
 now. You knew all this, and yet, instead of helping him, 
 you—you help the sneaks that are working against him. Oh, 
 they are! Do you think he doesn’t know it? Do you think 
 I haven’t seen it since I have been here? How some of them 
 hate him—and are jealous of him—and— Oh, it is wicked! 
 Wicked !” 
 
 He was silent. She looked down at him, her fiery indig- 
 nation flaming in her cheeks. 
 
 “And he trusts you. You know that. He has told you 
 so, and he has told me. Yes, and I told you that very thing; 
 how he liked you and believed in you. And I trusted you, 
 too. I was going away from here to-morrow believing that, 
 at least, father and I had one loyal friend whom we could 
 count on. You promised me you would help him all you 
 could. You promised—oh, but you are like the rest! You 
 are worse, because you know more than they do. You are 
 different altogether—or I thought you were. And yet, all 
 the time, while you were pretending to him and to me, you 
 have been— Oh, I’mashamed! Iam ashamed of you. But 
 I’m more ashamed of myself for believing in you... 
 There! We have had our understanding. That is all that 
 is necessary. It is quite sufficient.” 
 
 It might be sufficient for her, but it was not for him. She 
 had turned her back upon him and was on the way to her 
 room, but he sprang after her and caught her arm. 
 
 “Miss Bartlett,” he said. 
 
 She tried to free herself. “Let me be,” she commanded. 
 
 “No, I won’t—not yet.” 
 
170 RUGGED WATER 
 
 She tried again to shake off his grip, but he merely tight- 
 ened it. 
 
 “You hurt me,’ she cried. “Let me be. I shall call 
 father.” 
 
 “All right, call him. I’m perfectly willing he should hear 
 what I’ve got to say. But if I were you I should hear it 
 myself first. After that, if you still want to, you may call 
 him and welcome. Now come back here and sit down, 
 please.” 
 
 She hesitated. She was almost in tears, but, inexperienced 
 with the sex as he was, he did not make the mistake of think- 
 ing them tears of grief. Then she drew herself erect. 
 
 “Very well,” she said icily. “If you will take your hand 
 away I will sit down and listen. I suppose I shall have to. 
 But I shall never speak to you again as long as I live.” 
 
 “All right. At any rate, I'll do the speaking for a while. 
 All you need do is listen. . . . Now then: Miss Bartlett, I 
 suppose you think, because you caught me with that whisky 
 jug this afternoon and to-night, that I brought the stuff down 
 here and am responsible for the drinking and for your 
 father’s trouble with the crew. Well, I’m not.” 
 
 She kept her word, so far as speaking was concerned. He 
 might have been on a different planet if entire indifference 
 to his existence could be offered as evidence. But he went 
 doggedly on. Mentioning no names, he told of his suspi- 
 cions concerning the drinking and the liquor smuggling, of 
 his finding the jug, of the recent internment behind the dune. 
 Also he told why he had acted as he did. 
 
 “T didn’t intend that your father should know anything 
 about it,” he said. “I didn’t tell him for two or three rea- 
 sons. One of them is that I knew what a—well, what preju- 
 dices he had against drinking, and that, if he found it out, 
 he was likely to act and speak as he did this afternoon. That 
 performance of his was about the worst mistake he could 
 have made—with this kind of a crew. About the worst; 
 the very worst would have been to start overhauling their 
 chests and kits as he talked of doing. I was trying to save 
 him—yes, and you—from going on the rocks. Another 
 
RUGGED WATER 171 
 
 thing was the crew themselves. They’re good fellows; there 
 isn’t another bunch alongshore that can match them when 
 it comes to doing the jobs they’re put here for. But they 
 have to be handled carefully. They aren’t drunkards—not 
 a bit of it. So far as I know there isn’t one who really 
 cares a red cent for whisky. But, as you yourself have said 
 a half-dozen times, they are like kids in some ways. Shut 
 off down here they’re looking for fun, mischief, skylarking 
 —whatever you want to call it. You can’t lick ’em—they 
 won't stand it—and the fellow that tries it had better quit 
 before he begins. To get along smoothly you must pretend 
 not to see some things. To get rid of those things you must 
 use reason, not force. Your father ought to know all this, 
 I say—he has been in the service long enough—but it begins 
 to look as if he didn’t know it.” 
 
 He paused momentarily. She was looking at him now, and 
 her expression had changed. He noticed the change, but he 
 went on. 
 
 “Suppose Cap’n Bartlett had found that whisky,” he said, 
 “and who brought it here? The regulations are pretty strict. 
 He might, being as cranky as he is— Oh, I know that is 
 pretty plain, but I’m telling the straight truth now—he might 
 start in to fire that man out of this station and out of the 
 service. What then? Well, in the first place, a good man 
 —yes, a good man and a mighty good life-saver—is lost to 
 Setuckit, and, more than that, his wife and family lose their 
 bread and butter for a while. All that man needs—really 
 needs—is to have somebody, a fellow he knows and believes 
 in, talk a little common sense to him and ask him to play 
 the game. That was what I was going to do, if I had had 
 a chance.” 
 
 She spoke then. 
 
 “Who was the man?” she asked, impulsively. ‘Oh, but 
 of course you won’t tell. You shouldn’t. I beg your par- 
 don.” 
 
 “That’s all right. No, of course I won’t tell. And I 
 guess that is about all there is to say, Miss Bartlett. As for 
 my being a sneak and working against your father, that is 
 
172 RUGGED WATER 
 
 —well, it isn’t so, that’s all. I had an idea I was working 
 for him. I’ve still got it—the idea. But I tell you, honestly, 
 he has made the job a lot harder by his blow-up this after- 
 noon.” 
 
 He nodded and walked towards the stairs; but now it was 
 she who interfered. 
 
 “Mr. Homer,” she cried, “please don’t go—yet. I am so 
 sorry. I beg your pardon—oh, I do! And I am really 
 ashamed of myself now. I might have known—yes, I think 
 I did know even when I pretended not to—that you weren’t 
 the kind of man I said you were. I understand now. And 
 I thank you for making me understand, and for being such 
 a friend to father—and me. Will you—will you shake hands 
 ——and forgive me?” 
 
 He took her hand. The look in her eyes now was not one 
 to be avoided. He certainly had no wish to avoid it. And 
 her fingers were like electric points sending a peculiar and 
 entirely unfamiliar shock throughout his system. He forgot 
 everything else except that look and that handclasp. Yet he 
 should not. have forgotten; as an engaged man he should 
 have remembered another hand and another pair of eyes. 
 He should, there is no doubt of that; but there is just as 
 little doubt that he did not—at that moment. 
 
 It was she who broke the little tableau of reconciliation. 
 She withdrew her fingers from his, and smiled. The smile 
 was a happy one, though there might have been a shade of 
 embarrassment in it. Her eyes, too, were smiling, but there 
 was a mist in them. 
 
 “T shall tell father in the morning,” she said. “Oh, not 
 what you have told me, of course. But I shall try and make 
 him see that he must be ~-sre diplomatic and careful with 
 the men. I shall let him think that the advice is all due to 
 my own brilliant sagacity. Of course it isn’t; it is all yours. 
 ‘And I am ever and ever so much obliged to you, Mr. Homer.” 
 
 “Oh, that is all right. I knew you didn’t understand.” 
 
 “T didn’t, but I do now, and try to forgive me for saying 
 those dreadful things. Good night.” 
 
 They separated. Calvin went up to the sleeping quarters, 
 
RUGGED WATER 173 
 
 cautiously undressed and climbed into bed. For at least an 
 hour the darkness surrounding that cot was decorated with 
 eyes, misty gray eyes, looking at him—looking into his in a 
 way that—that— 
 
 Then other thoughts crept in. The eyes disappeared. Be- 
 fore he did fall asleep, which was a good while afterward, 
 he had made up his mind to write Myra Fuller another long 
 letter at once. She had not replied to his recent one, but 
 that should make no difference. He would write her be- 
 cause he ought to—because he wanted to—at any rate, be- 
 cause he ought to want to. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 ISS BARTLETT left Setuckit for Fairborough 
 M and her work there, the following afternoon. That 
 morning Calvin took Phinney aside and had a 
 straightforward talk with him. He told Josh that it was 
 he who had removed the jug from the grain bin, and got 
 rid of it and its contents. At first Phinney was inclined 
 to be angry and resentful. What did Homer mean by 
 butting in? What business was it of his? 
 
 Calvin, keeping his temper, explained carefully. 
 
 “T did it mainly on your account, Josh,” he said. “You 
 know what a crank the old man is. He might have thrown 
 you out of the service.” 
 
 “Well? Suppose he had? This ain’t such a fancy job, 
 as I know of. Sixty-five a month and find my own grub 
 ain’t liable to make a millionaire out of me. I guess likely 
 I could strike somethin’ ashore that would fetch me in as 
 much as that—and not wait very long for it, neither.” 
 
 “Maybe you could. If you had quit here on your own 
 hook, of course you could. But if the whole Cape knew 
 you were fired because you were drunk and were in the 
 habit of carrying a jug of whisky around with you, that 
 might make it harder. And it wouldn’t be the nicest piece 
 of news for your wife to hear. Not just now it wouldn’t.” 
 
 Phinney thought it over. 
 
 “I guess maybe you’re right, Cal,” he admitted, after a 
 moment. “But, good land! it ain’t such a turrible wicked 
 thing, is it? It has been done as much as once afore, I 
 cal’late. Why, when Oz Myrick was skipper he—” 
 
 “He was pretty easy—yes. He knew you fellows and 
 knew you were straight enough—or meant to be—and that 
 you didn’t drink because you couldn’t get along without it. 
 
 174 
 
RUGGED WATER 175 
 
 But even he would have cut your liberty for three months. 
 And you remember Frank Jameson? Cap’n Oz sent him 
 packing.” 
 
 “Humph! Frankie J. was a reg’lar souse, that’s why.” 
 
 “Yes, and the cap’n knew it. He gave him three or four 
 chances and then discharged him. He knew him. But 
 Cap’n Bartlett doesn’t know you. If he had seen you the 
 other night, as the rest of us did—and it is only by luck 
 that he didn’t—and if he had found that jug with Orrin 
 Hendrick’s name on the express tag tied to the handle— 
 well, wouldn’t he have had a pretty fair excuse for thinking 
 you were as much of a souse as Frank?” 
 
 Josh grinned sheepishly. “Maybe so,” he agreed. “I’m 
 glad he didn’t. I wouldn’t want Sarah and the kids to hear 
 about it. Much obliged, Cal.” 
 
 “That’s all right. It was your wife and the kids I was 
 thinking of.” 
 
 “Um-hum. The whole business was kind of darn foolish 
 for a man as old as I am. I was all nervous and worked 
 up on account of Sarah; and then, when ’twas all over, 
 and she and the baby was doin’ well, I—”’ he stopped and 
 groaned. “Godfreys, Cal,” he confided, “there was a spell 
 there when even the doctor wan’t sure she’d pull through. 
 When he was sure—that next day—I—I went outdoors and 
 run acrost Orrin, and he’d had a couple of gallons sent down 
 for Christmas, and—humph! That’s how it started.’ 
 
 “Of course. I understand. But if I were you—I’m no 
 parson, you know that—” 
 
 “Old Bologny is—or worse.” 
 
 “Never mind him. I’m preaching now. If I were you, 
 Josh, with a good wife and six smart children, I’d keep out 
 of Orrin’s way when I went on liberty.” 
 
 “T know I ought to. Guess likely I will. Orrin’s lots 
 of fun, but he ain’t much account. All right, Cal. I’m 
 glad you done what you did. Shall I tell the boys?” 
 
 “Yes, tell those that know about the whisky. No need 
 to say anything to Sam, or Seleucus—or Wallie. It would 
 only start them talking.” 
 
176 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Well, Wallie— Say, Cal, how did Bologny find out, 
 anyway? You didn’t tell him; you say you didn’t.” 
 
 “No, I didn’t tell him. He just got on to things, I sup- 
 pose. It was plain enough. All he had to do was to watch 
 the way you fellows acted, and get near enough to you. 
 But there’s one more thing, Josh: I want you to help me keep 
 things running smoothly down here. Don’t make any more 
 trouble for the cap’n than you can help.” 
 
 Phinney stared. “Good Godfreys mighty!” he cried. 
 “You ain't playin’ pet to Bartlett, are you?” 
 
 “T’m not playing to anybody. All I’m thinking of is this 
 Setuckit Life-Station. It’s got a reputation. The last thing 
 Cap’n Ozzie asked was for us to keep that reputation where 
 it is. I’m asking you and the rest to help do it.” 
 
 Josh whistled. ‘All right, Cal,” he said again. “But 
 we'll have one sweet job—with the keeper we’ve got.” 
 
 “He hasn’t done so badly.” 
 
 “He hasn’t had any chance to do anything—yet. We've 
 only had one craft to go to since he come, and that didn’t 
 amount to anything. Let’s see how he acts in a February 
 snorter, with a five-mile row and a toss-up between keepin’ 
 afloat and goin’ to the bottom. Let’s see how he handles 
 that.” 
 
 “Probably he’ll handle it all right.” 
 
 “Perhaps—maybe. But Seleucus Gammon don’t think 
 so. Seleucus still sticks to it that he’s got a yellow streak. 
 Well, time’ll tell, I cal’late. Il fix you up with the boys, 
 Cal—about the rum jug, I mean.” 
 
 Norma’s good-bys to the crew were said at the dinner 
 table. They were more in the nature of au revoir than 
 farewells, for she declared she should see them all again 
 before very long. 
 
 “T have had a perfectly lovely time,” she said. “You have 
 all been very nice to me and I shan’t forget it. Thank vou 
 ever and ever so much.” 
 
 With Calvin Homer she was a little more explicit and 
 confidential. 
 
 “IT am going to try and come down again next month,” 
 
RUGGED WATER 177 
 
 she said. “I am still. troubled about father. I hate to 
 leave him. But I feel better since our talk last night, 
 Mr. Homer. I know that he has one loyal friend here. 
 ‘You will do all you can to make it easy for him, won't 
 you?” 
 
 He nodded. “I told you I would do what I could,” he 
 said. | 
 
 “And that is a great deal. No one else could possibly 
 do as much. And you have forgiven me for being so stupid 
 —and hateful—last night? I hope you have, because I 
 haven’t forgiven myself. You will just forget it all, won’t 
 you? Promise.” 
 
 He promised, but even as he did so, he knew he was 
 not speaking the whole truth. Forgetting that midnight 
 meeting in the mess room was not going to be easy. He 
 had arisen that morning with the fixed resolve to put cer- 
 tain memories from his mind, to keep them from his thoughts, 
 but even now, as she stood there before him, his thoughts 
 were playing traitor to that resolution. If only she would 
 not look at him like that. 
 
 She put out her hand. 
 
 “Good-by,” she said. 
 
 “Good-by, Miss Bartlett. I hope you have a good trip.” 
 
 She rode away, a few minutes later, in the buggy for 
 which her father had telephoned the night before. Benoni 
 accompanied her. He was going as far as Orham, to see 
 her safely aboard the train, then Peleg Myrick was to bring 
 him down in the Wild Duck. The crew, those not on duty, 
 waved to her as the buggy moved off. She waved in return. 
 
 “She’s a mighty smart, nice girl,” declared Seleucus. 
 As his wife was not present he was free to express his 
 opinion. “We’re goin’ to miss her, I swan if we ain’t. Too 
 bad she had to go so soon. Eh, Cal?” 
 
 Calvin did not answer. He was inclined to the opinion 
 that, for his peace of mind, it was an extremely good thing 
 that Norma Bartlett had gone. As for missing her—well, 
 that was different. He went in to write the letter to Myra 
 Fuller. It was not a love letter exactly, but 1t was more 
 
178 RUGGED WATER 
 
 intimate and affectionate than it might have been if his 
 conscience had not troubled him so acutely. He could not 
 help feeling guilty. He had promised the Bartlett girl to 
 help her father. Myra expected him to do just the op- 
 posite. This last he could not and would not do; he had 
 told Myra so, and there was some comfort in that thought. 
 But, also, there was foreboding concerning the future. Why 
 had he been so foolish as to yield to Kellogg’s pleading and 
 remain at Setuckit ? 
 
 Captain Bartlett returned that evening from his trip to 
 Orham and was, for the next day or two, more than usually 
 silent and noncommunicative. He spent his spare time in 
 his room—that so recently occupied by his daughter—and 
 Homer, visiting that room to report or ask for orders, 
 found him either reading in his new Bible or sitting by the 
 window gazing out at nothing in particular. He was as 
 watchfully strict as ever in matters of daily drill and routine, 
 but he never again alluded to the smuggled whisky. His 
 threat to search the men’s belongings had either been for- 
 gotten, or, as Calvin was inclined to think, its fulfillment 
 had been abandoned because of Norma’s reasoning and 
 persuasion. Josh Phinney had, apparently, kept his promise 
 to help in soothing the ruffled feelings of his comrades, for 
 rebellious murmurings ceased and good nature was the rule. 
 Only Wallie Oaks appeared peevish and discontented. Wal- 
 lie’s popularity, never at summer heat, was now below 
 zero, 
 
 Then came the long-expected break in the stretch of good 
 weather. The Government signals, day after day, were set 
 for high winds and cold. Peleg Myrick’s elbows and knees 
 were filled with disquieting pangs and his prophecies were 
 gloomy and disturbing. On the first Thursday of the new 
 year the Setuckit crew was called out at four o’clock in the 
 morning to the aid of a coasting schooner in trouble near 
 the Sand Hill. The sea was high and the wind steadily in- 
 creasing, but there was no danger—as danger was reckoned 
 at Setuckit. 
 
 And yet the skipper was nervous—very nervous. For 
 
RUGGED WATER 179 
 
 some minutes after the call came he was in the tower, watch- 
 ing the schooner through the glass, and when Homer ven- 
 tured to hint that they were losing time he made no answer. 
 At last, however, he gave orders for the launching, and they 
 started. 
 
 The job was an easy one. The vessel—a three-masted 
 coaster, on her way down from Nova Scotia with a cargo of 
 lumber and shingles—was badly iced and some of her crew 
 were sick. She was short handed and her skipper, worn out 
 and half sick himself, had lost courage and set distress sig- 
 nals. They boarded her, cleared away the ice as best they 
 could, made hot coffee for all hands and brought her out 
 of the dangerous rips into the comparatively safe waters of 
 the ship channel. There, a revenue cutter happening along, 
 they turned her over to the cutter’s protection and pulled 
 back home. “A reg’lar pudd’n,” so Seleucus characterized 
 the whole proceeding. ‘But look at the old man,” he added, 
 in an undertone. “Blessed if he don’t look as if he’d been 
 through somethin’ tough. Solemn as an aowl in a meetin’- 
 house steeple, ain’t he? Well, if this gale keeps on to blow 
 he may have somethin’ to be solemn about. Ah, hum-a-day! 
 this world’s a sea of trouble and them that’s got wives ashore 
 better larn how to swim. Eh, Wallie?” 
 
 Oaks, this time, was provided with a ready retort. “All 
 right,’ he observed. “You can start your swimmin’ right 
 now. Here comes Jemimy, lookin’ for you. Take long 
 strokes, Seleucus.” 
 
 The signals, flying at the top of the pole, spelled “Easterly 
 winds increasing to gale velocity.” By noon the gale had 
 arrived. The sea was pounding and thundering along the 
 outer beach and all to the southeast was a tumbling smother 
 of green and white against an iron-gray sky. Far out, 
 against the horizon, were scattered white dots, vessels making 
 an offing, edging away from the shoals. 
 
 Homer, on his way to the tower to relieve Badger, met 
 the latter coming down. 
 
 “What are you quitting for, Ellis?’ he asked. “I’m ahead 
 of time.” 
 
180 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Sure you are,’ was the reply. “But the old man told me 
 I needn’t stay if I didn’t want to. And I knew you’d be 
 right along. He’s up there, with his starboard eye glued 
 to that spyglass. And he’s all of a twitter, seems so. Un- 
 easy as a tomcat out in a rainstorm. What’s the matter 
 with him?” 
 
 “Oh, nothing in particular, I guess. He has been down 
 in the dumps ever since his daughter left. We'll all have to 
 make allowances till he gets his bearings. That Crooked Hill 
 business knocked him on his beam ends and he feels the 
 care of this job more than he would if it hadn’t. Even an 
 easy thing like that schooner this morning is a good deal of 
 a strain for him. He’ll be all right; give him time.” 
 
 “Humph! Maybe so. But he’s liable to be strained again 
 before long. There’s a little two-master off back of the 
 Sand Hill that’s makin’ heavy weather of it. I pointed her 
 out to him and he ain’t taken his eye off her since. Keeps 
 talkin’ to himself, he does. Gospel talk, too—most of it. 
 Sounds as if he was runnin’ a missionary meetin’ all on his 
 own hook. I begun to be afraid he’d be askin’ me to sign 
 a subscription paper for the heathen next. Say, Cal, do 
 you cal’late he’s crazy?” 
 
 “Crazy! Do you think Cap’n Kellogg would give that 
 job to a crazy man?” 
 
 “Huh! I tell you what I do think. I think Kellogg was 
 crazy when he give it to him. But there! I’m goin’ below 
 to rest up a little mite. It'll be our luck to have to go off 
 to that two-master afore the day’s over. We've had a soft 
 time so far this winter. Now the trouble will come in 
 bunches, same as bananas—see if it don’t.” 
 
 Homer found the skipper at the telescope. He spoke to 
 him, but Bartlett did not answer. Calvin paced back and 
 forth by the windows overlooking the bay and the group of 
 fish shanties on the beach below. There was activity there, 
 centering in the vicinity of the shanty occupied by Philander 
 Jarvis and his sister. Philander and another Orham fisher- 
 man named Alvin Crocker had recently purchased a fish weir 
 which had belonged to one Laban Poundberry of Harniss. 
 
RUGGED WATER 181 
 
 Poundberry was dead and the weir was a part of his estate. 
 It had been—like all the fish traps along Setuckit beach— 
 taken up when the winter set in, and the poles and nets were 
 stored in another building a mile or so up the shore. Jarvis 
 and Crocker intended resetting it in the spring, before the 
 mackerel began running. They were to work it in partner- 
 ship. 
 
 The weir—its nets and ropes and floats—neéded overhaul- 
 ing and mending and Crocker had come down from Orham 
 that morning, bringing with him four men, longshoremen 
 like himself, who, being out of work, were glad of the oppor- 
 tunity to earn a few dollars by helping with the mending. 
 They—Crocker and the men—were planning to sleep and 
 eat aboard the craft in which they came, an antique but 
 seaworthy affair, once part of the outfit of a New Bedford 
 whaler, but now decked over forward and fitted with a mast 
 and sail. She was anchored in the cove alongside the Jarvis 
 catboat. 
 
 The men, a quartette of tanned and square-shouldered 
 huskies, were ashore.~ They had had dinner and were 
 grouped about the door of the Jarvis shanty, smoking, chat~ 
 ting and apparently awaiting orders. Alvin and Philander, 
 their employers, were, so Homer guessed, inside, probably 
 discussing ways and means. Jarvis, although a hard worker, 
 never did things in a hurry and his partner had the repu- 
 tation of being “mighty moderate.” Calvin, glancing at the 
 clock on the wall of the tower room, was inclined to think 
 that little, if any, net mending would be accomplished that 
 day. The consultation would probably last an hour or two 
 longer and end in the decision to begin operations bright 
 and early the next morning. 
 
 He stood by the window, looking down at -the group by 
 the Jarvis shanty. It was now augmented by three members 
 of the Setuckit crew, Gammon among them. ‘Chere were 
 shouts of laughter and Calvin surmised that, as usual,, 
 Seleucus was furnishing the cause. The gale was fierce and 
 the cold penetrating. Ordinary weak mortals would have 
 found it pleasanter inside by the stove, but these fellows 
 
182 RUGGED WATER 
 
 were weatherproof. And, besides, Philander’s domicile was 
 not planned for the housing of a convention. 
 
 “Lord A’mighty !” 
 
 It was Bartlett who uttered the exclamation. Homer 
 turned hastily from the window. The skipper was still peer- 
 ing through the telescope. His right hand steadied the 
 glass, but his left was outstretched and shaking. 
 
 “What’s the matter?” demanded Calvin. “What is it, 
 Cap'n?” 
 
 Bartlett turned. His face, beneath its tan, was pale. 
 
 “‘She—she’s struck,” he gasped. “She’s aground. Look!” 
 
 Calvin, stepping forward, bent and gazed through the tele- 
 scope. Its rim framed a dismal circle of tumbling water, 
 gray and white. In the center of that circle was the little 
 schooner, reefed fore and mainsails set, the remnant of a 
 jib whipping, the whole seen through fringes of flying spray. 
 The masts leaned at an angle, but they did not move. Ellis 
 Badger was a true prophet. The schooner had not been able 
 to fight clear of Sand Hill Shoal. She was hard and fast 
 aground upon it. Here was another job for the Setuckit 
 crew, the second that day—and the day but half over. 
 
 Homer straightened and turned to his commander. 
 
 “Shall I order ’em out?” he asked. “All ready, are you, 
 Cap’n?” 
 
 Bartlett did not speak. He was again peering through the 
 glass. Calvin tried again. 
 
 “Shall I get out the boat?” he asked, moving toward the 
 door. His hand was on the knob when the skipper shouted 
 at him. 
 
 “Where are you goin’? he demanded. 
 
 “Why—why, I thought—don’t you want to order out the 
 crew?” : 
 
 “No. Not yet. Wait.” 
 
 Homer waited. What there might be to wait for was 
 _beyond his understanding. The Sand Hill, on a day like 
 this, was not likely to wait for them; it was already busy 
 with that schooner. 
 
 But he had been ordered to wait and it was his business 
 
RUGGED WATER 183 
 
 to obey orders. Bartlett still stared through the glass. Steps 
 sounded on the stairs and Hezekiah Rogers opened the 
 door. 
 
 “Oh, Cal,” said Hez. “I want to speak to you just a 
 minute. Nothin’ special, only I wanted to ask if you knew 
 whether that box of salt in the kitchen is all we’ve got. It’s 
 runnin’ low and, bein’s I’m cook, I—” 
 
 “Sshh!” ordered Bartlett savagely. He was still at the 
 telescope. Homer motioned to Rogers and stepped out on 
 the landing. 
 
 “Never mind the salt now, Hez,” he whispered. “Tell 
 the boys to get ready. That two-master is on the Sand Hill 
 and we'll be starting for her in a minute.” 
 
 Rogers nodded and hurried down. Calvin reéntered the 
 tower room. Bartlett was waiting for him. 
 
 “What did you tell him?” he asked sharply. 
 
 “Why, nothing except that the men had better get ready. 
 I thought—” 
 
 “You thought! You don’t have to think, do you? [’m 
 cap’n of this crew, ain’t I?” 
 
 “Of course you are. But—” 
 
 “Never mind then. When I get ready to give my orders 
 I give ’em. You understand that?” 
 
 Calvin did not reply. He was furiously angry, and to 
 speak would have been a risky proceeding. He swung on 
 his heel. 
 
 “Where are you goin’? demanded Bartlett. 
 
 “Nowhere in particular. Outside, that’s all.” 
 
 “You’re on duty here, ain’t you?” 
 
 Ves”? 
 
 “Stay here, then.” 
 
 Calvin hesitated. Then he walked back to the window. 
 Below, on the beach, he saw Rogers hurrying from the back 
 door toward the group by the Jarvis shanty. He joined that 
 group. There was an instant of eager talk and then Hez, 
 Seleucus and the other two members of the crew—they were 
 Bloomer and Bearse—started on the run for the station. He 
 felt a hand on his arm. Looking over his shoulder he saw 
 
184 RUGGED WATER 
 
 the skipper’s face close to his own. It was still pale, but 
 it wore a feeble, half-apologetic smile. 
 
 “Don’t mind the way I talked to you, Calvin,” stammered 
 Benoni. “I—I’m nervous and—dreadful worried. I ain’t 
 mad at you, or—or anything like that. I just don’t know 
 what to do about this thing. I don’t know what it’s my 
 duty to do.” 
 
 Homer thought he understood. On other occasions—one 
 that very morning—he had seen his commander hesitate 
 when called to the rescue of a stranded vessel. He had seen 
 him hesitate and linger when waiting seemed quite inexcus- 
 able. But, when the moments of hesitation were over, he 
 had carried the rescue work through with adequacy and dis- 
 patch. No doubt he would do the same now. The man 
 was not strong; his nerves were in a wretched state. Yes, 
 as he had told Badger, allowances must be made, irritating 
 though the making of them might be. 
 
 “That’s all right, Cap’n,” he said. “Don’t worry. We'll 
 be in time. She looks to me as if she was lying fairly easy. 
 We'll get there before she breaks up. I'll order out the 
 boat.” 
 
 Again he started to go and again he was stopped. The 
 keeper once more caught him by the arm. 
 
 “Wait,” he commanded. “Wait. I—I’ve got to think 
 this out. I’ve got to.” 
 
 He stooped again to the telescope. Calvin, his own anxi- 
 ety increasing, looked out of the window. The four long- 
 shoremen—the Jarvis and Crocker quartette—had hastened 
 to the top of the dune behind the shanty and were standing 
 there gazing off to sea. Philander and Alvin came out and 
 joined the watchers. Mrs. Gammon, an apron over her 
 head, stood in the doorway looking after them. 
 
 Bartlett left the glass and began pacing up and down the 
 floor. He was muttering disjointed phrases and sentences. 
 They sounded like Scriptural quotations or prayers. Sud- 
 denly he stopped. 
 
 “What would you do, boy?” he demanded, his voice quav- 
 ering. “What do you think ought to be done? Speak out. 
 
 a” 
 
RUGGED WATER 185 
 
 Say somethin’, why don’t you? Do you think it’s right for 
 us to go off to that schooner ?” 
 
 “Right? Safe, do you mean?” 
 
 “Yes. Have I got a right to risk lives, the lives of them 
 that’s dependent on me—risk ’em again, right off like this?” 
 
 Homer was thoroughly alarmed now. There was a risk, 
 of course—there was always risk in their work—but no un- 
 usual risk. 
 
 “Cap’n Bartlett,’ he began. “I don’t see—I don’t think 
 you need to worry. We'll make it, easy. And there is time 
 enough if we start now. The longer we wait—” 
 
 Bartlett interrupted. “I didn’t ask you that,” he shouted. 
 “T’m cap’n here, ain’t I? I didn’t ask you whether we'd 
 wait or not. I asked you if—if— Why don’t you answer 
 me?” 
 
 “Vm trying to answer you. You asked if it was safe. 
 I say it is.” 
 
 “You say sof What do you know about it? You ain’t 
 seen the wrath of God A’mighty movin’ over the face of the 
 waters the way I have. You ain’t seen the fellers you’ve 
 lived with and been with for years drownin’ alongside you. 
 You ain’t—oh, you ain’t seen anything! You say go—of 
 course you do. But what does it mean to you? Nothin’, 
 except your own chance, and you can take that, same as I’d 
 take mine. But what about the lives of them I’m responsible 
 for? What about them that’s put in my charge? Eh? 
 Eh?” 
 
 Homer thought he understood at last. It was not per- 
 sonal cowardice, it was the overwhelming sense of responsi- 
 bility for the safety of his crew which was breaking Benoni 
 Bartlett’s nerve. Gently but firmly he shook off the clutch 
 on his sleeve. 
 
 “There, there, Cap’n,” he said. “It’s all right. You're 
 tired and worn out. This morning’s job was too much for 
 you. You go and turn in. Leave it to me. I'll attend to 
 everything. We'll get to that schooner and handle her all 
 right. You turn in and leave it to me. I'll tell the boys 
 you are sick.” 
 
186 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Eh? What’s that? Who said I was sick?” 
 
 “Why—well, you are next door to it. You aren’t long 
 out of the doctor’s hands and you had a hard strain this 
 morning. I—” 
 
 “Quiet—you! I ain’t sick. And I won’t have any lies 
 told on my account. I ain’t responsible to you nor this crew 
 for what I do. I’m responsible to God A’mighty. He’s the 
 one. When he tells me what’s my duty I'll do it. You can 
 go now. I want to be alone.” 
 
 “But, Cap’n, we’ve go: to go. What shall I tell the 
 crew ?” 
 
 “Eh. .. ? Well, you tell ’em to get ready to turn out. 
 Then you and they can wait for orders. That’s all. ... 
 That’s all. Go below and tell ’em.” 
 
 Calvin went. The telling was not likely to be an easy 
 task. The truth—the bare truth without attempt at ex- 
 planation—would never do. The men would not understand 
 and would think—almost anything. 
 
 They were in the mess room when he reached there, oil- 
 skinned, sou’westered, booted—ready for work, They 
 greeted him with a yell. 
 
 “Well, here you be at last,” cried Phinney. “Thought 
 you and Bologny had gone to sleep aloft there. What are 
 we waitin’ for?” 
 
 “The old man converted you, has he?’ queried Badger. 
 “He was holdin’ special service when I left. What did you 
 —stop to sing the last hymn?” 
 
 Seleucus chimed in. “Wallie here is just chompin’ the 
 bit,” he declared. “I had to hold him to keep him from 
 swimmin’ off to that schooner all on his own hook. He’s 
 one of them dare-devils, Wallie is. Shall we _ start, 
 Cal?” 
 
 Homer shook his head. “Not yet, boys,” he said. “Cap’n 
 Bartlett isn’t—well, he’ll be down in a minute. He told me 
 to tell you to be ready when he came.” 
 
 There was a roar of laughter. “Be ready!” repeated 
 Phinney. ‘‘We’ve been ready for much as ten minutes. All 
 hands are here but Ed and Sam and they’re out harnessin’. 
 
RUGGED WATER 187 
 
 Ready—huh! If Bologny’d left it to us we’d have had the 
 boat through the surf by now.” 
 
 “The orders are to wait,” said Calvin. 
 
 “But, Cal—” 
 
 “Oh, take it easy, Josh! We needn’t worry if the skipper 
 doesn’t.” 
 
 Five minutes passed; then five more. Philander Jarvis 
 opened the outer door and looked in. 
 
 “What are you fellers hangin’ around that stove for?” he 
 demanded. “All dead, are you? That craft ’ll go to pieces 
 if you don’t get to her some time this week.” 
 
 The Setuckit crew were sufficiently critical themselves but 
 they did not brook criticism from outsiders. 
 
 “Go pick the herrin’ scales out of your hair, Phil,” or- 
 dered Seleucus. “This ain’t your funeral.” 
 
 Jarvis grunted. “There’ll be a few funerals if you fel- 
 lers don’t get on to your job,” he announced. “And if you 
 don’t want that job I cal’late I can find somebody that does. 
 That schooner would pay for her salvage, maybe.” 
 
 A lump of coal missed his head by an inch or two and he 
 dodged out of the door. 
 
 ‘For crimus sakes where is Bologny?” fidgeted Gammon. 
 “Oz Myrick—yes, or any other live man—would have been 
 halfway off there by this time.” 
 
 Another five minutes elapsed before the skipper made his 
 appearance. And when he did they were amazed to see him 
 in ordinary clothes instead of his rough-weather rig. He 
 was paler than ever, or so it seemed to Calvin, and his glance 
 wavered a little as it surveyed the crew. Yet the hand which 
 he raised for silence was steady enough. His tone was con- 
 ciliatory ; Homer thought it almost pleading. 
 
 “Men,” he said, “there’s a schooner ashore on the Sand 
 Hill. She seems to lay easy and I think there’s no present 
 danger. We may most likely have to go off to her, but 
 we'll wait and rest a spell first. There’s a rugged sea runnin’ 
 and it’s blowin’ a gale. ’*Twould be a hard pull for you, 
 after the one you had this mornin’. I’ll go aloft now and 
 
188 RUGGED WATER 
 
 keep an eye on her through the glass. Stand by till you hear 
 from me.” 
 
 He turned and they heard him climbing the stairs. The 
 crew stared at each other in silence for a moment. But 
 only for a moment; then the silence was broken. Every one 
 had something to say and said it. They crowded about 
 Homer, demanding to know what it meant, what they were 
 waiting for. 
 
 “It’s blowin’ harder every minute,’ protested Phinney. 
 “She'll break up afore we get to her. What’s the matter 
 with him, Cal? Don’t he know that?” 
 
 ‘Rest!’ snorted Bloomer, who had come in from the 
 stable. “Does he think them seas off yonder are restin’? 
 Is he loony? What did he say to you, Cal?” 
 
 Seleucus was at his eblow. “Yellow, that’s what’s the 
 matter, Cal,” he whispered. “It’s the yellow streak showin’. 
 He’s scared, that’s what ails him.” 
 
 Homer tried to quiet the tumult. He was as perturbed 
 and as disgusted as the rest, but, as Number One man, he 
 felt that he must not show his feelings. He had. promised 
 Kellogg to use his influence for order and obedience. And 
 he had promised Norma. Yes, it was up to him. 
 
 “Here, hold on, boys!” he urged. “Don’t go up in the 
 air. The old man must know what he’s doing. And it’s his 
 business, not ours.” 
 
 There was another babel. 
 
 “His business !’’—‘‘To set around here and rest while that 
 schooner’s goin’ to pieces?’—‘“What do you think Oz 
 Myrick would say to that ?’—‘Cal, what’s the matter with 
 you, anyway ?”—“Godfreys! it’s catchin’ and Cal’s got it 
 now — 
 
 These were some of the angry protests. 
 
 “Come on, boys!” yelled Phinney. ‘This place makes me 
 sick. Come on outside. To hell with Bologny! Come 
 on!” 
 
 Calvin blocked the doorway. “Hush!” he shouted. 
 “Josh, you fool, use your common sense, if you’ve got any. 
 What do you want to do; get this whole crew fired? You’ve 
 
RUGGED WATER 189 
 
 had your orders. I don’t like.’em any better than you do, 
 but they are orders. Shut up! Stay where you are, I tell 
 you!” 
 
 They stayed, but only because he was at the door and they 
 could not pass without a fight. He went on talking. 
 
 “The skipper’s made his plans, I suppose,” he said. “He 
 never starts until he thinks it is the right time. He has 
 never backed out yet, has he? He says wait. Well, then, 
 wait. Do you want to be hauled up before the superintendent 
 —every one of you?” 
 
 This had some effect; they ceased attempting to push by 
 him, but they were still rebellious. 
 
 “Scared,” repeated Gammon, aloud this time. “He’s scart 
 blue. Couldn’t you see it in his eye? He—” 
 
 “Shut up, Seleucus! Because a skipper is careful of his 
 men it doesn’t follow that he’s scared. He orders you to 
 wait. Well, I say it, too. Do any of you think I’m scared? 
 If anybody does let him step out and say it. ... Come, 
 Seleucus,” with a laugh. ‘“You’re doing most of that kind 
 of talking; tell me that I’m frightened and see what hap- 
 pens. Come on!” 
 
 It was a grand-stand play, and was so intended, but it 
 had an effect. It distracted attention from the main issue 
 and focused it upon Mr. Gammon. The uproar changed 
 to gleeful shouts. 
 
 “Go on, Seleucus!”—‘‘That’s the boy!’—“Put up your 
 fists; square off !’—“Battlin’ Seleucus, the holy terror’— 
 “Look out for the solar plexus punch, Cal.” 
 
 Seleucus grinned. “I’m a little mite off trainin’,” he an- 
 swered. “Besides, Cal and me ain’t in the same class. You 
 wouldn’t fight a man that wan’t your weight, would you, 
 Gala, 
 
 Calvin was smiling, too, but there was a certain grimness 
 in his smile. 
 
 “Anybody else, then?” he inquired, his glance moving 
 from face to face. “How about you, Wallie? You're talk- 
 ing to yourself back there. Say it out loud.” 
 
 Oaks immediately became the center of interest. An un- 
 
190 RUGGED WATER 
 
 willing and much surprised center, but an overwhelmingly 
 popular one. Homer seized the opportunity. 
 
 “Go outdoors, if you want to,’ he suggested, “but hang 
 around and be ready. We'll start any minute now, you can 
 bet on that.” 
 
 It was Oaks who led the way out and he was pursued by 
 a hectoring crowd. The telephone bell rang. Calvin an- 
 swered the call. He came away from the instrument more 
 troubled than ever. It was the Orham Station which had 
 called. They were watching the stranded schooner and 
 wanted to know why Setuckit had not started to her rescue. 
 Homer assured them that Setuckit was about to start... 
 but was it? 
 
 He moved. toward the stairs. He was strongly tempted 
 to make another trial at urging prompt action by his skipper. 
 What caused him to hesitate was the habit of obedience 
 which service under Myrick and Kellogg had made part 
 of his nature. Discipline in a life-saving station might be 
 lax enough in minor matters, but, at the final test, the orders 
 of the keeper were not to be questioned nor disputed. Noth- 
 ing excused disregard of those orders. 
 
 So he hesitated. And, as he stood there, suddenly, out- 
 side the station, arose a tumult of shouts and excited pro- 
 fanity. He ran tothe window. The crew had been standing 
 near the door; now he was just in time to see the last man 
 running in the direction of the Jarvis shanty. He threw 
 open the door and hurried out. 
 
 In the cove the Crocker whaleboat, under the merest rag 
 of sail, was moving out into the bay. It was filled with mer: 
 Crocker himself was at the tiller, and with him were Jarvis 
 and the four longshoremen from Orham. The boat was 
 headed, not down the beach toward the weir shanty, but in 
 the other direction, toward the point and the open sea. 
 
 For a moment Calvin did not understand. Where on 
 earth were they bound—those men in that whaleboat—in 
 such a gale and through such a sea? And then the meaning 
 of it flashed to his mind. He ran headlong down to the 
 beach where his comrades were standing. He seized the 
 
 , 
 | 
 . 
 # 
 
RUGGED WATER 191 
 
 nearest—Bearse, as it happened—by the shoulder and swung 
 him violently round. 
 
 “Are they going off to that schooner?” he demanded 
 savagely. 
 
 Sam Bearse was, ordinarily, a quiet, sober man. Now his 
 answer was decorated with a savage fringe of oaths. Yes, 
 that was just where the whaleboat was going. Crocker and 
 Philander had learned of the orders to “wait” and had stolen 
 a march on them. If they salvaged that schooner they could 
 claim payment from the underwriters. It was a risk, but 
 those fellows were a tough crowd and would risk anything 
 for money. 
 
 “And we,” bellowed Bearse, “we stand here and see ’em 
 go. For God sakes, Cal, what do you think the whole Cape’ll 
 say about us when it hears the yarn? We loafin’ here and 
 —and that blanked dashed yellow dog up there in that 
 tower—” 
 
 Calvin heard no more. He was racing up the slope to 
 the station. Up the stairs he bounded and into the tower 
 room. Bartlett was on his knees, his hands clasped and his 
 head bent. He did not look up when his subordinate entered ; 
 apparently he did not hear him. 
 
 Homer seized his shoulder and shook him. The skipper’s 
 eyes opened and he turned dazedly. 
 
 “What—what is it?” he faltered. “What’s the matter?” 
 
 Calvin told him and wasted no words in the telling. Bart- 
 lett rose to his feet. 
 
 “Eh? J—I—say that again,” he ordered. 
 
 Calvin said it again. Benoni did not wait for him to 
 finish. He sprang to the window, stared after the rapidly 
 moving whaleboat, and then whirled back. 
 
 “Turn out all hands!” he roared. ‘What are you standin’ 
 here for? Turn ’em out! Lively!” 
 
 That was enough. Homer leaped to the stairs. 
 
 The boat, on its car, was out of the house before the 
 skipper dashed from the door of the station. He was bare- 
 headed, his oilskin coat unbuttoned. He shouted orders as 
 he came. 
 
192 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Lively!” he bellowed. “Get her goin’!” 
 
 The oars fell into place with a clatter. Homer and Seleu- 
 cus jumped to their seats in the bow. 
 
 “Off with her!” roared the skipper. 
 
 He was, of course, the last aboard, and, so reckless was his 
 frenzied disregard of personal safety that Bearse had to 
 literally drag him over the stern out of the boiling surf. The 
 bottom of the boat was awash as they swung up to the crest 
 of the first breaker. 
 
 “Row!” ordered Bartlett. “Row! Lay to it, you loafers! 
 Haul, why don’t you?” 
 
 It was a row—that one. Not that the seas were higher 
 than many they had found, or even as high, nor the gale as 
 strong, nor the cold as punishing. But with every stroke the 
 skipper bullied them, roared at them, drove them on. Seleu- 
 cus, swinging his great shoulders back and forth, managed 
 to turn his head and gasp a word to his nearest neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 “Plumb crazy, Cal,’ he panted. ‘Plumb crazy—if you 
 ask me.” 
 
 Crazy or not—and Homer was inclined to share Gammon’s 
 opinion—the torrent of abuse and bullying was achieving 
 results. They were gaining on the whaleboat. Crocker and 
 his companions had given up trying to make headway with 
 the fragment of sail they could carry, and were also rowing. 
 And they were not novices at the work. The Setuckit boat 
 gained steadily, but it gained slowly. They were perhaps 
 fifty yards apart as they came down the stretch, the Sand 
 Hill Shoal and the stranded schooner a quarter of a mile 
 away. 
 
 But the whaleboat made it first. She was drawing under 
 the little vessel’s lee, as the lifeboat came leaping up. The 
 schooner’s men—there were but four of them—were in the 
 rigging. Crocker and Jarvis were preparing to make fast 
 to the rail. 
 
 “Lay to it!” screamed Bartlett. “Haul, you weak-livered 
 swabs! Haul!” 
 
 The lifeboat swung on, its bow headed straight for the 
 
RUGGED WATER 193 
 
 } 
 little space between the schooner and the whaleboat. A col- 
 lision was certain, and it meant the staving and perhaps 
 sinking of the Crocker craft. The life-savers gazed at their 
 skipper; their stroke involuntarily slackened. Bartlett no- 
 ticed it. 
 
 “Pull!” he roared. “What are you hangin’ back for? 
 Pull!” 
 
 The rival crew was growing anxious. Jarvis had not yet 
 made fast to the schooner and unless he did— 
 
 Crocker shouted. 
 
 “Look out!” he warned. “Keep off!” 
 
 Benoni Bartlett, erect in the liftboat’s stern, did not move 
 his steering oar one inch. 
 
 “Out of my way!” he cried. “Damn your black souls! 
 Get out—or [ll ram straight through you!” 
 
 And the whaleboat did get out of the way. The men 
 aboard her were anything but cowardly, but they had no 
 time to think or prepare for resistance. Their boat swung 
 off just in time and that of the Setuckit crew shot into the 
 space it had occupied. Seleucus and Homer seized the 
 schooner’s rail. Bartlett, abandoning the steering oar, tum- 
 bled on board. Phinney would have followed, but Calvin 
 got ahead of him. 
 
 “Hold her, boys!” he shouted. “I’m going.” 
 
 The skipper had attempted to scramble up the sloping deck, 
 but a sea, breaking over the forequarter, threw him head- 
 long back. Homer caught him as he reeled to the rail, and 
 held him tight. 
 
 “Let go of me,” gasped Bartlett. “Let go of me, or I'll 
 kill you.” 
 
 But Calvin did not let go. It was perfectly obvious that 
 nothing could save the schooner. The vessel’s crew were 
 climbing down the rigging. Two of them were already in 
 the lifeboat. 
 
 “Steady, Cap’n, steady,” he pleaded. “We can’t do any- 
 thing here. She’ll go any minute. The men are in the boat 
 now. Come on.” 
 
 Bartlett fought like a wild man. He ordered, begged, 
 
194 RUGGED WATER 
 
 even—to Calvin’s amazement—swore. Then, all at once, he 
 seemed to wilt—to collapse completely. 
 
 “What do you want?” he panted, feebly. ‘“I—I—what 
 shall we do?” 
 
 “We can’t do anything. We've got the men. Get back 
 into the boat.” 
 
 He pushed his commander to the rail. Bearse and Oaks 
 reached up to help. The skipper, passive enough now, was 
 assisted aboard. Homer followed. 
 
 “Shove her clear, boys,’ he ordered. Bartlett had not 
 spoken; he seemed to be in a trance. The lifeboat swung 
 clear of the wreck. Calvin, at his place in the bow, looked 
 anxiously aft. The skipper had taken up the steering oar, 
 but he was not using it. 
 
 “Are you all right, Cap’n Bartlett?” shouted Homer. “T’ll 
 take her in if you say so?” 
 
 Bartlett’s shoulders straightened. “Give way,” he ordered. 
 The oars dipped, and the pull home began. They had pro- 
 gressed not more than an eighth of a mile when the main- 
 mast of the little vessel they had just left went over the side. 
 Above the bellow of the breakers the crack and crash were 
 audible. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 P AHEY passed the whaleboat on the way in. The 
 
 Crocker and Jarvis crew were taking it easy now 
 
 and they made no attempt to race with their success- 
 ful rivals. The dangerous “rips” were navigated safely and 
 the landing in the cove made without trouble. The lifeboat 
 was beached and the schooner’s men helped ashore. Homer, 
 busy with the rest, had paid no heed to Bartlett. When he 
 did turn to the latter, to ask for further orders, he found 
 him gone. 
 
 “He’s up to the station long ago,” volunteered Seleucus. 
 “Started just as soon as we made the beach. Didn’t get hurt 
 out yonder, did he? He looked pretty sick to me.” 
 
 Calvin superintended the transfer of the practically help- 
 less sailors from the shore to the station. Then he hurried 
 back to attend to the housing of the boat. The whaleboat 
 had arrived by this time and its recent occupants were ex- 
 changing repartee with the life-savers. 
 
 “Little mite late on gettin’ started, wan’t you, Josh?” 
 queried Crocker with a grin. “What was the matter; some- 
 body’s feet chilly, or somethin’ like that?” 
 
 Phinney’s retort was prompt, even if the reference to the 
 late start was ignored. 
 
 “You ought to learn how to row, Alvin,” he declared. 
 “We walked up on you as if you was restin’. Kind of tired, 
 it looked like to me. You’re a healthy lot of salvagers, you 
 are. You remind me of Hard Luck, our dog up to the sta- 
 tion. You’d think he was goin’ to eat a cat alive, judgin’ by 
 the way he starts after it. But when the cat turns ’round he 
 slacks up and changes his mind. You fellows started fine, 
 but when the pinch come you changed your mind. Ho, ho!” 
 
 Philander Jarvis put in a word. “Well, we started, any- 
 how,” he observed. ‘We didn’t set around the stove waitin’ 
 for somebody else to show us the way.” 
 
 195 
 
 , 
 
196 RUGGED WATER 
 
 , 
 
 “They was warmin’ those cold feet of theirs,” explained 
 Crocker. ‘“That’s why they stuck so close to the stove. The 
 cold-foot life-savers! Haw, haw!” 
 
 “Cal’late Bartlett’s warmin’ his feet now,” added one of 
 the longshoremen. “I don’t see him around here anywheres.” 
 
 Sam Bearse smiled serenely. “Looked to me as if you 
 saw him out there,” he drawled. “You got out of his way 
 about as spry as any crowd ever I saw. You're lovely 
 bluffers. You talk—talk—talk, but you don’t prove 
 much.” 
 
 Jarvis was on his way to the shanty, but he paused to 
 shout a final word. 
 
 “We don’t have to prove nothin’,” he taunted. “You fel- 
 lers will have to do the provin’. Wait till they hear this 
 yarn up to the village. There'll be talk enough then.” 
 
 Homer’s first question—when the lifeboat was back in the 
 boat room and the shipwrecked men warmed, fed, and 
 stretched on the cots in the spare room—was concerning the 
 whereabouts of his superior. Hezekiah Rogers, who, as cook, 
 had remained ashore while his comrades went off to the 
 schooner, answered the question. 
 
 “He’s in his room yonder,” said Hez. “Come straight in, 
 the minute you fellers landed, and marched by me without 
 sayin’ a word. I asked him if he didn’t want a cup of coffee, 
 but he never peeped. He was talkin’ to himself, seemed so, 
 and, if you could judge by his face, he didn’t like to hear 
 what he said. Is he sick, Cal? They tell me he was a 
 reg’ lar bucko mate on the way off to the shoal. Swore a 
 blue streak! Godfreys!” with a chuckle, “I didn’t think he 
 knew how. Must be more of a man than we give him 
 credit for.” 
 
 Calvin knocked at the door of the keeper’s room. There 
 was no answer to his first knock, nor the one which followed. 
 He bent to the crack of the door and listened. He heard 
 the steady murmur of a voice within. Bartlett obviously 
 was alone. Therefore, just as obviously, he must still be 
 talking to himself. 
 
 Calvin opened the door, looked, and then, entering, closed 
 
RUGGED WATER 197 
 
 the door carefully behind him. The skipper was lying half- 
 way across the bed, his legs trailing upon the floor, his head 
 upon his arms. His sou’wester lay at his feet, and the 
 water which had run from his dripping oilskins and rubber 
 boots was in puddles about him. He was groaning and 
 muttering. 
 
 “Oh, Lord, forgive me!’’ Homer heard him say. ‘“For- 
 give a poor, weak sinner. Send down your forgiveness upon 
 him. Be merciful, Lord, and—” 
 
 Calvin called his name. “Cap’n Bartlett,” he cried sharply. 
 “Cap’n Bartlett!” 
 
 Bartlett ceased to groan and mutter. Slowly he raised his 
 head, turned, and looked. 
 
 “Eh?” he stammered. “Eh? Did somebody— Who is 
 it? What do you want?” 
 
 “Tt’s me—Homer. What’s the matter? Are you sick?” 
 
 The keeper blinked at him for a moment. Then he raised 
 himself to his knees. 
 
 “What are you doin’ in here?” he asked. 
 
 “Why—why, I came to see what ailed you. I knocked and 
 you didn’t answer, so—so I thought you were sick, or hurt, 
 or something. I heard you groan.” 
 
 Bartlett stood erect; he swayed a little, and caught the 
 bed’s head to steady himself. 
 
 “JJ” he faltered, “I guess maybe I don’t feel very 
 good. I don’t know what— Was I groanin’, you say?” 
 
 “T thought you were.” He said nothing concerning what 
 he had heard after he entered. 
 
 “Maybe I was—maybe so. I don’t know. My-——my head 
 feels kind of funny. Did any of the rest of ’em out there 
 hear me?” 
 
 “No. I shouldn’t if I hadn’t listened to make sure you 
 were in here.” 
 
 “That’s good... that’s good. They wouldn’t under- 
 stand. ... Well,” after an interval, “do you want me? Is 
 —is everything attended to?” 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 “Those men off that schooner? Are they—” 
 
198 | RUGGED WATER 
 
 “They’re up aloft, and all right. The boat is taken care 
 of. I’ve seen to everything.” 
 
 “That’s good . that’s good. I’m much obliged to you. 
 wes 1 am.) 
 
 “Don’t you think you had better take off your wet clothes 
 and turn in for a rest? And let me get you some coffee? 
 You look pretty well played out.” 
 
 The skipper’s figure stiffened. He shook his head. 
 
 “When I get ready to turn in I’ll do it,” he said gruffly. 
 “T don’t need any orders from you—or anybody else. Who’s 
 been talkin’ about my bein’ sick? Who has? I suppose they 
 think I ain’t capable of handlin’ this job? That’s it, eh?” 
 
 Calvin ignored the rasping irritation ‘in the tone. The 
 man was swaying on his feet even as he spoke. 
 
 “They know better than to think that, Cap’n,” he pro- 
 tested, with a smile. “They saw how you handled the job 
 we just finished.” 
 
 To his surprise the effect of this speech was one of alarm, 
 rather than reassurance. The keeper looked bewildered and 
 frightened. He drew a hand across his forehead. 
 
 “Did I do it all right?” he asked anxiously. “Do you— 
 do they think I handled it all right?” 
 
 “Why, of course they do. You know you did.” 
 
 Bartlett drew a long breath. ‘“That’s good... that’s 
 good,” he sighed. “Tell me—was I kind of—kind of rough?” 
 
 “Rough ?” 
 
 “Yes. I—boy, I used to be a pretty hard ticket in the old 
 days. Used to act rough—and talk rough. Even now when 
 I get excited—I—I’m liable to lose my temper and do things 
 —and say things—that— Well, never mind, never mind. 
 It’s a hard fight for a man like me to keep His command- 
 ments—yes, ’tis. We're all poor weak sinners and I’m as 
 weak as the rest. Maybe He'll make allowances for me; 
 don’t you cal’late He will?” 
 
 Calvin shook his head. “There, there, Cap’n Bartlett,” he 
 said, “don’t worry. Nobody could have done better than you 
 did. You're tired and you need rest, that’s all. Turn in for 
 a while.” 
 
 ee 
 bP] 
 
RUGGED WATER 199 
 
 Bartlett sat down upon the bed. “Maybe I will,” he said 
 feebly. ‘Maybe I will. I—I do feel sort of beat out. I 
 don’t know what’s the matter with me these days. I ain’t 
 the man I used to be, seems so. That Crooked Hill business 
 took it out of me more’n I thought, I guess. Do you know, 
 boy,” he added, looking up, with a pathetic appeal in his 
 eyes, “it’s a funny thing to say, but I can’t hardly seem to 
 remember much about goin’ off to that schooner. I remem- 
 ber startin’, but after that it’s all sort of—of mixed up.... 
 Don’t you tell nobody I said that, will you?” 
 
 “Of course not.” 
 
 “No. And I'll be all right, soon’s I rest a spell. You 
 attend to things, will you? Not makin’ out the reports,” 
 sharply. “Dll take care of them. ...I guess that’s all. 
 I'll be all right. I am all right. Tell the men so.” 
 
 Homer did tell the men so. He told them that the skipper 
 was tired after his strenuous exertions and was resting. They 
 accepted the explanation. As a matter of fact, Bartlett had 
 raised himself in their estimation. They were jubilant at 
 having beaten the whaleboat’s crew in the race to the wreck 
 and, so far as their skipper’s “roughness” was concerned, it 
 had a tendency to make him more popular. 
 
 “He’s a reg'lar feller, after all, I shouldn’t wonder,” com- 
 mented Badger. “Talked to us like a Dutch uncle, didn’t 
 he? Cap’n Ozzie couldn’t have given it to us any hotter than 
 old Bologny did there for a spell. And when he started 
 blastin’ Al Crocker’s soul I felt like hollerin’ for three cheers. 
 The old man may be a little mite late gettin’ on the job, but 
 when he does get on it he’s there. He may turn out better’n 
 we thought; eh, Cal?” 
 
 Most of the comment was as favorable, but there were a 
 few reservations. Seleucus Gammon crowed over his brother- 
 in-law and exalted Bartlett’s behavior as loudly as the rest— 
 except in Jemima’s presence—but with Homer he was more 
 pessimistic. 
 
 “That’s all right, Cal,” he observed. “The old man’s 
 helped himself with the boys just now. They’re so tickled 
 at cheatin’ the Crocker gang out of that salvage that they 
 
200 RUGGED WATER 
 
 ain’t had time to think things over. But you and I know 
 that that whole business was queer. Bologny acted like a 
 man off on the Sand Hill and on the way out—but ’twas like 
 a crazy man, not a sensible one. He’s sane enough now—all 
 except his prayer-meetin’ foolishness—but if he wan’t loony 
 then I never saw anybody that was. And, more’n that, here’s 
 another thing maybe you ain’t thought of: We saved that 
 schooner’s crew, by the skin of our teeth, but if we’d started 
 three quarters of an hour sooner we might have saved the 
 schooner. The boys have forgot that, but Crocker and 
 Philander and their bunch haven’t forgot it. Wait till they 
 go up to Orham; they’ll do some talkin’ and start other folks 
 talkin’, too. There’ll be questions asked, you see. Crimus- 
 tee! Cal, there’s trouble comin’ from this yet; you mark 
 my words.” 
 
 Homer said he guessed not, but his confidence was but 
 pretense. Seleucus’s forebodings were but faint echoes of 
 his own. He, too, believed there would be talk in Orham, 
 when the news reached there. Not only would Crocker and 
 his men spread abroad their version of the Setuckit crew’s 
 delay in starting for the wreck, but the life-savers at the 
 Orham Station would comment also. They had been watching 
 and wondering—the telephone message proved that. The tale 
 would spread and grow. It would reach Kellogg’s ears; it 
 was bound to reach them sooner or later. Myra Fuller 
 would hear it. And, when she did, what would she say? 
 What would she expect him to say—and do? 
 
 The answer to these last questions he might have learned 
 if he had been privileged to drop in at the Fuller home on 
 the Neck Road late in the evening of the following day. 
 He might have learned other things, too. He might have 
 found interest in a conversation between Mrs. Fuller and 
 her daughter which took place at the supper table before the 
 news from Setuckit came. Sarepta was scolding because 
 Myra had insisted upon changing her gown before coming 
 to the table. The young lady was now arrayed in her best 
 and was quite indifferent to her mother’s ill humor. 
 
 i 
 4 
 | 
 , 
 ‘ 
 L 
 4 
 s 
 é 
 
RUGGED WATER 201 
 
 “Oh, be still, mother!’ she said. ‘“You’re mad because 
 I’m going out and you’re not. I should think you would be 
 glad to have me enjoy myself once in a while. You can’t 
 expect me to stick around that everlasting school all day and 
 sit around this poky old house every night. What harm is 
 there in my going to a dance with Ezra Blodgett, I’d like to 
 know? He’s an old fool, of course, but he’s got lots of 
 money and he isn’t afraid to spend it. You used to tell me 
 to get all I could out of him. You know you did.” 
 
 Mrs. Fuller sniffed. ‘“I’d tell you so now,” she declared, 
 “if you wasn’t engaged to somebody else. Ezra Blodgett is 
 rich and you could have had him as well as not if you hadn’t 
 gone silly over that Calvin Homer. ’Twould have been a 
 good job, too. Then you wouldn’t have to teach school and 
 I wouldn’t have to stay in this house and make a slave of 
 myself. I’d like to know what your poor dead father would 
 say if he could know that I had to wash the very dishes you 
 eat off of while you go traipsing to Odd Fellows’ dances over 
 at Harniss. I guess he’d be some surprised at the way his 
 child treated me.” 
 
 Myra tossed her head. “I never noticed you were so anx- 
 ious to find out what he said when he was alive,” she ob- 
 served. “You generally did about what you wanted 
 to.” 
 
 “Ts that so! Well, I guess you never saw me going off 
 with one man when I was engaged to marry another. I 
 guess you never saw me do that.” 
 
 “Probably not; I wasn’t here. Besides, I’m not doing any- 
 thing out of the way. Calvin would want me to have a good 
 time. He may be having one himself. How do I know 
 what he’s doing there at Setuckit ?” 
 
 “Humph! I don’t think he’s going to many dancing times 
 out on the beach. And, besides, you know well enough I 
 don’t care what you do except for what folks will say. 
 Everybody knows you’re keeping company with Calvin and 
 they’ll talk—see if they don’t. He'll hear it, pretty soon, 
 and then ’twill be just as it’s been with every other fellow 
 you’ve had.” 
 
202 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Oh, no, it won’t. I can manage Calvin. He likes me 
 pretty well. Yes, and I like him, too. He’s a nice boy.” 
 
 “Nice boy! He’s nice lookin’, that’s why you are so crazy 
 over him. But all he is is just a common everyday life-saver. 
 I wouldn’t care so much for that, though, if you would only 
 marry him and settle down. How in the world he is ever 
 going to support us I can’t see—but he’d be somebody.” 
 
 “He isn’t going to be a life-saver all his life. He is smart 
 and he'll get ahead. T’ll make him.” 
 
 “Yes, so I’ve heard you say; but you haven’t made much 
 of him yet.” 
 
 “I haven’t had the chance. It’s coming, though. That 
 Bartlett won’t last long, and when he goes Calvin will have 
 his place. Cap’n Kellogg told me as much as that—or, if 
 he didn’t tell me, he told somebody else who did tell me. J 
 know.” 
 
 “Yes, you always know. I suppose you know that that 
 daughter of Bartlett’s has been visitin’ down at the station?” 
 
 “Of course I know it,” sharply. “What of it?” 
 
 “Oh, nothing. And you know that your nice Calvin boy 
 took her down in his boat the very night after he left here?” 
 
 “Yes, I know that, too. But how did you know?” 
 
 “Oh, I heard. I don’t miss everything that goes on, even 
 if my own daughter don’t tell me. They say the Bartlett 
 girl is awful pretty, too.” 
 
 Miss Fuller’s expressive eyes were becoming very expres- 
 sive. 
 
 “Look here, mother,” she snapped, “are you trying to make 
 me jealous? Because if you are you’re wasting your time. 
 If I can’t take care of myself so far as a namby-pamby kid 
 like that Norma Bartlett is concerned then I’ll jump over- 
 board. She couldn’t have Calvin Homer, even if she wanted 
 him. I’ve got him. And I’m going to keep him.” 
 
 “All right. Then I wouldn’t take too many chances, that’s 
 all. I see you’ve got his ring on. Going to let Mr. Blodgett 
 see that?” 
 
 “Why not? He doesn’t know it is an engagement ring, 
 does he?” 
 
 ———— 
 
RUGGED WATER 203 
 
 “IT don’t know why he should. J wouldn’t guess a thing 
 like that was anybody’s engagement ring. Didn’t cost over 
 thirty-five dollars, if it did that. And if your father had 
 bought my engagement ring at Simmons’s right here in 
 Orham I’d have had something to say about it. He got his 
 ring at Jordan Marsh’s, in Boston, and it cost ’most a hun- 
 dred dollars, too.” 
 
 “How do you know? He told you so, I suppose? You 
 shouldn’t believe all you hear, mother.” 
 
 Sarepta bounced to her feet. “I don’t believe everything 
 I hear from you,” she announced bitterly. “And I’ll tell you 
 something else,’ she added. “Your father—and I should 
 think you’d be ashamed to talk about him as you do—” 
 
 Myra’s provoking drawl interrupted. “Oh, but think,” 
 she said sweetly, “how I used to hear you talk to him, mother 
 dear.” 
 
 Her mother winced at the shot, but she fired a volley in 
 return. 
 
 “T’ll tell you something, young woman,” she repeated. 
 “When your father bought my engagement ring he gave it 
 to me himself. He didn’t send it ’round in the grocery cart 
 like—like a quart of onions. If he had I’d—I’d have thrown 
 it at him.” 
 
 This time she had scored. Miss Fuller’s sweetly sarcastic 
 smile disappeared. Her lips closed tightly. 
 
 “T’ll never forgive him for that,’ she said, between 
 her teeth. “And I'll make him pay for it, too. See if I 
 don’t.” 
 
 Sarepta nodded in triumph. “Better make sure you get 
 him first,” she advised. “And if I wanted him I wouldn’t 
 set folks talking too much about you and Ezra Blodgett.” 
 
 Myra also rose. “You mind your own business, mother,” 
 she commanded. 
 
 “Oh, I’m minding it. If I was minding yours—or if you 
 had let me mind it—I should have told you to grab Ezra 
 long ago. He is old, and he’s kind of soft headed, but he’s 
 got lots of money. You could wind him around your finger, 
 and that isn’t a bad kind of husband to have. Your life- 
 
204: RUGGED WATER 
 
 saver is handsome enough, and he’s good enough, but he 
 hasn’t got a cent and never will have.” 
 
 Her daughter regarded her steadily. “You think so, do 
 you?” she said. “Well, I know a man when I see one and 
 I’m smart enough to make him amount to something in the 
 world. I mean to marry Calvin Homer; I like him better 
 than any one I ever saw in my life. As for his getting on— 
 well, wait and see. I’m attending to that part of it.” 
 
 “Humph! Maybe you are. But, unless you want to spend 
 your honeymoon in a fish shanty down at Setuckit I shouid 
 attend to it pretty soon. . . . There; see what you’ve done! 
 Cups cost money. You haven’t married your rich life-saver 
 yet, so you can’t afford to break dishes in your tantrums. 
 Sshh! here’s Ezra now. Take him into the sitting room. 
 I’ll clean up the mess you made—as usual.” 
 
 When Myra returned home, at one o’clock the next morn- 
 ing, from the Odd Fellows’ “Grand Ball” in the Harniss 
 town hall, she went straight to her mother’s room. Sarepta 
 was sleeping soundly and was not too good natured at being 
 wakened. But her irritation vanished as she heard the news 
 her daughter had to tell. , 
 
 “My sakes alive!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you suppose it is 
 true?” 
 
 Myra nodded. “Of course it is true,” she declared. 
 “They were talking about it the whole evening. They say 
 the schooner could have been saved just as well as not, but 
 Bartlett wouldn’t let the crew go off to her. Alvin Crocker 
 told Henry Mullett and Henry told Ezra and Ezra told me 
 that Bartlett ordered the Setuckit crew to stay ashore and 
 rest. Just think of it! Rest!” 
 
 “But he did order ’em to go, finally?” 
 
 “Yes, he did, but not until Crocker and Philander Jarvis 
 and their crowd had started first. And old Blodgett said 
 that Henry said Alvin said—” 
 
 “My soul and body! Do stop saying ‘said’ and teil me 
 what they said. It must be pretty close to morning and I 
 want to get a little sleep before I have to get up and get 
 your breakfast. What was it they said?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 205 
 
 “Alvin said he didn’t believe Bartlett would have started 
 at all if they hadn’t shamed him into doing it. Everybody 
 says there will be an investigation. If Superintendent Kel- 
 logg hears of it—” 
 
 “Well, do you think he will hear of it ?” 
 
 Miss Fuller laughed triumphantly. “You just bet he will!” 
 she declared. “TI’ll see that he does. Oh, yes, he’ll hear of it 
 all right.” 
 
 “Humph! You act pretty sure, seems to me. Who is 
 going to tell him, I want to know? You won’t see him, it 
 isn’t likely.” 
 
 “T shan’t need to. Ezra Blodgett is going to Province- 
 town to-morrow or next day and he’ll see him. He prom- 
 ised me he would.” 
 
 Sarepta raised her head from the pillow. 
 
 “What!” she exclaimed. “You don’t mean to tell me that 
 you've got Ezra Blodgett working to make Calvin Homer 
 keeper at Setuckit? He isn’t quite such a numbskull as to 
 help you marry another man, is he?” 
 
 Her daughter laughed again. “He doesn’t know that he 
 is helping,” she announced. “I told him I thought it was his 
 duty as a good citizen to give Cap’n Kellogg a tip as to how 
 things were going down there, that’s all.” 
 
 “T want to know! Well, I never heard anybody brag about 
 Ezra Blodgett’s being such a good citizen as all that comes 
 to. He isn’t liable to put himself out for anybody but him- 
 self. I wouldn’t put much trust in that notion, if I were you.” 
 
 Myra laughed again. “You told me this very evening,” 
 she said, “that I could wind him around my finger. He 
 winds beautifully. ... And he likes it, mother dear—oh, 
 yes, he likes it.” 
 
 “Well, all I can say is he must be an old fool.” 
 
 “He is,’ sweetly, “but I’m not. And I am going to make 
 Calvin Homer keeper of Setuckit Station. Good night, 
 mother.” 
 
 Mrs. Fuller gave it up in disgust. 
 
 “You’re bound to marry that life-saver, aren’t you?” she 
 sneered. 
 
206 RUGGED WATER 
 
 The sneer was wasted. Myra’s certainty of coming 
 triumph was too complete. 
 
 “Yes, Iam,” she said. “Come, mother, what is the matter 
 with you? You were as sweet as syrup when Calvin and I 
 got engaged.” 
 
 “Maybe I was. I thought ’twas high time you married 
 somebody.” 
 
 “He’s somebody, isn’t he?” 
 
 “Humph! I’m not so sure. It looks to me as if he was 
 pretty close to being a nobody.” 
 
 Myra turned quickly.. “The man who marries me won’t 
 be a nobody long,” she declared sharply. “You may as well 
 understand that now. And as for him—” 
 
 “Well? What about him?” 
 
 The young woman’s eyes flashed. “I'll make him under- 
 stand it, too,” she said. “But I’ll marry him first.” 
 
 i 
 ' 
 | 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 HEN Peleg Myrick came down to Setuckit two 
 
 days after the storm he brought the station mail. 
 
 In it was a letter addressed to Calvin. He recog- 
 
 nized the writing on the envelope and waited until he was 
 
 alone before opening it. The note was short—for a letter 
 
 from an engaged young woman to her fiancé it was aston- 
 
 ishingly so—but it was urgent. Practically every other word 
 was underscored. 
 
 “Dearest [wrote Myra], I must see you very soon. I have 
 some important things to say to you. Just as soon as you 
 possibly can I want you to take a day off and come up here. 
 I know you wonder why you have not heard from me before. 
 No doubt you are beginning to think I have forgotten my 
 precious boy altogether. That is not true, you may be sure. 
 Far, far from it. I have been planning and planning for us 
 both every minute since you left me, and that seems ages 
 and ages ago, doesn’t it? If I had not had your dear letters 
 to comfort me I don’t know what I should have done. Of 
 course I understand how hard it is for you to get away, with 
 the responsibility of the station entirely on your shoulders, 
 but now you must come. I have heard what has been going 
 on down there—every one is talking about it—and I am as 
 excited as can be. Now is our time. You understand what 
 I mean, Calvin dear, don’t you? And we must make the 
 most of it. Come to me at once. I must see you. Write, 
 or get word to me somehow, when you are coming. But 
 make it very soon. In a very little while, if things go as 
 they should—and as we must make things—we can announce 
 our engagement. Then I shall be the happiest girl in the 
 world. And you will be happy, too; won’t you, dear... .?” 
 
 The remainder of the letter would not be particularly in- 
 teresting to the world in general. Nor, to tell the exact truth, 
 207 
 
208 RUGGED WATER 
 
 was it as interesting to Calvin as such assurances are assumed 
 to be to the person most concerned. If Miss Fuller was on 
 the verge of becoming the happiest girl in the world he was 
 by no means the happiest man. The underscored sentences 
 in the letter troubled him, not so much by what they expressed 
 as by what he feared they might imply. Well, she was right 
 in one thing—they were in complete agreement there—he 
 must go to Orham and see her immediately. He could write, 
 of course, and make his position perfectly clear, but writing 
 seemed cowardly. No, he must see her. 
 
 But when he thought of putting this determination into 
 action difficulties began presenting themselves. Benoni Bart- 
 lett was not well, plainly not at all well. His exertions:and 
 the mental strain of two wrecks in one day had had an effect 
 which—to Homer at least—was obvious. The keeper was 
 up and about and attending to his duties, but he seemed de- 
 pressed and more nervous and careworn than ever. He was 
 silent, even morose, during the days, and at night the men 
 on duty were likely to meet him wandering about the station 
 at any hour. He talked to himself more than ever and Calvin 
 noticed that the little Bible which his daughter had given 
 him was always open upon the table in his room. He 
 developed a habit of asking peculiar questions, questions 
 upon points of religious belief and at the most unexpected 
 times. 
 
 The occasion when Homer first mentioned the “liberty day” 
 which he desired was one of these times. Calvin, knowing 
 that the skipper was alone in his room, visited that room 
 and stated his case. He explained that he had not taken a 
 day off for a long while, that he had some business in Orham 
 which needed attention, and suggested that he be allowed to 
 go up to the village the next day. Bartlett, seated in the 
 chair by the window and gazing out, did not turn his head. 
 He heard—or appeared to hear—his subordinate through to 
 the end, but when he did speak his answer was not an answer 
 at all; it contained no reference to the matter of the requested 
 liberty. He pulled slowly at his beard and asked: 
 
 “Boy, do you read the Word reg’lar ?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 209 
 
 Calvin did not catch his meaning. 
 
 “Word?” he repeated. “What word?” 
 
 Bartlett turned then. He was frowning and his eyes had 
 that strange glint upon which Seleucus had commented when 
 he first saw it. 
 
 “There ain’t but one Word, is there?” he demanded gruffly. 
 “There’s only one that’s worth readin’, and if you read it 
 oftener you’d be a better man. I read it night and day— 
 night and day, I do—and it’s balm in Gilead to my soul. 
 But there’s some hard parts in it, parts that’s kind of—kind | 
 of discouragin’ to a sinner like me. Boy,” with an eagerness 
 that was pathetic, “do you cal’late He'll be too hard on a 
 feller that slips up once in a while? Don’t you cal’late He'll 
 make some allowances and not bear down on him too hard? 
 Eh? Don’t your” 
 
 Homer, not catching his meaning and completely taken by 
 surprise, was not ready with a reply. Bartlett did not wait 
 for one. 
 
 “Tt says right here,” he went on, tapping the open pages 
 of the Bible with his forefinger, “that except ye keep His 
 commandments you'll go to hell. That’s what it says. Boy,” 
 in an agitated whisper, “I broke one of His commandments 
 t’other day. Yes, I did. I don’t know much about what I 
 done that afternoon, but I know I did that. I took His name 
 in vain. Do you cal’late He’ll—He’ll stick to what He says? 
 Eh? Why don’t you say somethin’? You don’t think Ill be 
 lost just for that one slip, do you? You don’t think He'll 
 be as hard on a poor feller as all that?” 
 
 Calvin, stifling his impatience, soothed him as best he could, 
 fortifying his consolation with such Scriptural quotations 
 concerning forgiveness as he could remember. After a time, 
 when his assurances seemed to be producing an effect, he 
 ventured once more to speak concerning the day in Orham. 
 Benoni heard and understood, but he shook his head. 
 
 “T’d rather you didn’t go just now, if you wouldn’t mind,” 
 he said; and added, apologetically, “It don’t seem hardly as 
 if I could spare you. I—I’m kind of—of tired and sort of 
 wore out these days, seems so, and you’re about the only 
 
210 RUGGED WATER 
 
 one down here I know I can depend on. MHadn’t you 
 just as soon put off goin’ for a little spell? Hadn’t you, 
 Calvin?” 
 
 There was but one reply to make and Homer made it. 
 
 “Tf you feel that way, Cap’n,” he said, “of course I'll 
 wait.” 
 
 “Yes—yes,” eagerly, “you wait. I’m feelin’ better every 
 day and you won’t have to wait long... . Say,” with sud- 
 den sharpness, “them men out there—the crew, I mean—they 
 don’t find much fault with me nowadays, do they? They’re 
 satisfied with the way I got ’em off to that schooner and— 
 and beat out that other gang? They think I did pretty well 
 then, don’t they ?” 
 
 “Yes, indeed, Cap’n Bartlett.” 
 
 “That’s good, that’s good. Wallie Oaks he says the same. 
 He says they liked that first rate. I used to be a pretty able 
 man in times like that. There wasn’t much that scared me 
 in the old days. Well,” firmly, “it don’t scare me now, either. 
 I’m just as good as ever I was—and nobody hadn’t better 
 forget it. Nobody! You tell ’em I said so; do you 
 hear ...? Why, there, Mr. Homer, I guess that’s all you 
 wanted of me, wasn’t it? We'll see about your liberty before 
 long. There’ll be drill this afternoon, of course. See that 
 all hands are ready on time.” 
 
 So Calvin was forced to write Myra a note explaining that 
 he could not leave the station immediately, but would come 
 to her at the first possible moment. Events which followed 
 compelled still further postponement. Crocker and Jarvis. 
 and their men were working at the nets in the weir shanty 
 up the beach, and had had no opportunity to visit the village 
 and tell their story there. But they had had visitors, mem- 
 bers of the Orham life-saving crew and an occasional fisher- 
 man, and had told it to them. The news spread and, as 
 Myra Fuller told her mother, practically every one in Orham 
 and the neighboring towns was talking about it, magnifying 
 rumors and prophesying trouble and probable investigation 
 by the district superintendent. Peleg Myrick brought the 
 news of these rumors and prophecies to Setuckit and told 
 
 > 
 
 a 
 
RUGGED WATER 211 
 
 the men there. Seleucus Gammon, too, heard the story from 
 his brother-in-law. He and Homer talked it over. 
 
 “Tt don’t cal’late much’ll come of it this time, Cal,” con- 
 fided Seleucus. “If we hadn't beat out Philander and Alvin 
 and their gang and got the men off that vessel there would 
 have been the Old Harry to pay. But we did, you see. Old 
 Bologny was a kind of late starter, but when he got agoin’ 
 he sartin did make things hum. Crimustee, how he did lay 
 into Alvin! It done me good to hear him cuss. Proved he 
 was human, you understand. It helped him with the boys 
 more’n anything else could. They’ve been talkin’ about it, of 
 course, and we’ve all made up our minds, if Kellogg should 
 breeze down here askin’ questions, to stand by the old man. 
 Give him another chance, anyhow.” 
 
 “Humph! You’ve changed your mind about the skipper 
 since the last time we talked, Seleucus. Then, if I remember, 
 you figured that he was crazy.” 
 
 “T think he is yet. Crazy as a bug on a hot plate—when 
 it comes to prayer-meetin’ talk and the like of that. And I 
 own up he acted crazy off to that wreck. But that was sen- 
 sible crazy. That’s the kind of craziness that counts for 
 somethin’. The crazier he gets that way the better skipper 
 of Setuckit Life-Savin’ Station he’ll be. That’s the way the 
 boys feel. They want to give him another chance and see 
 how loony he’ll be next time. They want to hear him swear 
 some more. Ho, ho! Cri:nus! I wouldn’t have missed that 
 for two months’ pay.” 
 
 “But—remember, you said it yourself, Seleucus—we might 
 have got that schooner afloat if we had started in time.” 
 
 Gammon stopped laughing and nodded gravely. “You and 
 me know that, Cal,” he admitted, “but the boys don’t; or, if 
 it did come acrost their minds, they’ve forgot it. And they 
 won't let Cap’n Kellogg know they ever thought of such a 
 thing. No, we’re all agoin’ to stand by Bologny, unless— 
 well, unless you want the keeper’s job yourself, Cal. If you 
 do—well, if you do then we'll talk different.” 
 
 “T don’t. Not that way. You and all hands are not to 
 mention my name. You understand that?” 
 
212 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Sartin sure. We know how you feel, Cal. We don’t 
 blame you for feelin’ that way. ... That Norma Bartlett 
 is a mighty fine girl.” 
 
 Calvin swung about to glare at him. 
 
 “What on earth has she got to do with it?” he demanded 
 hotly. 
 
 “Eh? Why, nothin’. Who said she had? I was just 
 sayin’ what a nice girl she was, that’s all. No need for you 
 to get red faced and foam up over that, as I know of. But 
 the boys like her first-rate and they’re more for Bologny 
 right now than they’ve been afore since he was wished on 
 to us. If you doubt it you notice how Wallie Oaks is playin’ 
 puppy dog to him again these days. Wallie’s a pretty fair 
 piece of drift to show which way the tide’s settin’.” 
 
 Homer was still unreasonably ruffled and he could not 
 resist giving his comrade’s serene self-satisfaction a shake. 
 
 “How is your wife these days?” he inquired. “Does she 
 like the Bartlett girl as well as you do?” 
 
 The self-satisfaction vanished like a puff of pipe smoke 
 ina gale. “Don’t you let on to anybody that I ever said I 
 liked Norma,” ordered Seleucus hastily. “Don’t you do it. 
 Say, Cal,” he added hurriedly, “ain’t there some way you can 
 fix it so’s I’ll have to stay here at the station all the time 
 for a spell? Between Philander raggin’ me about our bein’ 
 scared to go to that wreck and Jemima sailin’ into me be- 
 cause I don’t talk back to him like a man, home, sweet home 
 is pretty toler’ble sour these days. Crimustee!” 
 
 “Well, why don’t you talk back to him?” 
 
 “’Cause when I do she jibes over and takes his side and 
 I have to talk back to the pair of ’em. That’s like whistlin’ 
 for a breeze and startin’ up a hurricane. Cal, if you ever 
 do get married, don’t marry a woman with relations. And 
 don’t marry one that’s jealous. Don’t marry a woman, any- 
 how—that’s my advice, and I don’t charge nothin’ for givin’ 
 it. And, look here, don’t you never tell I said that, neither.” 
 
 Kellogg drove down to Setuckit before the week ended. 
 Homer had been expecting him, so he was not surprised. He 
 was astonished, however, when the buggy stopped at the 
 
 | 
 ; 
 j 
 7 
 ; 
 rn 
 { 
 R’ 
 4 
 if 
 ; 
 x 
 ¥ 
 i 
 , 
 
RUGGED WATER 213 
 
 station door, to see Norma Bartlett on the seat beside the 
 superintendent. It was a snowy day, but cold and windy, 
 and the long drive had reddened her cheeks and blown her 
 hair about. She leaped lightly to the ground and shook 
 hands with the group of surfmen by the door. Their tanned 
 faces were agrin as they bashfully returned her greetings. 
 
 “Isn’t this a surprise party!” she exclaimed. “Of course 
 you didn’t expect to see me so soon; but you know what they 
 say about the bad penny. How have you all been since I 
 went away? You have been busy, I know. I read about 
 you in the Boston paper. Why do all the exciting things 
 happen when I am not here?” 
 
 Seleucus, who had just emerged from the mess room and 
 to whom this last question was addressed, shuffled his feet 
 and coughed. 
 
 “Well,” he said, “I don’t know’s I know exactly. Maybe 
 it’s because the A’mighty figgers we couldn’t stand too many 
 kinds of excitement down here to Setuckit all to once. Ain’t 
 used to ’em, you see. Have to take the bitter separate from 
 the sweet, I cal’late.” 
 
 She laughed delightedly. “Why, that is a very pretty 
 speech, Mr. Gammon,” she declared. “You must have been 
 practicing since I left. Thank you very much.” 
 
 She and he were shaking hands as she said it. The other 
 surfmen were smiling and their smiles broadened as, from 
 the Jarvis shanty, came a shrill hail. 
 
 “Seleucus!” screamed Mrs. Gammon. “Seleucus, is that 
 you? Come over here right away; I want you.” 
 
 Seleucus dropped the young lady’s hand as if it had bitten 
 him and hastened to obey. A roar of laughter followed 
 his exit. 
 
 “See him run, fellers,” cackled Phinney. ‘He knows 
 there’s more of the sweet over home there waitin’ for him.” 
 
 Norma entered the mess room. There she and Calvin met. 
 There was no sensible reason why he should have felt the 
 least embarrassed at the meeting, yet he did, and when they 
 shook hands he found it difficult to speak. The embarrass- 
 ment may have been contagious, for she, too, hesitated mo- 
 
214 RUGGED WATER 
 
 mentarily. But she recovered at once and her greeting was 
 cheery and quite matter of fact. 
 
 “Why, how do you do, Mr. Homer?” she said. “I have 
 surprised you, just as I have all the others. And father will 
 be the most surprised of all. Where is he?” 
 
 “He is in his room, Miss Bartlett. He'll be awfully glad 
 to see you. Go right in.” 
 
 She moved toward the door a the keeper’s room, but 
 paused, and turned back. 
 
 “Tell me,” she whispered aiiiuated “how is he? Is he 
 well? He’s not sick—or—or anything like that?” 
 
 “Sick? No, indeed; he’s all right. What made you think 
 he was sick?” 
 
 “Oh, I don’t know. Something in his last letter—some- 
 thing he said—or the way he said it—worried me a little. 
 Has there been trouble here?’ Any unusual trouble, I 
 mean ?” 
 
 “No.” He tried to say it promptly and in a way to carry 
 conviction, but it was evident that the attempt was not a 
 complete success. She was looking at him, looking him 
 through and through with those clear eyes of hers. 
 
 “Are you sure?” she demanded. 
 
 “Why, yes—yes, of course. But how does it happen you 
 come back so soon? We—your father didn’t expect you for 
 another three weeks at least.” 
 
 “TI know; but something happened there at Fairborough 
 which made it possible for me to come now. And father’s 
 letter troubled me and—lI'll tell you all about it by and by. 
 I must see him before I say another word to anybody.” 
 
 “Of course. And I’ll keep Cap’n Kellogg busy for a while. 
 Tell the skipper he needn’t hurry.” 
 
 “Thank you.” Again she paused and looked at him. “The 
 superintendent brought me down here,” she said. “I met 
 him up in the village. He knew me, of course—we saw a 
 good deal of each other there at Crooked Hill while father 
 was so ill—and he said he was coming here and offered to 
 take me with him. Why is he coming here at this time, 
 Mr. Homer ?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 215 
 
 Calvin was expecting this question, or one like it, and 
 this time he was ready. 
 
 “Oh, he comes every so often,” he said carelessly. “It is 
 part of his job. He has to inspect all the stations.” 
 
 “Yes, I know, but— Oh, here he is! I'll see you all by 
 and by.” ; 
 
 She knocked softly at the keeper’s door, and entered, 
 closing it behind her. Homer turned to greet the superin- 
 tendent. 
 
 He had dreaded the meeting, but Kellogg’s manner was 
 so good natured and casual that, after the first few minutes, 
 he began to believe his dread unwarranted. The superin- 
 tendent inquired concerning Bartlett, learned that the latter 
 was with his daughter, and nodded comprehendingly. 
 
 “We won't disturb ’em,” he said. “I shall be here the 
 better part of the day and I’ll have time enough to see him 
 later on. Well, Calvin, how are you? How are things going 
 nowadays; all taut and shipshape, are they?” 
 
 Calvin answered in the affirmative. He expected a sharp 
 cross-examination, but the few questions Kellogg asked were 
 quite general in scope. 
 
 “How is the cap’n getting on with the crew?” he wanted 
 to know. “Do they like him better than they did at first?” 
 
 “Yes, I think they do.” 
 
 “How do you like him?” 
 
 “Why—why, all right. He is queer in some ways, but he 
 is on the job.” 
 
 “Handles things pretty well, take ’em by and large, does 
 he?” 
 
 “Ves,” 
 
 “You haven’t any fault to find, then?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “T see. Well, I’m going to hang around here for three 
 or four hours. Don’t pay any attention to me. J’ll see you 
 again before I go.” 
 
 That was all, and Homer was greatly relieved. He was 
 busy with various duties and he saw the superintendent 
 only at dinner and at brief and casual intervals during the 
 
216 RUGGED WATER 
 
 day. The dinner was a jolly meal, for Norma and Kellogg 
 were at the table and there was much joking and story-telling. 
 Bartlett was in better spirits than he had been since the day 
 of the wreck, and there were no symptoms of “queerness” 
 in his manner or conversation. His melancholy had vanished 
 and he told a story or two himself. Evidently his daughter’s 
 arrival was the tonic he needed. 
 
 Beach drill was carried through with a snap and finish 
 which brought a word of commendation from the official 
 visitor. Homer’s apprehensions concerning trouble were 
 pretty thoroughly dispelled by this time. Apparently the 
 visit was but a matter of routine, after all. Peleg Myrick’s 
 disturbing yarns of investigations and all the rest were but 
 exaggerations of village gossip, nothing more; Peleg was 
 always a sensation monger. And the hints in Myra’s letter, 
 and Seleucus’s forebodings based upon his spiteful brother- 
 in-law’s confidences were parts of the same magnifying of 
 unfounded rumor. People were bound to talk, anyhow, and 
 in winter there was so little to talk about. Captain Kellogg 
 was not the man to heed gossip; he, probably, had paid no 
 attention to it whatever. 
 
 But Calvin’s ease of mind lasted only until four o’clock 
 that afternoon. Then, as he sat reading in the mess room 
 Kellogg came out of the keeper’s room, where he had been 
 closeted with Benoni for a half hour or more, and laid a 
 hand on his shoulder. 
 
 “Cal,” he said, in a low tone, “come out to the barn with 
 me. J want to talk with you. Better put on your sweater 
 and cap. It’s liable to be chilly out there.” 
 
 Calvin obeyed orders, so far as the sweater and cap were 
 concerned, and followed his superior out to the chill, shut-up 
 stable. The superintendent carefully closed the door behind 
 them and seated himself on the grain box. 
 
 “Sit down here alongside, Cal,’ he ordered. “Sorry I 
 have to lock you and me up in this God-forsaken hole, but 
 it seems to be the only place where we won't be disturbed. 
 I don’t want the men to see us talking together. And I don’t 
 want that daughter of Bartlett’s to catch on, either. She’s 
 
RUGGED WATER 217 
 
 as smart as a red-pepper plaster, that girl, and somehow or 
 other she’s tumbled to the fact that there’s something going 
 on. She asked me as much as fifty questions on the way 
 down, and it took all my diplomatics to make her believe I 
 was coming here to-day just because it was my regular time 
 for coming. Even when I got through perjuring myself I 
 doubt if she really believed it. Cal, if I was a young man, 
 instead of a fifty-nine-year-old ruin—and thirty-five years 
 married, at that—I’d get a line over the side for that girl. 
 She’s good to look at—no need to tell you young fellows 
 that—and she’s got something in her head besides dough. 
 Yes, sir-ee! With a wife like her to cruise along with him 
 the right kind of man might travel far.” 
 
 He paused, chuckled, and went on. “That ain’t what I 
 towed you out here to talk about,” he said, “but I just heave 
 it in with the rest of the cargo. Now then: I want some 
 straight-from-the-shoulder stuff out of you. No guesses and 
 shouldn’t wonders, nothing but aye, yes, or no. What about 
 this Rosie Cahoon wreck? How about the yarn Alvin 
 Crocker and his gang are telling? I want the whole truth 
 from you, son. That’s part of what I came here to get. 
 Overboard with it.” 
 
 Homer hesitated. The barn was cold and dark and 
 gloomy. The wind wailed and rattled the windows. The 
 horses stamped and stirred in their stalls. 
 
 “Come on,” urged Kellogg. “Spin your yarn. Give me 
 the whole of it, and don’t leave out anything. Begin at the 
 beginning. How long did you fellows wait before you 
 started to that schooner ?” 
 
 Calvin told the story. He told it as truthfully and as 
 comprehensively as he could; how Bartlett himself had first 
 sighted the stranded schooner, of his delay in ordering out 
 the boat, of his expressed reasons for the delay, of the de- 
 parture of the whaleboat, and then of the mad race to the 
 wreck and the rescue of the crew. The superintendent 
 heard him to the end, without comment. Then he nodded. 
 
 “Um-hum,” he grunted. “That’s just about as I got it 
 from the other men. I don’t suppose you noticed it—I 
 
218 RUGGED WATER 
 
 didn’t mean you should—but I’ve been at the pumps pretty 
 steady ever since I landed here, and I’ve got the yarn from 
 every one of ’em. They all bear you out, Cal. Now then, 
 what is your idea of it all? Do you think the keeper stayed 
 on shore because he was scared, himself, or because he really 
 thought it was too much risk to take out a tired crew twice 
 in a few hours, unless it was absolutely necessary ...? 
 Eh? I want it straight. What do you think?” 
 
 Homer waited a moment before replying. He would have 
 given much to evade the obligation of replying at all. 
 
 “Well, sir,’ he said, after the moment of consideration, 
 “to be honest, I don’t know. At first I couldn’t understand. 
 When he hung back and wouldn’t give the order, I was as 
 mad as the rest. Then—well, yes, I did think he was scared. 
 But after he did start he soon took that idea out of my head. 
 He wasn’t scared then, you can take my word for that. I 
 never saw a man think less about his own skin than he did. 
 When we got that boat off he was up to his neck in the surf 
 and didn’t seem to know it. He drove us off to that, shoal 
 as if he was a steam engine. Honestly, I believe he would 
 have jammed our bow straight through that whaleboat if 
 they hadn’t got her out of the way. If I had had any breath 
 left I’d have given three cheers for him then.” 
 
 Kellogg chuckled once more. “I’d like to have seen that,” 
 he vowed. “I understand he told Crocker where to get off, 
 and named the port. Ho, ho! Every one of the boys took 
 pains to tell me that part. I wish I had been there. . 
 Well, that’s all of that. Answer me this: Do you figure 
 that, provided he had started sooner, you might have floated 
 the schooner ?” 
 
 Calvin had been expecting that question, and dreading it. 
 He hesitated again before answering. There was a face 
 before his mind’s eye—not the face of Benoni Bartlett, but 
 another. 
 
 “Why, I don’t know, Cap’n Kellogg,” he said again. “At 
 first it rather seemed to me that we might. But, thinking it 
 over since, I’m not sure about it. It was blowing a gale, 
 and the seas were running high. They were breaking 
 
RUGGED WATER 219 
 
 clean over her when we got there. We might have got 
 her off—and then again we mightn’t. It was a toss-up, I 
 guess.” 
 
 “Um-hum. But, if it had been up to you, you would have 
 started and had a try, wouldn’t you?” 
 
 “Yes. I suppose I should.” 
 
 “IT know plaguy well you would. . Now, one more thing. 
 Do you think Bartlett is right—right in his head, I mean?” 
 
 “T think— Well, I think he may be a little off on religious 
 matters. He is—” 
 
 “Oh, never mind that,” impatiently. ‘The smartest sea 
 cap'n I ever sailed with used to read the second mate and 
 me a chapter out of the Bible every night before he turned 
 in. And we had prayers along with the saleratus biscuits 
 for breakfast. But I’ve seen that same cap’n take the ship 
 through an Indian Ocean typhoon and stay on deck for thirty 
 hours running and grin and whistle a hymn tune when it 
 looked as if every sea was going to drive all hands to the 
 bottom. I don’t care how crazy Benoni is that way. What 
 I’m asking you is whether you think he’s too crazy to be 
 keeper at Setuckit.” 
 
 “No, I don’t think he is.” 
 
 “And you don’t think he’s yellow?” 
 
 “How could I think so after seeing him head for thar 
 whaleboat ?” 
 
 “Humph! That’s dodging the question a little mite, isn’t 
 it? Well, never mind; you don’t dodge it any more than the 
 rest of the boys. If you were me, then, you’d let him stay 
 on here—give him another chance?” 
 
 “Yes, I would.” 
 
 “You say that prompt enough. Sure it is Bartlett and 
 not his good-looking daughter you are giving the chance 
 to ...? Well, well! you needn’t bite me. Maybe I feel 
 like giving her the chance, myself. She believes in her 
 cranky dad, I'll say that for her. And the men are for him 
 now. I own up that surprises me. Yes, it does.” 
 
 Homer ventured to ask a question of his own. 
 
 “What does Cap’n Bartlett say about not starting sooner 
 
220 RUGGED WATER 
 
 for the wreck?” he asked. “Of course it isn’t my business, 
 sir—” 
 
 “Not a mite. But I’d just as soon tell you. He talks 
 rational enough about it. Says he thinks maybe he should 
 have started; but he was so worn out and tired himself that 
 he felt as if he hadn’t the right to order another pull like 
 that for the men unless he had to. Says he realizes that he 
 isn’t quite up to the mark yet, after that Crooked Hill strain, 
 but he’s getting better all the time and that the Lord is 
 helping him every day to get better yet. I don’t know about 
 that last part—I haven’t heard from the other end of the 
 line; ’fraid I ain’t in as close touch as he thinks he is—but 
 I do feel inclined to make some allowances for his nerves. 
 That Crooked Hill smash was plain hell for any man, cracked 
 or whole, there’s no doubt about that.” 
 
 Homer made no comment. They sat in silence for some 
 time. Then Kellogg slid off the grain bin and stood erect. 
 
 “Cal,” he said, “when I came down here, after the yarns 
 they’re spilling up in Orham, I had about decided to give 
 Bartlett his walking ticket. I won’t have a yellow skipper 
 or a yellow surfman in a station under me. But since I’ve 
 talked with all hands down here I’ve changed my mind. I’m 
 going to let him stick on a spell and see what happens. 
 You're all for him, I can see that, and you're all good picked 
 men—except Oaks, maybe, and I don’t think he’ll be in the 
 service long. If I had appointed Bartlett on my own hook 
 I doubt if I should be so favorable toward giving him an- 
 other chance. But I didn’t appoint him, you see; and if I 
 fire him without absolute sure cause those blasted Washing- 
 ton politicians will be in my wool. ... Yes, and there’s 
 another reason. Al Crocker and Philander Jarvis are sore 
 as a couple of stubbed toes because you fellows licked ’em 
 off yonder. They want to take out their spite on Benoni 
 or anybody else at Setuckit. Well, I'll see ’em in a whole 
 lot hotter place than this barn is just now before I help ’em 
 pull the nuts out of the stove. When I discharge a life- 
 saver it’s because I see fit—not because somebody else does.” 
 
 At the stable door he spoke again. 
 
RUGGED WATER 221 
 
 “Don’t talk about any of this, Calvin,” he said. “You 
 won't, I know. Bartlett will be keeper here for a while yet. 
 But—yes, I’ll say it right out loud here to you—I’m still a 
 long way from being sure that he ain’t yellow underneath. 
 I don’t care if he is just crazy, so long as he is brave and 
 up to his job. But if he is a coward—if he turns out to be— 
 if there is any more hanging back or waiting to ‘rest’—out 
 he goes. And all the politicians from the Boston State House: 
 to Jericho won’t stop his going, either.” 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 week, so she explained at supper that evening. The 
 
 happening which had afforded her the unexpected 
 opportunity to visit her father was a fire which had partially 
 destroyed the reading room of the Fairborough library and 
 necessitated the closing of the building to the public for a 
 time. An overheated furnace was presumed to be the cause, 
 and although the blaze had been discovered before great 
 damage was done, there were repairs to be made, and it was 
 thought best to give the carpenters and painters free scope 
 for their work. 
 
 “So I saw my chance,” she said, “and came. I have until 
 next Monday afternoon, and I mean to make the most of it. 
 You can’t get rid of me until my time is up, you see, so you 
 might just as well pretend you like to have a girl around 
 here, interfering with your cooking and getting in the way.” 
 
 There was a chorus of protests. Ed Bloomer voiced the 
 opinion of the majority. 
 
 “Don’t fret about the cookin’,” he said. “It’s Ellis’s turn 
 again this week, and what his kind of cookin’ needs is to be 
 interfered with. The more interference gets into that coffee 
 of his the better it tastes.” 
 
 “TI hope this weather holds for you, Miss Norma,” ob~ 
 served Phinney. “It’s fine enough just now, and there don’t 
 seem to be any symptoms of it changin’.” 
 
 The visitor announced that she did not want fair weather 
 all the time. ‘“‘I want to see a real storm,” she said. ‘There 
 wasn’t the slightest hint of a storm while I was here before. 
 Everything was as peaceful and serene as midsummer. I 
 might as well have been in Fairborough as far as excitement 
 was concerned. But the very day I left the gales began. 
 Now I don’t think that is at all polite. I must see Mr. Myrick 
 
 222 
 
 Nie was planning to remain at Setuckit for a 
 
RUGGED WATER 223. 
 
 and try to coax him into arranging a tornado for my bene- 
 fit.” 
 
 Hez Rogers laughed. “Well,” he said, “the last time Peleg 
 was down here he was prophesyin’ clear and calm for a 
 month. That ought to encourage you a little mite, for 
 Peleg’s prophecies generally work stern foremost.” 
 
 Captain Bartlett spoke, from his place at the head of the 
 table. 
 
 “Don’t joke about serious things, Norma,” he commanded 
 sternly. “If the Lord is good to those that go down to the 
 sea in ships, and gives ’em fair winds and smooth seas, it’s 
 our place to be thankful to Him. Don’t let me hear anybody 
 around here wishin’ for storms.” 
 
 The subject was changed promptly, but the weather did 
 not change. Mr. Myrick was proven a true prophet, so far 
 as that week was concerned. Day after day was cold but 
 clear, and the procession of sailing craft and steamers, of 
 tugs and tows, moved by Setuckit unhindered by gales or 
 even fogs. 
 
 Norma spent a large portion of her days out-of-doors. 
 Muffled and wrapped against the cold, she tramped the 
 beaches, exploring the dunes, or visiting the lighthouse, 
 where the lightkeeper and his assistant endured ionely vigil, 
 and were in consequence glad to see visitors, particularly at- 
 tractive young persons of the other sex. A few of these 
 excursions she made alone, but, for the most part, one or 
 more of the surfmen accompanied her. They pointed out 
 spots where famous wrecks had taken place in the past, 
 showed her fragments of these wrecks protruding, like skele- 
 tons, from the sand, told her yarn after yarn of rescues and 
 risks of which only the barest outlines had been printed in 
 the papers. And, without realizing it, they gave her details. 
 of the life at her father’s station and intimate glimpses of 
 their feeling toward the new keeper, glimpses which were 
 reassuring and tended to dispel her doubts concerning their 
 loyalty to the latter. As a matter of fact, the loyalty really 
 existed now. Bartlett had, as the crew felt, showed himself 
 aman, By threatening to sink the whaleboat he had won 
 
224 RUGGED WATER 
 
 their support—even a measure of respect—for the time. The 
 feeling was not deep-seated as yet—it might easily be dis- 
 pelled—but it was there at present. And their liking for 
 Norma strengthened it. 
 
 They did like her, and she liked them. And, in conse- 
 quence, they grew more confidential and spoke of matters 
 personal, of their homes and families. She learned how hard 
 it was for the Phinney’s to get along on the meager wage 
 of a surfman; how Elsie May, the oldest girl, was “cal’latin’ ” 
 to help out by washing dishes at the Ocean House during 
 the coming summer and how Joshua, next younger, had 
 earned over eleven dollars that fall trapping muskrats and 
 selling their skins. She heard more gossip concerning the 
 troubled marital relations of the Gammons and agreed that 
 what Jemima needed was to be strenuously “put in her 
 place,” wherever that place might be. And, also, she heard 
 from man after man what a fine young fellow Calvin Homer 
 was, how all hands liked him, swore by him, and would fol- 
 low him anywhere. 
 
 “Your pa can count himself mighty lucky to have a Num- 
 ber One man like Cal to back him up,” declared Rogers, who 
 chanced to be escort that morning. “Some fellers would 
 have been so sore at bein’ passed over for keeper, and havin’ 
 a man from outside run in right over their heads, that they’d 
 have laid down on the job and left the new feller to get along 
 best he could. I don’t know but I would, myself. Fact is; 
 we was pretty sore, all hands of us, on Cal’s account, but he 
 wouldn’t listen when we told him so. Said the superinten- 
 dent knew what he was doin’, and what was best for the 
 service and ’twas our job to shut up growlin’ and work hard 
 for Cap’n Bartlett. That’s what he said, and it’s what he’s 
 done ever since the first go-off. I don’t know’s the skipper 
 hardly realizes what he owes Cal Homer for smoothin’ 
 things out here at Setuckit and makin’ ’em slide along right.” 
 
 Hezekiah was walking a few steps in advance of his com- 
 panion at the moment, and so he did not notice her manifest 
 surprise nor the look she gave him when he first mentioned 
 the “passing over” of Homer as keeper, and her father’s 
 
RUGGED WATER 225 
 
 appointment in his stead. When he did turn back she had 
 stopped and was gazing at the surf as it reared and broke 
 along the beach. 
 
 “What is it?” he asked. “See somethin’ adrift there, do 
 you?” 
 
 She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I was looking at 
 the breakers, that is all. Let’s go on a little farther; I’m 
 not a bit tired. Tell me some more about yourself and—and 
 the other men, Mr. Rogers. Naturally you were all dis- 
 appointed at Mr. Homer’s losing the appointment. I under- 
 stand that. But you—and he—knew, of course, why it was 
 given to father. You don’t blame father for taking the 
 place?” 
 
 “Eh? No, no. Can’t blame any man for takin’ a good 
 job when it comes his way.” 
 
 “Of course not. And Mr. Homer himself was very nice 
 about it; I agree with you there. I suppose he had counted 
 on promotion, being Cap’n Myrick’s Number One man?” 
 
 “Sure! We all thought ’twas as good as settled—Cap’n 
 Oz and all. Kellogg did, too, I guess likely, from some 
 things he said. But you never can tell about jobs like that. 
 Same way with gettin’ made postmaster or port collector. 
 Just as all hands are settled down to a Democrat, there comes 
 an election and, first thing you know, they stick in a Re- 
 publican. Politics is politics; they’re reg’lar vanes for 
 switchin’ round.” 
 
 “Yes. Yes, of course. . . . Oh, there is something in the 
 surf there ahead. What is it, Mr. Rogers?” 
 
 It was nothing but an empty box, thrown over from a 
 passing vessel, but it served to distract attention and to 
 change the subject. Rogers talked a good deal during the 
 remainder of the walk, but Norma said little. She encour- 
 aged him to chat by asking an occasional question, but for 
 the most part she was silent. Calvin Homer’s name was not 
 mentioned again that morning. 
 
 It was, however, mentioned by other surfmen during other 
 strolls along the shore. Norma saw to that. Little by little 
 she learned practically the whole story of the dashing of 
 
226 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Calvin’s hopes. Each man, if accused, would have vowed 
 that he had told her nothing she did not know before, but 
 from each she gained the fragment which, when added to 
 the others, helped toward the entirety. 
 
 Calvin, at the beginning of her visit, had sometimes ac- 
 companied her on her walks. And then he ceased to do so 
 —seemed to purposely avoid her. When, after breakfast, 
 she announced her intention of going out for what she called 
 her “constitutional,’ he was always busy at some task or 
 other. She must have noticed that these compelling duties 
 were trivial, that they might just as easily have been done 
 at another time, but, if she did notice it, she never com- 
 mented on the fact. But, more than once, he caught her 
 tegarding him with an odd expression. It was an expres- 
 sion by no means disagreeable, quite the contrary, but it 
 merely strengthened his own resolution.to avoid her society. 
 The young man was more than ever realizing that the sooner 
 the first of March was proclaimed by the calendar the better 
 for him. Setuickit Station had suddenly become a dangerous 
 locality. He had dreaded the day when he must decide 
 whether to remain in the service or leave it forever. Now 
 Fate had made the decision for him. He must go. Loyalty 
 to Kellogg had kept him there. Loyalty to Myra Fuller was 
 driving him away. Loyalty! he was beginning to hate the 
 word. 
 
 The week drew to its end. The society of his daughter 
 had had a wonderful effect upon Benoni Bartlett. His lassi- 
 tude and sullen, moody fits had disappeared. He had ceased 
 to ask Homer questions concerning the possibility of eternal 
 damnation as the punishment for profanity. He spent less 
 time in his room reading the Bible. His morose nocturnal 
 wanderings about the station ceased. He was, for him, in 
 remarkable good spirits. He was tolerant of the jokes and 
 horse play at meal times. Occasionally he went so far as to 
 offer a joke himself. They were feeble antiquities, those 
 jokes, but, coming from him, as rarities, they were enthusi- 
 astically received. Calvin was glad to remark the change 
 in his superior, but it puzzled him. Perhaps the mental 
 
RUGGED WATER 227 
 
 relief following Kellogg’s examination was _ responsible; 
 possibly Norma’s companionship was the cause of her 
 father’s good humor; no doubt it was the combination of 
 both, added to the recovery of his strength, and the rest af- 
 forded by the stretch of good weather. Whatever the rea- 
 son, the change was welcome and it lifted the skipper still 
 higher in the present favorable opinion of the men. Only 
 Seleucus, the always contrary minded, expressed pessimism. 
 
 “Um-hum,” grumbled Gammon, “I know. But it won’t 
 last—mark my words, Cal, ’twon’t last. Wait till Norma’s 
 gone and then see if he don’t slump back to worse ’n he ever 
 was. He ain’t right up aloft, Bologny ain’t. His main top- 
 mast is sprung and, if the next gale of wind don’t carry it 
 away, there’ll come one that will. He’s cracked, I tell you; 
 and I’ve cruised along with cracked folks afore. They’re 
 always either way down below zero or clean up to a hun- 
 dred and ten in the shade. He’s up now, but it won’t last; 
 he'll be down again. And some day—some day, Cal Homer 
 —his whole upper rig is goin’ by the board. You hear me!” 
 
 Sunday, Norma’s last day at Setuckit on this visit, offered 
 the nearest approach to bad weather she had seen. The 
 morning sky was thickly overcast, and the Government’s 
 warnings of “For Southern New England, cloudy, followed 
 by snow or rain’ seemed likely to be fulfilled, with snow 
 as the stronger probability. There was a high course of 
 tides just then and, backed by three days of fresh, onshore 
 winds, the sea was running over the beach in places, causing 
 lengthy and provoking detours for the men on patrol at 
 night. The days had been so clear that no patrols were 
 necessary from sunrise to sunset. 
 
 But this Sunday morning was different. There was a 
 heavy murk overhanging the horizon, and, as the forenoon 
 advanced, it crept in closer and closer, until satisfactory 
 watch from the tower became impossible. Bartlett ordered 
 the patrolman out. It happened to be Calvin’s turn, and he 
 donned his heavy rig and prepared to start. As he emerged 
 from the station door he was surprised to find Miss Bartlett, 
 also wrapped and booted against the cold and wet, appar- 
 
228 RUGGED WATER 
 
 ently waiting for him. He had supposed she was with her 
 father in the latter’s room. 
 
 “Do you mind company, Mr. Homer?” she asked. “I hope 
 you don’t, because this is the last beach tramp I shall have 
 for ever so long, and father says it is almost sure to snow, 
 and he doesn’t like to have me go out alone. He was plan- 
 ning to go with me himself, but he is busy with his reports 
 and papers, and I don’t want to disturb him. So I am going 
 with you, unless you tell me I shan’t.” 
 
 He could scarcely tell her that, yet he hesitated. He had 
 welcomed the opportunity afforded by patrol duty because 
 it would take him away from the station. To watch her, 
 as she moved about, chatting, laughing, and brightening the 
 bare, homely mess room like the sunshine of a May morning, 
 was pleasant, but it was a pleasure in which he knew he 
 must not indulge. Yet he watched her in spite of his reso- 
 lution, just as a confirmed drunkard trying to reform might 
 be fascinated by a bottle of liquor kept continually displayed 
 on a shelf before his eyes. The safest procedure for the 
 drunkard would be to run away from the room where the 
 bottle was kept. He had tried to run away—was trying that 
 very morning. 
 
 She noticed his hesitation and drew her own conclusions. 
 
 “Oh, it is all right,” she said, quickly. “I suppose it is 
 against the regulations. I can go alone perfectly well.” 
 
 Here was his opportunity, and he should have grasped it, 
 knew perfectly well that he should. But instead, as the 
 drunkard might have done, when the temptation became 
 acute he yielded to it. 
 
 “Oh, no—no!” he protested. “I shall be glad of your 
 company, Miss Bartlett. Yes, indeed! You can come with 
 me as well as not.” 
 
 “Truly? Thanks, ever so much. Walking alone is stupid, 
 on such a gloomy day as this. And, besides, I feel like 
 talking, don’t you?” 
 
 If he did he repressed his feelings. He said scarcely a 
 dozen words for the first mile of their tramp. She talked 
 much, however, principally about what a happy visit she 
 
RUGGED WATER 229 
 
 had had, how she hated to leave—as she must that very 
 afternoon—about her delight in finding her father so well, 
 and what dear, good fellows the members of the Setuckit 
 crew were. 
 
 “T like them all,” she declared, “every one. And I feel 
 as if I knew them now. I have had chances to be with them 
 this time and learn to know them. They have told me all 
 about themselves, and their families—and much more about 
 other people. . . . Yes, I have learned a great many things 
 this week, Mr. Homer; things which I am very glad to 
 know—and understand.” 
 
 They had reached the edge of a wet, dully shining stretch 
 of sand which, frescoed with little rippling trickles of clear 
 water, marked a spot where the sea at high tide had run 
 over the beach between the grass-topped dunes. The blanket 
 of cold, raw fog had swept in by this time, and was all about 
 them, surrounding them as that other fog had inclosed 
 the Jarvis catboat on the afternoon when he and she first 
 met. Homer paused for a moment and she asked him 
 why. 
 
 “Because I don’t know whether we shouldn’t turn inland 
 here,’ he replied, “and go around the end of this stretch. 
 The tide is coming in and when it is full and runs as high 
 as it does this week, there will be some mighty cold water 
 off there. That flat will be covered in another hour.” 
 
 “What—that? Why, it is almost as dry as where we are 
 standing this minute. I am sure we can get over without 
 the least trouble. I have my heavy boots and rubbers on. 
 Let’s try to cross. I know you would if I weren’t here. 
 Now, wouldn’t you?” 
 
 “Ves, I should. But I know just where to go and I am 
 rigged for it.” 
 
 “So am I. Come along then.” 
 
 They crossed the fifty-yard stretch without much diffi- 
 culty. The sand, here and there, was soft and, in one place, 
 Homer was obliged to lift her over the deepest and wettest 
 spot. She seemed to enjoy what she called the adventure 
 of it, and, as for him, he had quite forgotten his good resolu- 
 
230 RUGGED WATER 
 
 tions and the imminent danger of her close presence and 
 enjoyed it, too. 
 
 When they reached the dunes at the other side she laughed 
 gayly. 
 
 “That was fun,” she declared: ‘‘Oh, how I hate to leave 
 all this, the out-of-doors, and the sea and all the rest, and 
 go back to that stuffy old library. I like my work, too— 
 when I am there—but I like yours and father’s better.” 
 
 He shook his head. ‘My work doesn’t amount to much,” 
 he said. “TI like it, too, of course—I can’t help it. But I 
 can’t stay at it much longer. I must look for something 
 that will pay me better, and offer a chance of getting on. I 
 don’t want to settle down to being a Seleucus Gammon. Not 
 that Seleucus isn’t a fine chap, you understand; he is.” 
 
 “I know. I think I understand just what you mean. 
 What have you planned to do?” 
 
 “Oh, I haven’t any real plans—yet. I may try to go to 
 sea, mate of a steamer, perhaps. Or to get in with some 
 ship-broking house in Boston. It will have to be something 
 to do with salt water,’ he added, with a laugh. “I shouldn’t 
 be happy, I guess, unless it was.” 
 
 She turned to look at him. “Then you have given up all 
 idea of being keeper of a life-saving station?” she asked. 
 “You did want to be one, didn’t you?” 
 
 The tone of the question was so casual that he did not 
 realize what might be behind it. 
 
 “Yes,” he answered. “I did want to be cap’n of a station 
 before I quit the service. But I don’t care to go to Crooked 
 Hill—or—” 
 
 “Or anywhere but your own station—Setuckit,” she put 
 tm, quickly. “Were you very disappointed when father was 
 given the place, Mr. Homer ?” 
 
 It was his turn to stop and look. She met his gaze frankly 
 and in her eyes were pity, comprehension, tenderness—some- 
 thing which caused him to catch his breath and look away 
 again. 
 
 “Why—why—” he stammered; “how did you know—who 
 told you—” 
 
RUGGED WATER 23) 
 
 She did not wait for him to finish. “I know,” she said, 
 with a nod and smile. “I know all about it. It is one of 
 the things I have learned since I came here a week ago. I 
 know that you expected the appointment, that Captain 
 Myrick and the superintendent wanted you to have-it, and 
 that the men all wanted you, too. And then father was 
 made keeper and every one at Setuckit was bitter about it. 
 I know all that.” 
 
 He did not answer. Some one—probably several some 
 ones—had been telling tales; telling them to her, the very 
 person who should not have heard them. 
 
 “Tt is true, isn’t it?’ she asked. “You were disappointed 
 —and bitter?” 
 
 He frowned. There was no use in lying; one couldn’t 
 lie to this girl. Those eyes of hers would see through any 
 lie. 
 
 “That is all over and done with. Let’s talk about some- 
 thing else,” he suggested rather stiffly. 
 
 “No, it is what I came with you to talk about. I came 
 for just that. ... Do you suppose if I hadn’t had a par- 
 ticular purpose, I should have forced my company on you 
 as I did? I was waiting for you there at the door. You 
 couldn’t get rid of me—even though you did try very hard, 
 Mr. Homer.” 
 
 Here was another revelation of her capacity to see 
 through pretense. It staggered him. She had seen that he 
 was trying to get away from her. She had noticed his hesi- 
 tancy when she offered to accompany him. What else had 
 she seen—or guessed? 
 
 She answered that question herself. 
 
 “You have avoided me very carefully for some time,” she 
 went on. “Oh, yes, you have. It, was plain enough. [I 
 noticed it almost the very first day I came. Or, if not the 
 very first, then the second surely. I couldn’t understand— 
 until I found out how you felt about the appointment. Then 
 I understood, of course.” 
 
 So she did not understand at all. That was a mercy. But 
 being misunderstood was not wholly agreeable. 
 
232 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Now, Miss Bartlett,’ he began. Again she interrupted. 
 
 “Oh, don’t pretend,” she protested hastily. “We haven't 
 time. I must leave you and go back to father very soon; 
 I ought to go now. But I was determined to talk with you 
 before I left, and this was my only chance. I don’t blame 
 you for feeling bitter and hard about father’s being made 
 keeper, when you had so counted upon it. And I think it 
 is very splendid of you to be as loyal to him as you have 
 been. I can’t thank you enough for that. And he appre- 
 ciates it, too, even though he doesn’t know—what I know 
 now.” 
 
 He broke in sharply. “Don’t you tell him,” he ordered. 
 
 “Of course I shan’t. I promise you that. You promised 
 me to help him with his work and you have done it. I keep 
 my promises, too; he doesn’t know, and he shan’t know, so 
 far as I am concerned. But I have been thinking this mat- 
 ter over—I haven’t really thought of anything else since I 
 learned about it—and I’m afraid I am not going to be satis- 
 fied with the promise you have already given. I want an- 
 other from you. I want you to be more than just loyal to 
 my father. I want you and him to be friends.” 
 
 “Why, we are friends. I don’t hold any grudge against 
 your father; if that is what you mean. I certainly don’t 
 blame him for taking the place when it came his way.” 
 
 “Don’t you? Are you sure? I’m afraid you do. It is 
 natural you should.” 
 
 “TI don’t. I did want the appointment; I may as well be 
 honest about that. I wanted it—yes, and I expected it; 
 but I didn’t get it, that’s all.” 
 
 “And you realize, don’t you, that father deserved it?” 
 
 “I suppose he did.” 
 
 “TI wish you wouldn’t say ‘suppose.’ If he hadn’t deserved 
 it, if he hadn’t earned it by his years and years in the serv- 
 ice, risking his life over and over again—yes, and almost 
 losing it there at the last—if he hadn’t deserved it and won 
 it fairly why was it given to him?” 
 
 He did not answer. It was on the tip of his tongue to 
 retort that the politicians gave it to him. That they had re- 
 
RUGGED WATER 233 
 sponded, as was their habit, to newspaper sensation, and had 
 not troubled to look into the rights and wrongs of the matter 
 at all. He thought this, but he did not say it. He said 
 nothing. 
 
 “You are still bitter, aren’t you?” she observed regretfully. 
 “T am awfully sorry.” 
 
 “T am not bitter—against your father. I wish you would 
 believe that.” 
 
 “T should like to believe it. Will you prove it by being his 
 friend ?” 
 
 He turned toward her. “Miss Bartlett,” he said, “I don’t 
 get exactly what you mean. When you went away, when 
 you were leaving after Christmas, you told me you were 
 glad that the skipper had one loyal friend here. You meant 
 me, of course. I promised to do all I could to help him. I 
 have. Now you seem to think I haven’t been as friendly 
 as I ought to have been. Why?” 
 
 “T don’t think any such thing. You have been perfectly 
 splendid.” 
 
 “Then what is it you are asking me to do? What more 
 do you want?” 
 
 “I want you to stay on here at the station for a while 
 longer than you think of doing. You are planning to leave 
 the first of March, aren’t you?” 
 
 “Who told you I was? I haven’t said so to a soul.” 
 
 “You just said it to me—or what amounts to the same 
 thing. Captain Kellogg gave me the first hint while we were 
 driving down together. He said he didn’t know whether 
 you would be here much longer than March. He said you 
 promised him you would stay until then. And now you 
 yourself tell me you are going to look for another place 
 outside of the service. It didn’t need an especially brilliant 
 mind to put the two together.” 
 
 He was annoyed at Kellogg. The latter should not have 
 mentioned the argument between them. 
 
 “Well, I was going to leave,” he admitted. “T did tell you 
 I had concluded I ought to do it before long. I didn’t say 
 anything about the first of March, and Cap’n Kellogg 
 
234 RUGGED WATER 
 
 shouldn’t have said it, either. That was supposed to be our 
 own affair entirely.” 
 
 “Then you are going then?” 
 
 “Yes. But you said you understand my reasons. I 
 thought you agreed with them.” 
 
 “T do, in a way, so far as staying in the service always is 
 concerned. But I know perfectly well that if you, instead 
 of my father, had been made the Setuckit keeper, you would 
 have stayed—for some time longer. And I don’t want you 
 to leave for such a reason as that. It troubles me very 
 much.” 
 
 “Tt shouldn’t. It isn’t his fault—or yours.” 
 
 “TI feel as if it was. You would have stayed, wouldn’t 
 you, if it hadn’t been for—for us?” 
 
 “If I had been made keeper I should have stayed for a 
 while, I suppose. Not always.” 
 
 “Won’t you stay now—and wait—and see what happens?” 
 
 “TI can’t. Besides, what is likely to happen ?”’ 
 
 “Oh, I don’t know. Father—sometimes I think he isn’t 
 well enough to keep on here. He says he is, but I can see. 
 If I had my way I think I should ask him to give it up— 
 the worry and care and all—and come to Fairborough and 
 live there with me. I don’t earn a great deal, of course, 
 but I have a little money in the bank, and we could get along, 
 if we were careful. I have even hinted at it since I have 
 been here this time, but he won’t listen. It makes him 
 angry and stubborn. He says he is going to stay in the 
 life-saving work until he dies. He can’t bear contradic- 
 tion, and is furious if I suggest that he isn’t as strong as he 
 used to be. Perhaps he is—perhaps it is all my imagination 
 —but there may come a time, and sooner than he expects, 
 when he will be willing to give up.and retire. Then—why 
 then, you would have his place, and I shouldn’t feel as wicked 
 and guilty as I do now.” 
 
 Her voice broke in the last sentence. He looked at her 
 in surprise. 
 
 “Guilty!” he repeated. “You don’t feel guilty on my 
 account, do you, Norma—Miss Bartlett, I mean?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 235 
 
 She smiled faintly. “Oh, call me Norma,” she said. 
 “You are the only one down here who doesn’t. Yes, I do 
 feel guilty. JI urged father to accept the appointment; he 
 wouldn’t have done it, if I hadn’t. But I didn’t realize I 
 was helping him to take it from some one else—and—and 
 the very one who has been the kindest, most considerate— 
 No, I just can’t bear to have you go away feeling resentful 
 towards father and me.” 
 
 “But I don’t. I have told you so half a dozen times. As 
 for having any feeling against you, that is ridiculous.” 
 
 “No, it isn’t. Don’t you suppose I can see? At first I 
 didn’t notice, or, if I did, I paid no attention. But now, 
 when I see how you avoid me, and understand the reason, 
 I blame myself. I am so grateful to you for helping us 
 as you have—a thousand times more grateful since I have 
 learned of your disappointment, and how hard it must be 
 for you to be so nice, or even nice at all. But I can’t bear 
 to have you give up your hopes and ambitions and feel 
 that, even in the least, it is my fault, and that you feel that 
 it is.” 
 
 “But I don’t. It is nobody’s fault—nobody’s here, at any 
 rate. My quitting the service hasn’t anything to do with 
 Cap’n Bartlett or you.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, it has. If it hadn’t you would stay. Won't 
 you stay, for a while longer, and wait—and see what may 
 happen? I wish you would. It would make me feel very 
 much better. Please say that you will.” 
 
 It was the thing he could not say. For reasons quite 
 different from those she imagined, remaining at Setuckit 
 Station had become for him impossible. He shook his 
 head. 
 
 “I’m afraid I can’t,” he said. “I must leave on March 
 first.” 
 
 “Why should you hurry? A few months more can’t 
 make much difference.” 
 
 “No, I must go then.” 
 
 “Father needs you so much.” 
 
 “Oh, he’ll be all right.” 
 
236 RUGGED WATER 
 
 She was silent and, although he did not dare look at her, 
 he knew she was looking at him. Then she sighed. 
 
 “TI see,” she said. “You are as stubborn as father. I 
 wonder if all men are like that. J am sorry. Yes, and hurt 
 a little, although perhaps I shouldn’t be. To ask you to 
 forget and forgive, under the circumstances, is more than 
 I should expect, I suppose. Well, you have been a good 
 friend, outwardly at least, and I shall always think of you 
 as a friend. And, until you do go, you will keep on being 
 father’s friend, so far as standing by him is concerned? 
 You will promise that once more, won’t you?” 
 
 “Yes. But I—I don’t want you to—you mustn’t. You 
 don’t understand.” 
 
 “Yes, I do. I understand everything. Well, I don’t sup- 
 pose I shall see you again, Mr. Homer. I hope you will 
 be successful, and find just the sort of business opening you 
 are looking for. Good-by.” 
 
 She put out her hand. He gazed at it and at her. 
 
 “You are not going to walk any further with me?’ he 
 stammered. 
 
 “No. I’m going back to the station to pack my bag and 
 to be with father for the little time I have left. I shall 
 leave early this afternoon. The man from Orham is coming 
 for me with his horse and buggy. I suppose he is on his 
 way down now. It will be a wet, disagreeable ride... . 
 Good-by. You will shake hands with me, won’t you?” 
 
 He took her hand. Even then he could not realize that 
 this was their final parting. That she was really going away, 
 out of his life, out of his future—that although they might 
 meet again it would be under quite different circumstances; 
 that the intimacy, the confidences between them, were over 
 forever. No, he did not realize this; he realized only that 
 something was wrong—completely, absolutely wrong, and 
 that it must not be. 
 
 “Why—why, you—you mustn’t—” he stammered. She 
 withdrew her hand. 
 
 “Oh, yes, I must,” she said. “And I must hurry, too. 
 Thank you again for all you have done. Good-by.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 237 
 
 She turned and walked away. He took a step toward her. 
 
 “Norma!” he cried. 
 
 She waved her hand. Then the heavy, cold fog came be- 
 tween them. His last glimpse of her was but of a slender 
 shape, a shadow which disappeared into the grayness. 
 
 For some minutes he stood there. Then he moved slowly 
 on down the beach in the opposite direction. He was sup- 
 posed to be on patrol. He should be keenly alert to any 
 unusual sound from the sea. Sight was impossible, the fog 
 was so thick as to hide everything further than fifty feet 
 from the shore, but he should be trying to look, and listen- 
 ing always. Incidentally he was late. His time for arriving 
 at the halfway shanty had already passed. He ought to 
 have hurried, but he did not, he tramped on slowly, very 
 slowly, and his thoughts were as far removed from duty 
 and wide-awake vigilance as they could possibly be. 
 
 Behind him the great foghorn at the lighthouse blared its 
 mighty tremolo. From distant Orham and from the invis- 
 ible ship channel other horns howled or screamed or tooted. 
 He did not hear nor heed them. Realization was his at last. 
 It was forcing itself upon him. He and she had said good- 
 by, not only for the present, but for always. 
 
 He could not have it so. The thought made him desperate 
 and savagely rebellious. He forgot that he ought to be 
 thankful she had gone; forgot entirely that he had been 
 doing his best to get away from the fascination of her pres- 
 ence; forgot the obvious fact that for a man in his position— 
 a man betrothed to another woman and therefore bound by 
 all that was honorable and decent—her departure was the 
 very best thing that could happen; he forgot all this and was 
 fiercely angry at the fate which separated them. It was not 
 until he had tramped another half mile and was almost at 
 the halfway shanty that reason began to return and resent- 
 ment to disappear. 
 
 He opened the door of the little building and entered. 
 His first move was to telephone the station and report that 
 he had sighted nor heard nothing during his walk down. 
 Phinney answered the phone and would have asked ques- 
 
238 RUGGED WATER 
 
 tions, but Homer did not wait to hear them; he hung up 
 the receiver and sat down by the stove to think for a few 
 moments before starting on his return trip. 
 
 There was a dash of common sense in his thinking now. 
 Yes—yes, perhaps it was better that she had gone. Of 
 course it was; better for him, certainly, and possibly better 
 for her. The latter possibility was remote, because, after all, 
 he could never have counted in the life of a girl like that, 
 except as what she had asked him to be—a friend. He was 
 a common longshoreman, nothing more, and because she 
 had chosen to trust him as a confidant it did not mean that 
 she could ever consider him an equal. And as for her think- 
 ing of him in a closer, dearer way, why—why, it was ridicu- 
 lous. He laughed aloud at the insane idea; but it was not 
 a cheerful laugh. 
 
 And, except when she had said good-by and since, he, 
 himself, had never really thought of such a thing. He had 
 tried to avoid her company because he knew that Myra would 
 not have liked him to walk and talk with another girl. 
 Myra was waiting for him, up there in Orham, waiting and 
 working for him, and willing to wait, too. She was wonder- 
 ful, and true, and patient—and he!— MHe had not been 
 true to her, in thought at least. He had been thinking crazy 
 thoughts, mean ones. He leaned back in the rickety chair 
 and squared his shoulders. ‘Those thoughts were gone with 
 the girl who, although she was quite unaware of it and 
 would have been confused had she known, was their inspira- 
 tion. It was a good thing for him that she had gone. It 
 was much better for everybody. It was all right. 
 
 Thus spoke reason and common sense. But if, for an 
 instant, he ceased to cling to these faculties, he was only 
 too conscious that it was all wrong. 
 
 The shanty door was thrown open and George Sears, 
 patrolman from the Orham Station, came in. They ex- 
 changed greetings. Sears observed that the fog outside was 
 thicker than potato soup. Calvin agreed that it was. Sears 
 added another item of information. 
 
 “We're goin’ to have some tide to-day,” he declared. 
 
RUGGED WATER 239 
 
 “Tt’s runnin’ acrost the beach down yonder at the marsh 
 hole two foot deep already. I had to wade halfway up my 
 boot laigs to get through. Have to go clear around the inside 
 end when I go back, I cal’late. Guess likely it’ll be worse 
 up your way, Cal, ’specially there between them two high 
 sand hills. How was it when you come down?” 
 
 “Tt was pretty wet in spots. The tide is coming in fast, 
 I suppose ?” 
 
 “Runnin’ like a down-hill cranberry swamp ditch when 
 the snow melts. Godfreys! I was thinkin’ that it was a 
 good thing I knew my way. A feller that didn’t, in this 
 fog—it’s half snow now—might get caught out in the middle 
 of one of them stretches and get next door to afloat. Might 
 have to swim—don’t know’s he wouldn’t. .. . Hey? Where 
 you goin’? What’s your hurry?” 
 
 Homer had sprung to his feet and was pulling his cap 
 down upon his head. There was an expression on his face 
 which caused Sears to ask another question. 
 
 “What’s struck you all to once?’ he demanded. “You 
 took sick?” 
 
 “I’m all right,’ was the unsatisfying reply. “I must go, 
 that’s all. See you later, George.” 
 
 He hurried out of the door and started, with long strides, 
 up the shore in the direction of Setuckit. The Orham man’s 
 words had caused him to forget all that he had been thinking 
 and remember something else. Norma! She did not know 
 the way, along that beach, in a fog, as the surfmen did. She 
 might not realize the rush with which the tide came in at 
 times like these. She and he had crossed the stretch be- 
 tween the sand hills on the way down, but even then it was 
 difficult. And the worst of it was that after crossing the 
 shallow channel on the one side, the side nearer the half- 
 way shanty, there was a comparatively dry space—almost 
 an island—in the middle. And on the other was a second 
 channel which, at ordinary high tide, must be waded. At this 
 tide, such tides as were running now, it would be more than 
 waist deep, and with a current strong enough to throw a 
 man from his feet, to say nothing of a girl. If she attempted 
 
240 RUGGED WATER 
 
 to cross that stretch on her way back to the station she might 
 be caught by the tide. She would surely be wet through in 
 that icy water. She might—yes, there was even some 
 danger. And he, because he had not warned her, was 
 responsible. 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances, for any one else, he would 
 not have been greatly alarmed. The possibility of real 
 danger was remote. But for her any such possibility, the 
 remotest, was terrifying. He was by no means a nervous 
 man, and not given to unreasonable apprehending, but now, 
 as he strode along the shore he was thoroughly frightened. 
 
 The fog—it was now more of a sleety drizzle than a mist 
 —was thicker than ever, and there were occasional flurries 
 of snow. The wind whistled and wailed in from the sea, 
 whipping the dead beach grass and cutting his face with its 
 chilling gusts. The foghorns screeched and bellowed. 
 
 He reached the edge of the low stretch at the foot of the 
 high dune. The tide was pouring past, running in a froth- 
 ing current, two feet deep even there. He stopped and 
 called her name. There was no answer. The whistle of 
 the wind, the boom of the surf, the gurgle of the rushing 
 tide, the foghorns, and the raucous screech of an invisible 
 gull, were the only sounds. He called again, at the top of 
 his voice, but received no answer. 
 
 Then it occurred to him that she might not have attempted 
 the crossing, after all. She might have realized that the 
 water was too deep, and have turned inland to go around the 
 end of the cut through. If she had, all was well. He 
 stooped and searched the sand for footprints. He found 
 some, but they were his, and hers—those they had left on 
 the way down. He walked along the edge of the channel. 
 The sand was loose and shifting at the higher spots and 
 footprints there would be vague and ill defined. It was 
 only at the tide edge that the marks would be plain and 
 unmistakable. 
 
 It was not until he had gone perhaps fifty yards further 
 that he found them. The marks of a feminine foot, and 
 leading straight out across the flat. The water was but a 
 
RUGGED WATER 241 
 
 few inches deep here, and it was plain to see why she had 
 crossed at this point. She must have thought this the end— 
 or nearly the end—of the tideway. But it was not. The 
 other and deeper channel was beyond, barring her way. If 
 she attempted to cross that— 
 
 He splashed through, following the footprints. On the 
 hardpacked, wet sand at the further edge they were clearly 
 defined, but even now the rising tide was filling the im- 
 pressions. It rippled against his rubber boots as he ran. 
 Again he called. 
 
 “Norma! Norma! Where are you?” 
 
 This time the answer came. Faint, and some distance to 
 the left. 
 
 “Here I am!  Here!’’ she cried. 
 
 The driving sleet prevented his seeing her, but he kept 
 on shouting and listening for her replies. When, at last, 
 he did sight her, she was standing in what appeared to be 
 the middle of a shoreless sea. The current was over her 
 shoe tops. He came splashing to her side. 
 
 “Are you—are you all right?” he gasped. 
 
 She was shivering, but she managed to smile. 
 
 “Of course,” she said. “I am cold, that is all. And com- 
 pletely turned around. I hadn’t the least idea which way 
 to go. It all looks alike, doesn’t it?” 
 
 He did not answer. All his resolution was needed to keep 
 from saying things which must not be said. 
 
 “T was glad enough when I heard you call,” she went on. 
 “IT was sure you would come pretty soon. ... What are 
 you doing? You mustn’t try to carry me. I am too heavy.” 
 
 Still he did not reply. Instead he picked her up in his 
 arms and waded out into the rapidly deepening current. 
 She protested. 
 
 “You can’t; you mustn’t,” she exclaimed. “You can never 
 do it. Gracious, how deep it is getting! Put me down, 
 please. I can wade just as well as you can. And I can’t 
 be any wetter than I am this minute.” 
 
 The partial falsity of this statement was proven before 
 the following minute ended. The tide was pouring past 
 
242 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Calvin’s knees, and with every step it deepened. He was 
 midway of the channel, and almost waist deep, when a bit 
 of wreckage, washed from its grave in the sand of the 
 beach, was dashed against his shins with sudden violence. 
 It caught him unawares in the middle of a stride, and threw 
 him off his balance. Norma, also very much surprised, 
 uttered a startled exclamation and struggled involuntarily 
 in his arms. Her struggle was the final straw. He tottered, 
 tried to keep his feet, and then went over with a tremendous 
 splash. He had no time to think and his hold upon his pas- 
 senger loosened. When, after a choking instant beneath 
 the icy water, his head and shoulders emerged, his arms 
 were empty. Norma had disappeared. 
 
 Her disappearance was but momentary. He saw her a 
 few yards from him, stumbling and trying to stand, only to 
 stumble and fall again. He wallowed after her, seized her 
 with a grip that nothing short of dynamite could have 
 loosened, and plowed madly on, through the deepest part, 
 up the shelving shore of the cut, to the dune, to the highest 
 point of that dune. There he stopped, still holding her in 
 his arms. Save for that first startled “Oh!” when he 
 stumbled, she had not spoken a word, nor had she screamed 
 once. 
 
 He stood there, his arms about her. Her eyes were 
 closed. The fear that she had been hurt crossed his mind. 
 
 “Norma!” he cried, anxiously. “‘Norma!” 
 
 She opened her eyes. “I am all right,” she panted. “I 
 shall be—in just a minute. ... My breath—I haven’t any. 
 ye Ou can! put meéeidowni),”.'. Lam fallsricht,, 
 
 But he did not put her down. Her head was on his 
 shoulder and her face was close to his. A disinterested 
 person, noticing the tableau, might have found it rather 
 funny. Both were dripping water from every thread of 
 their garments, from their hair, from their boots, from 
 their fingers. And still he held her close. Fortunately 
 there were no disinterested persons present. | 
 
 She looked up at him and, perhaps seeing the look in 
 his eyes, tried to escape. 
 
RUGGED WATER 243 
 
 “Put me down—please,” she gasped. 
 
 Instead he kissed her—kissed her again and again, mur- 
 muring all sorts of things, mad things. Myra Fuller was 
 quite forgotten. But, even if he had remembered her, he 
 could not have prevented himself from saying those things 
 now. For this was real, this was different, this was—he 
 could not have told what it was, nor wished to; it was, and 
 that was quite enough. 
 
 As a matter of fact, he remembered nothing; honor, and 
 brave resolutions had been swept completely from his 
 thoughts, and he had fallen, head over heels, helplessly— 
 just as he had gone down when the bit of wreckage struck 
 against his legs out there in the channel. That drifting 
 wreckage was responsible for both upsets—but this was by 
 far the more serious. 
 
 She had reddened at his first kiss; then she had turned 
 pale. And now, at the first opportunity, she spoke. Was 
 it the very first? Well, perhaps not. 
 
 “Calvin,” she begged. “Please! Put me down.” 
 
 He obeyed, but he seized her hand, and she did not take 
 it away. He began to stammer something, an incoherent 
 jumble of somethings. | 
 
 “Norma,” he cried, breathlessly. “I—I don’t know why 
 I—I didn’t mean to. . . . Oh, yes, I did! I did! I couldn’t 
 help it! Norma, I know I must be crazy to—to think you 
 could—a girl like you—and—and a no-account fellow like 
 me—it is—” 
 
 She interrupted. “Don’t, Calvin,” she said. 
 
 “But it is true, you know it is. I am no-account, and 
 you are so wonderful. But I—I am crazy about you. I 
 haven’t thought of anything but you for—forever, I guess.” 
 
 A remarkably short forever, and a remarkably short 
 memory; but he believed he was speaking the truth— 
 then. 
 
 “T didn’t mean to tell you—ever,” he declared. “I said to 
 myself I mustn’t—I wouldn’t. But now—just now—when 
 I thought you might be hurt, and—and it was my fault— 
 
 I—i—’” 
 
244 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Again she interrupted. “Don’t, Calvin,” she urged. “Be- 
 cause—” 
 
 “Because ?” 
 
 “Why, because you mustn’t say that. It wasn’t your fault 
 and, besides, I— Yes, I am very glad you did say the— 
 the other things. I—I wanted you to.” 
 
 He stared, incredulous. 
 
 “You wanted me to?” he gasped. 
 
 She smiled. A tremulous smile, but with a trace of mis- 
 chief in it. 
 
 “Why, yes. You see, I was afraid you—you weren’t going 
 to.” 
 
 “Norma! You don’t—you can’t mean you really love 
 me? Love me?” 
 
 The smile was still there. “Of course,’ she said. “I 
 don’t know why you didn’t see it. I was sure every one 
 else must.” 
 
 There followed another tableau. And, in the midst of it, 
 out of the sleet-streaked dimness came a hail, a series of 
 yells. 
 
 SHellott: en dikidllomi«, olsNorma’, 3). 4) Normayieri a 
 Calving iw. dadiellod, 
 
 The tableau dissolved. Norma turned in the direction of 
 the shouts. 
 
 “Who is it?” she asked, in a startled whisper. 
 
 “Somebody hunting for us. Seleucus, I guess. Your 
 father must have got worried and sent him out to look for 
 you... . And you’re soaking wet, and you must be half 
 frozen. And I have kept you here... .” 
 
 She put out her hand. “Did you think I didn’t want to be 
 kept?” she whispered. “But I must go now. Answer 
 him.” 
 
 So Calvin shouted in reply. A moment later the bulky 
 form of Mr. Gammon loomed up through the sleet, a sea 
 elephant in wet and shiny oilskins. 
 
 “Here you be, eh?” he grunted. “I’ve been bellowin’ my 
 head off for ye. The old man’s scart to death. He thinks 
 you've drownded or somethin’. Crimus, you look as if you 
 
RUGGED WATER 245 
 
 was drownded! What’s the trouble; been in swimmin’, 
 have ye?” 
 
 Norma answered. “I tried to cross the flats here,” she 
 explained, “and got into trouble. Mr. Homer pulled me 
 out and got in himself. That is all.” 
 
 “That’s all, eh? Well, I’'d say ’twas enough, too—in the 
 middle of winter! Ain’t you froze stiff?” 
 
 This was not all exaggeration; their wet garments were 
 beginning to freeze. Norma shivered. 
 
 “T didn’t realize it,’ she declared, with a quick glance 
 at her fellow adventurer, “but I do believe I am.” 
 
 “Yes, and you will be a whole lot more if we don’t get 
 you home in a hurry. Come on now, both of ye. Move! 
 Run—if you can.” 
 
 They could and they did. There was no more breath 
 wasted in conversation during the rush to the station. | 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 H E did not see her again for an hour, and after that 
 
 only when others were present. She had changed 
 
 her wet clothes for dry ones, had packed her bag, 
 and was ready to leave for Orham before she came out of 
 her room. Captain Bartlett, the shadow of her departure 
 already heavy upon him, did not leave her side, and during 
 the eleven o’clock dinner the other men were there and any 
 chance of a private interview was precluded. 
 
 Frank Hammond, the livery stable keeper, arrived just 
 before the meal and ate with them. He reported the 
 weather mean enough, but the “going” not so very hard, 
 and that the drive up along the inside—the bay side—of 
 the beach was perfectly feasible and presented no great 
 difficulties. He and his passenger climbed into the buggy, 
 and the curtain and “boot” were tightly fastened about 
 them. She shook hands with every one. When it was 
 Calvin’s turn he ventured a whisper. 
 
 “You will write?” he begged. 
 
 “Of course. And you will?” 
 
 TAY OOK 
 
 “And you will be very careful of father—and yourself?” 
 
 or he 
 
 “Don’t tell him about—about us. It will be better for 
 me to tell him by and by.” 
 
 “Of course.” 
 
 That was all, because Benoni, jealous of every last mo- 
 ment, crowded by to say a final farewell, and to caution 
 Hammond about taking no chances in his driving. Norma 
 was to stay at the Ocean House in Orham that night and 
 to take the six o’clock train for Boston the next morning. 
 She would arrive in Fairborough the following afternoon. 
 
 The sleet had turned to a light, fine snow, and, as the 
 
 246 
 
RUGGED WATER 247 
 
 buggy disappeared into the dimness, Seleucus uttered a 
 prophecy. 
 
 “Settin’ in for a reg’lar stretch of it,” he declared. “We 
 ain’t had much snow so fur this winter, but we generally 
 get our allowance sooner or later.” 
 
 Bartlett, who had been gazing after the vehicle, turned. 
 
 “You don’t figger it'll snow hard enough to bother her 
 about gettin’ to the village all right, do you?” he asked 
 anxiously. | 
 
 Gammon shook his head. “No, no,’ he said. “This 
 don’t amount to nothin’ now. Be more flurries like this, 
 and sleet, and the like of that, but nothin’ to hurt nobody, 
 as I judge it. What I’m tryin’ to say is that I shouldn’t 
 wonder if we had some real winter from now on.” 
 
 Ed Bloomer grunted. “‘You’ve been sayin’ those very 
 words ever since Thanksgivin’,’ he declared. “And the 
 more you talk the finer the weather is. Just ’cause there’s 
 one or two snow squalls that don’t mean we’re in for a bliz- 
 zard. You make a noise like Peleg. The prophet habit 
 must be catchin’.” 
 
 Seleucus regarded him with lofty contempt. 
 
 “Tf some things was catchin’,” he observed, “I’d never 
 have ate them cod tongues and sounds you cooked for dinner, 
 Ed. There’s enough tongue—yes, and sound, too—around 
 where you be already without riskin’. takin’ aboard any 
 more. But I do think we’re in for foul weather now, or 
 pretty soon, and I'll tell you why.” 
 
 He glanced in the direction of the skipper, who had 
 turned to enter the station, and repeated, “T’ll tell you why. 
 It’s because she’s gone—Norma. Long as she stops it’s 
 fine as summer, no wrecks, and we don’t have nothin’ to do; 
 but just the minute she goes it thickens up and a half-dozen 
 schooners start to run ashore. You think it over and see 
 if ’tain’t so. Crimustee! I’m beginnin’ to believe it! Gettin’ 
 stooperticious, | be. Look at the old man’s face—did you 
 notice it? He’s been hoppin’ ’round here, spruce and lively 
 as a sand flea. Now he’s all overcast, and he was talkin’ to 
 himself when he went in that door. He'll be holdin’ soli- 
 
248 RUGGED WATER 
 
 taire meetin’ all afternoon, see if he don’t. Yes, and look 
 at the rest of us. Don’t look very chipper, do we? Course 
 part of that’s the kird of grub we have to put under our 
 hatches when Ed’s cook, but part of it’s somethin’ else. 
 Look at Josh there—a settled, married man, with children 
 enough to man a fleet of tugs. Look at Wallie, with a 
 wife ashore. Look at—eh? Yes, look at Calvin. Crimus, 
 Cal, don’t cry! She may come back again. She’ll come to 
 see me; she told me she couldn’t stay away from me very 
 long.” 
 
 Hez Rogers pricked up his ears. “Did she now!’ he 
 drawled. “Well, well, ain’t that interestin’! I’Il tell Jemima. 
 She’ll be proud to know how popular you are, Seleucus.” 
 
 Calvin was grateful to Hezekiah for the distraction of 
 interest from himself to Mr. Gammon. He was not crying, 
 far from it, but he was very solemn. His feelings were curi- 
 ously mixed. He was happy—madly, radiantly happy. It 
 seemed impossible that such happiness could be his, that 
 Norma Bartlett really loved him. But she did—she did— 
 she had said so. And there was no shadow of a doubt as 
 to his love for her. His regard for Myra Fuller had been 
 merely a fancy, a delusion born of passion and impulse. 
 From that first evening when, after leaving her, he had 
 walked to the wharf to his meeting with Benoni Bartlett, 
 he had felt—when he permitted himself to think honestly— 
 like a mouse ina trap. Their next interview, that in which 
 they had come so near to a separation, had strengthened 
 this feeling. She did not see matters as he did. She was 
 ambitious, and to further her ambitions, she expected him 
 to do things he could never have done. She would always 
 have expected it. They never could have been happy to- 
 gether. She was a clever, handsome girl, but she was not 
 the girl for him. He did not love her. Now, when real 
 love had come to him, he knew that he had never loved her. 
 
 He must tell her so, and at once, there was no question 
 as to that. In fairness to her, to himself, and, above all, 
 to Norma, he must tell her and without delay. As a matter 
 of fact, he had delayed too long already. For weeks he 
 
RUGGED WATER 249 
 
 had been restless and ill at ease, and his uneasiness and 
 dissatisfaction had reached their crisis when realization of 
 his feeling toward Norma had been forced upon him. Not 
 that he had meant Norma should ever know of that feeling. 
 Bound in honor to another, as he was, even though that 
 bond had become hateful, still he would not have spoken. 
 Now that fate, in the shape of a bit of floating wreckage in 
 the cut through, had overthrown—not only him—but all 
 his brave resolutions of self-renunciation and repression, the 
 necessity for the immediate breaking of that bond was im- 
 perative. 
 
 He must see Myra and ask her to release him from their 
 engagement, and at the first possible moment. There was 
 no faltering in his mind, but he dreaded the ordeal. And, 
 although he knew it to be the only thing to do, the only 
 honorable thing, his unreasonable conscience troubled him. 
 He did not love Myra. Did she love him? She had said 
 so. There had been times when he doubted if her love was 
 strong enough to embrace the slightest element of self-sacri- 
 fice, when he had been inclined to believe that she loved her- 
 self and her own whims and ambitions first, and everything 
 else second; but his conscience told him that this, after all, 
 might be only surmise. She had not yielded when he told her 
 that he could not further those schemes of hers in the way 
 she expected; she had merely temporized and changed the 
 subject. And her letters seemed to prove that she had not 
 conceded anything. But she said she loved him. 
 
 He felt guilty, and disloyal—almost wicked—as he thought 
 of her, but to hesitate or equivocate would be a thousand 
 times more wicked. He was troubled to think that Norma 
 did not know. He would have told her if he had had an 
 opportunity, but she and he had not been alone together 
 since Seleucus interrupted them there on the beach. He 
 would tell her at once, would write her the whole story; 
 but first he would see Myra and tell her. That “liberty 
 day,” which Bartlett had been reluctant to grant him, must 
 not be longer postponed. 
 
 He spoke concerning it to the keeper that very afternoon. 
 
 a 
 
250 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Bartlett was, as Gammon had said, very much “overcast.” 
 His face was solemn, almost haggard. He listened ab- 
 sently to his subordinate’s plea and Calvin noticed that the 
 little Bible was once more upon the table. He had remained 
 in his room ever since his daughter’s departure. 
 
 “T can’t spare you now, Homer,” he said. “By and by 
 I can arrange it, maybe, but not just now. I need you 
 around here.” 
 
 “But, Cap’n, I really must go. I shouldn’t ask if it 
 wasn’t important. It is—very.” 
 
 “Um-hum. Well, you wait a little while, a few days or 
 so. Perhaps the first of next week.” 
 
 “Cap’n Bartlett, really I don’t see how I can wait as long 
 as that.” 
 
 “Can’t you? Why not? What is it that’s so important 
 it can’t be put off when I say I need you here?” 
 
 Calvin hesitated. “Why,” he said, “it is—well, it is a 
 personal matter that—that—” 
 
 “Tt ain’t your turn for liberty, is it?” 
 
 “No, but I can arrange that with Rogers. It is his turn 
 this week and I can fix it with him, I’m sure.” 
 
 “Tl do the fixin’ of those things, myself. I’m head of 
 this station, I guess, although some of you fellows seem to 
 think I ain’t.” 
 
 “T don’t know what you mean by that.” 
 
 “Don’t you? No, I don’t know’s you do, boy. I haven’t 
 got any fault to find with you. You’re all right, even 
 though you do put your trust in things of this world more’n 
 I wish you did. I used to myself afore—afore His great 
 light was sent to my soul. I was just readin’ the Psalm 
 where it tells—” 
 
 Homer broke in. “Cap’n,’”’ he insisted, “I hate to keep 
 saying it, but I wish you would let me have my day off. 
 Perhaps half a day would be enough.” 
 
 “All right, all right,” testily. ‘“You’re goin’ to have it, 
 ain’t you? Wait till the first of next week, and then I'll 
 see. .. . Run along now; I want to read a spell longer.” 
 
 Calvin found it hard to restrain his anger. There was no 
 
RUGGED WATER 251 
 
 earthly reason why he could not be spared. Bartlett spoke 
 again. 
 
 “Boy,” he said with a sigh, “I don’t want you to think 
 I’m mean, or anything like that. I just feel as if—as if 
 somethin’ was goin’ to happen to me, and I want you to be 
 on hand. That’s how I feel.” 
 
 Here was a new freak, or fancy. There had been enough 
 before. Calvin did his best to seem interested, but it was 
 hard work. 
 
 “Going to happen?” he repeated wearily. ‘What ?” 
 
 “T don’t know what. I just feel so, that’s all. As if 
 somethin’ was goin’ to happen—somethin’ bad. I wonder 
 if,’ relapsing into a sort of gloomy retrospection, “I’ve done 
 anything the Lord don’t like. Don’t seem as if I had, I can’t 
 recollect anything, but why should He lay His hand as heavy 
 on me, if *twan’t for some reason like that? I feel—lI feel 
 as if there was a kind of—of a great black cloud settlin’ all 
 around me. That’s strange, ain’t it?” 
 
 “That’s easy, Cap’n. You’re lonesome, that’s all. Your 
 daughter has been here. Now she has gone and you’re 
 lonesome.” 
 
 “Cal’late that’s it, do you? Maybe you're right. I don’t 
 know’s I ought to set so much store by that girl. I don’t 
 know but it makes God kind of jealous. It says in the book 
 that He’s a jealous God; don’t you remember it does?” 
 
 “TI don’t believe He is jealous that way.” 
 
 “Think not? Seems hardly as if He would be jealous 
 of a feller’s carin’ for his daughter. ... Humph! She’s an 
 awful nice girl, Norma is. She likes it down here, likes 
 the crew, she does; yes, and the critters, too. Notice how 
 the cats and the dog cruise around in her wake when she’s 
 here? She likes you, too, Cal. Didn’t she never tell you 
 she does?” " 
 
 The little room was rather dark and Calvin, at that mo- 
 ment, was thankful for the shadows. 
 
 “Why—why, she has said something—er—of that kind,” 
 he admitted. 
 
 “Um-hum. Well, she does. That’s one reason why I 
 
252 RUGGED WATER 
 
 hate to have you go away just this time. ‘You trust Mr. 
 Homer, papa,’ she says. ‘I’ve told him to look out for you, 
 and he will.’ Course I told her my trust was laid on some- 
 body higher than a Number One life-savin’ man, but, all 
 the same, I don’t like you to go on leave just now. She 
 wouldn’t want you to; that’s the way I feel.” 
 
 There was no answer to be made to this. Calvin sur- 
 rendered for the time, but he determined to try again, and 
 within a day or two. He must see Myra. Writing her 
 would be, he felt, more than ever cowardly. He must see 
 her before he wrote Norma to tell the latter the story of his 
 unfortunate entanglement. Break that entanglement first, 
 and then write the whole truth to Norma. She would under- 
 stand, he dared to hope, and forgive him for being such a 
 fool as to dream he could ever have loved any one but her. 
 
 He wrote her that very night, but in his letter he did not 
 mention Myra’s name. It was a long letter, too—a very 
 long letter. And when it was sealed his conscience still 
 troubled him; and he was tempted to write another, telling 
 the whole story and begging for understanding and pardon. 
 Yet she might not understand. No, he must see Myra first. 
 
 It was the same decision he had made before; yet he 
 unmade and remade it again and again before morning came. 
 And the next day he once more sought the skipper and 
 asked the latter for a few hours of liberty. Bartlett’s an- 
 swer was still the same. Wait a little while; he could not 
 be spared now. Calvin gave it up in disgust. He determined 
 to write Myra. Writing might or might not be cowardly, 
 but, in any event, it was not as meanly impossible as further 
 postponement. 
 
 So that evening, after supper, when the skipper was in 
 his room, and the men off duty playing seven-up in the mess 
 room, he sat down at the little table in the sleeping quarters 
 —the only place where he could be alone—and wrote the 
 fateful letter. It was quite the hardest task of composition 
 he had ever tackled, and he tore up and rewrote many pages. 
 He tried to be absolutely frank, to be straightforward and 
 honest. He explained how the sense of their unfitness for 
 
RUGGED WATER 253 
 
 each other had grown upon him, had, in fact, been increas- 
 ingly with him ever since the evening of their betrothal. 
 She and he did not think alike, their ideas and aspirations 
 were quite dissimilar. It was another sort of man entirely 
 whom she should marry, a cleverer, more ambitious man. 
 
 “And, most of all, Myra [he wrote], is the thing that is 
 so hard to say, but must be said because it is true. I thought 
 at the very first that I loved you the way a fellow should 
 love the girl he means to marry. I know now that I don’t, 
 and never did, love you like that. I ought to, of course. 
 I realize that you are a hundred times more clever than I 
 am, and that everybody would think, and probably be right 
 in thinking, I was not half good enough for you. I shouldn’t 
 wonder if you really felt that way yourself, even though 
 you haven’t said so. If we were married I should be dis- 
 appointing you all the time and you would be disgusted with 
 me. If I really cared for you the way I ought to perhaps 
 these other things wouldn’t count, and I should marry you, 
 anyhow, and take the risk. I don’t—that is the truth—not 
 enough for that. And, to be honest, I don’t think you care 
 for me in that way. I am almost sure you don’t. It is better 
 to end it now, like this, than to go on pretending, and be 
 sorry by and by. Of course you will hate me when you 
 read this letter and think I am everything that is mean and 
 sneaking. But I hope that, some day, when you have 
 thought it over, you will agrce that we never were fitted 
 for each other, and that you are well out of it. Then, 
 maybe, you will forgive me. I hope so. I meant to see you 
 and tell you all this, but I couldn’t get the leave I asked 
 for, and so I had to write. It was the only decent thing 
 I could do.” 
 
 He put the letter in the envelope, addressed and sealed 
 it. Then, after a struggle with his conscience, he tore it 
 open and added a postscript. 
 
 “T wasn’t going to tell you now [he wrote], but I think 
 I ought to. And you will have guessed it, anyway. There 
 is some one else. Not that she makes the least difference in 
 my deciding that I am not the right fellow for you to marry. 
 
254 RUGGED WATER 
 
 My mind has been made up to that for a long time, and I 
 should have told you so when I saw you. But there is 
 some one, that is the truth.” 
 
 This time the envelope remained sealed. He took it down- 
 stairs and put it in the bag with the other letters, those which 
 were to go to Orham whenever some one from Setuckit 
 could take them. 
 
 Peleg Myrick, as it happened, was that some one, The 
 hermit, in the Wild Duck, came to the station the next fore- 
 noon. He had just come from Orham, and was going back 
 there, and he brought a packet of letters and papers in ex- 
 change for the one he took away. Calvin was out while 
 he was there, and did not arrive until he had departed. 
 There were two letters bearing Homer’s name upon the 
 mess-room table. One was from Norma. He read that 
 first. It was short, but very satisfactory. He read it over 
 and over again. She loved him. It seemed impossible, but 
 there it was, in black and white. The letter was mailed 
 in Boston—she had written it on the train. He was to take 
 good care of her father and especially good care of him- 
 self. She had two people there at Setuckit now, so she said, 
 to think about and dream about, and which was the more 
 precious she wasn’t going to permit herself to consider. He 
 must write every day and tell her everything—everything. 
 She would write again just as soon as she reached Fair- 
 borough. 
 
 The handwriting upon the other envelope was familiar 
 and he opened it with a twinge of conscience. The twinge 
 disappeared as he read. It was from Myra Fuller, and the 
 young woman was in anything but a good humor. She had 
 wasted no space in telling him that she loved him. 
 
 “If what people up here are saying is true [she wrote], 
 and I guess there is no doubt that it is, I am pretty well 
 disgusted with you. I have been waiting for you to come 
 and see me. I expected you to come, I wrote you that it 
 was very important you should come. But you didn’t. Tell- 
 ing me that you couldn’t get away from the station is a 
 pretty poor excuse. Other men get away on leave, and if 
 
RUGGED WATER 255 
 
 you wanted to very much, I imagine you could. But never 
 mind that now. It is too late, anyway, and I am beginning 
 not to care a great deal whether you ever come or not. If 
 you don’t care to see me, there are others who do, and who 
 would come often enough if I would let them. You may as 
 well understand that. But what makes me perfectly furi- 
 ous are the stories I hear about the things that have happened 
 there at Setuckit. Kellogg came down there to find out about 
 old Bartlett’s cowardice when that schooner came ashore, 
 and Alvin Crocker’s crowd went off to her in their boat. 
 According to the stories he questioned everybody, including 
 you, and the end of it all was that Bartlett is still keeper 
 there. Now why? That is what I want to know from you. 
 You knew perfectly well that he was on the very edge of 
 being discharged, that he ought to be, the cowardly old thing, 
 and that you, by just saying a word, just the bare truth, 
 could have had him put out of the service. Why didn’t you 
 say it? You knew there was your chance, our chance, and 
 that I would count on your taking it. And you didn’t take 
 it. I hear, and it came straight from old Kellogg, that you 
 were in favor of giving Bartlett another chance, just as 
 the rest of the idiots there were. Oh, I am so mad I can 
 hardly write. And I shan’t write any more. It is up to 
 you now. I have been working and planning and contriving 
 for us, and all for your sake, of course, and when our 
 chance comes you do the very thing you know I wouldn’t 
 want you to do. If you have any excuse, any reasonable 
 one, I am willing to hear it. But J am not the kind of girl, 
 T’ll have you know, who has to coax and beg a fellow to 
 do what she wants him to do. I am distinctly not that kind. 
 And I should advise you to see me very soon—very soon. 
 It is high time we had a plain talk and a complete under- 
 standing.” 
 
 Whew! This was a different kind of Myra altogether, 
 and a different kind of letter from the sweetly affectionate 
 epistles she had written before. Calvin was surprised when 
 he read it, but, if Myra had seen him when the reading was. 
 ended, she might have been even more so. He smiled, drew 
 
256 RUGGED WATER 
 
 a long breath, a breath of relief, tore the letter into frag~ 
 ments and put them in the stove. His conscience was suf- 
 ficiently salved now. He need not have worried concern- 
 ing Myra’s grief when she received his statement of feeling 
 toward her. Apparently he had sent it just in time. Well, 
 he was glad he had sent it before her letter came. She 
 would, at least, know that her fiery ultimatum had not in- 
 fluenced him in writing as he did. It was all over. It was 
 settled. He was out of the trap. And, best of all, the es- 
 cape would be equally satisfactory to both parties. 
 
 He began another letter to Norma that very evening, but 
 he did not finish it. He was in the midst of his confession, 
 writing her the whole foolish story of Myra Fuller, and his 
 own insane, and very brief, delirium of fancied regard for 
 that young person, when he was interrupted. He put the 
 unfinished letter in the drawer of his chest, and there it 
 stayed. Many things were to happen before he saw it again. 
 
 At five o’clock that afternoon, the afternoon of the third 
 day following Norma’s departure, it had begun to blow. By 
 nine that evening a gale had developed which, for velocity 
 and general wickedness, had been, so far that winter, ri- 
 valed only by the November no’theaster during which Cal- 
 vin, because of Captain Myrick’s leaving, was in temporary 
 command at Setuckit. It was Bartlett who interrupted 
 Homer. at his letter writing. The skipper was extremely 
 nervous. Just as Seleucus had prophesied, the reaction on 
 his spirits since his daughter’s departure had been marked. 
 During her stay at the station he had been an active, almost 
 normal and cheerful man. The morning of the day of her 
 departure he began to fidget and grow melancholy, and since 
 then he had slumped back into his former moody, silent 
 habit. As Phinney said, the only man he talked to was 
 himself. With the coming of the great storm, and as it 
 hourly increased, his eccentricities increased with it. He 
 prowled about the station and, finding Calvin in the sleeping 
 quarters, led him away to inspect the boat and gear, a per- 
 fectly unnecessary procedure. 
 
 The wind continued to blow, and with it came thick 
 
RUGGED WATER 257 
 
 snow. It stopped snowing at daybreak, but cold succeeded, 
 a cold which forced the mercury down to the zero mark, 
 with the gale as strong as ever. The weather bureau’s 
 warnings, sent out the day before, had cleared the ship 
 channel of the majority of vessels; their skippers had de- 
 cided to remain in port or had anchored their craft in shel- 
 tered and safe localities. As always, however, there were a 
 few reckless adventurers who scorned such warnings. 
 Their vessels were out there, in the thick of it, fighting the 
 wind and tide, trying to claw away from the dangerous 
 coast. And it was for these that the Setuckit keeper was 
 ordered by telephone from the Orham Station—the message 
 relayed from Superintendent Kellogg at Provincetown—to 
 keep a sharp lookout. 
 
 Bartlett was up and about all night. His nerves were 
 more jumpy than Calvin had known them to be, which was 
 saying much. He paced the floor of the mess room, went to 
 his room again and again, only to emerge a few minutes 
 later and climb the stairs to the tower, read the barometer, 
 peer from the windows into the snow-streaked blackness, 
 and come down to question the men when they came in from 
 patrol. Homer urged him to turn in and sleep, but the 
 suggestion was gruffly, almost savagely, dismissed. By 
 morning he was in a wretched condition, a condition which 
 all hands noticed and commented upon. 
 
 Calvin was thoroughly alarmed. He, too, had been awake 
 practically all night, for he was far too apprehensive con- 
 cerning his superior to sleep. Remembering the so recent 
 happening when the skipper refused to heed the call of the 
 Rose Cahoon until forced into action by the whaleboat crew, 
 he dreaded what might take place should another call come. 
 As he lay there on his cot, he was forced to admit that he 
 could remember no instance where Bartlett had been eager 
 to order out the boat, or even prompt to do so. Never had 
 he shown that keen energy, amounting almost to grim joy, 
 with which Oswald Myrick had been wont to leap down 
 the stairs from the tower, ordering his men into action. 
 Benoni had shown something like it when driving the boat 
 
258 RUGGED WATER 
 
 in pursuit of Crocker’s volunteers, but that was sheer des- 
 peration. He was obliged to be desperate then or be dis- 
 missed for cowardice. And his muttered confession, made 
 afterwards to Calvin, that he remembered very little of 
 what he had done, was not a comforting reassurance for 
 the future. There were times that night when Calvin was 
 far from certain that he had done right in expressing so 
 confidently to the superintendent his belief that Bartlett 
 should be given another chance. It might have been better 
 had the skipper been diplomatically forced into resigning, 
 on the score of ill health. For, when that other chance 
 came, who knew how he might meet it? Something infinitely 
 worse might happen. Yes, even for Norma’s sake, a resig- 
 nation then might have been better. He dreaded the de- 
 velopments the day might bring. 
 
 At eleven o’clock, while the men were at dinner, the 
 telephone bell rang. Orham Station reported a schooner— 
 at that period seven eighths of the craft passing Broad Rip 
 were schooners—in sight off the Sand Hill and plainly mak- 
 ing a hard fight of it. Calvin answered the call and listened 
 to the words of the Orham keeper. “She’s pretty well out,” 
 the latter said, “and she may make it all right, but I thought 
 I'd tell you to keep an eye on her. Guess likely this is the 
 last chance we'll have to talk, because the telephone between 
 here and town is out of kilter—poles down somewheres, I 
 presume likely—and it’s only by luck some of them between 
 us and you ain’t carried away. They’re liable to be any 
 minute, in this gale. Is it cold down to Setuckit? ’Tain’t 
 summer ’round here, I’m tellin’ everybody. This is the worst 
 we've had yet this winter. J—” 
 
 There the conversation broke off, and no amount of 
 ringing awoke a response. In all probability the prophecy 
 concerning the carrying away of the poles had been fulfilled. 
 
 The skipper was in his room at the moment, and to him 
 Calvin bore the message concerning the schooner. Bartlett, 
 pale and red eyed after his night’s vigil, went immediately 
 to the tower. Calvin accompanied him. Bearse, the look- 
 out, reported having already sighted the schooner, but a 
 
RUGGED WATER 259 
 
 * 
 
 snow flurry over that part of the sea had intervened, and 
 she was now invisible. “Pretty well out, she was,” said 
 Bearse. “And headin’ sou’west by south. She’s a two- 
 master, and heavy loaded, by the look of her. She didn’t 
 seem to be in any trouble. Long’s she can keep that course 
 she’s all right. Don’t you think so, Cap’n?” 
 
 Bartlett did not reply. He swept the sea with the glass 
 and Calvin, when he had finished, followed suit; but it was 
 still snowing off there in midchannel, and the schooner 
 could not be seen. The skipper turned to the stairs. Homer 
 lingered to caution Bearse. 
 
 “Watch her all the time, Sam,” he ordered. “And report 
 if there are any signs of her being in trouble.” 
 
 Sam nodded. “Aye, aye,” he answered, and added in a 
 whisper, “Say, Cal, what ails the old man? Did you notice 
 how wild he looks? Ain’t gettin’ another streak of the 
 ‘restin’’ disease, 1s he? He’d have some excuse for it this 
 time. This would sartin be one lovely day for a picnic 
 cruise to the Sand Hill.” 
 
 Calvin caught up with the skipper at the foot of the stairs. 
 
 “T think she’s all right, Cap’n,” he said; “don’t you?” 
 
 Bartlett did not seem to hear. On the threshold of his 
 room he turned. 
 
 “Let me alone, don’t bother me, boy,” he said, solemnly. 
 “T’m goin’ in here to have a talk and I mustn’t be dis- 
 turbed.”’ 
 
 Calvin was bewildered. The little room—he could see it 
 through the open door—was quite empty. 
 
 “To talk?” he repeated. “To talk with one of the men, 
 you mean?” 
 
 “No, no. Why should I talk with the men? They don’t 
 know anything.” 
 
 “Then who—?” 
 
 Benoni smiled, a queerly condescending smile. He laid a 
 hand on his companion’s sleeve. He spoke as one might to 
 an inquisitive child. 
 
 “Don’t say nothin’ to the rest of ’em, boy,” he whispered. 
 “They might want to peek in, or listen or somethin’, and He 
 
260 RUGGED WATER 
 
 wouldn’t like it. It’s just between Him and me, you under- 
 stand.” 
 
 “Him? Who?” 
 
 “God. He’s in there now, waitin’ for me. He’s goin’ to 
 tell me what to do. Don’t say anything.” 
 
 With another smile, and a reassuring wink, he closed the 
 door behind him. For an instant Calvin remained where he 
 was. Then he turned away. This was sheer insanity. This 
 was worse than anything his misgivings of the night before 
 had conceived. 
 
 He walked through the mess room, where the men were 
 back at their everlasting game of seven-up, to the kitchen. 
 Wallie Oaks was there and Wallie evidently had something 
 to say. 
 
 “Sst—Cal,” he whispered beckoning from the further 
 corner, “come here a minute. I want to ask you somethin’.” 
 
 Calvin, his thoughts busy only with the skipper and partial 
 realization of what the latter’s condition might mean, walked 
 absently across the room. 
 
 “Well, what is it?” he asked, rather impatiently. 
 
 Oaks peered cautiously over his shoulder. “Cal,” he whis- 
 pered, his voice trembling, “the old man ain’t goin’ to take 
 us out to-day, is he? He wouldn’t try it, you don’t think, 
 do you?” 
 
 Calvin looked at him. 
 
 “Here!” he snapped. “What the devil is the matter with 
 you, Wallie? What are you talking about?” 
 
 The man’s fingers were twisting and untwisting. 
 
 “T’m talkin’ about the old man—Bartlett,”’ he declared. 
 “That schooner off yonder. The one they phoned from 
 Orham about. You don’t think the skipper ‘Il try to go to 
 her ?” 
 
 “He doesn’t have to go yet. She’s all right so far. When 
 she isn’t, and if she needs us, we'll go, I suppose.” 
 
 “By Godfreys, J won’t go!” 
 
 Homer frowned. He seized Oaks by the shoulder. 
 
 “Are you drunk?” he demanded. “You talk like a fool. 
 - . . Oh, I see,” contemptuously, “you’re scared again.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 261 
 
 “Tt don’t make no difference whether I’m scared or not 
 If Bartlett orders us out a day like this he’s crazy, that’s all, 
 Lots of folks think he is crazy and that would prove it. 
 Why, it’s five below zero, Cal. And blowin’ worse than I 
 ever saw it blow. We'd freeze to death, if we wasn’t 
 drownded first. We couldn’t get off there anyhow. I ain’t 
 goin’ to be killed to please a crazy man. Not for no sixty- 
 five a month, I ain’t. The boys won’t neither, if you say 
 not to, Cal. If he orders us out let’s say we won’t go. If you 
 say it the fellows ‘Il stand behind you, and— Let go of me! 
 What are you doin’?” 
 
 Homer was shaking him savagely. “Shut up, you fool!’ 
 he whispered. “Pull yourself together. Do you want the 
 rest to hear you?” 
 
 “T don’t care if they do hear me. I tell you I won’t go 
 out in that boat to-day. I’m goin’ to quit this damned job, 
 anyhow. And I’d just as soon quit it now. Aw, Cal, have 
 some sense. . . . Stop that, will you!” 
 
 Calvin had shaken him again. This new complication, 
 following Bartlett’s weird behavior, had put his nerves on 
 edge. 
 
 “Shut up, I tell you!” he growled. “And listen to what 
 I say. You're going to quit the job all right. You bet you 
 are! Ill see to that. But you won’t quit it now. If you 
 say another word about backing out or lying down, I'll knock 
 your head through that wall. I will. ... Now you behave 
 yourself,” 
 
 He threw the fellow away from him and walked back to _ 
 the mess room. As he entered it Sam Bearse came hurrying 
 down the stairs. 
 
 “Where’s the skipper?” he demanded. “That schooner’s 
 give up tryin’, I guess. She’s histed distress signals. She’s 
 singin’ out for us. Oh, my, what a sweet job it’s goin’ to be! 
 Where’s Cap’n Bartlett?” 
 
 Calvin caught him as he was about to open the door of 
 the keeper’s room. 
 
 “Wait a minute, Sam,” he said. “Let me have a look at 
 her first. Don’t call the cap’n until I come down.” 
 
262 RUGGED WATER 
 
 * 
 
 He ran up the stairs and bent to the telescope. The snow 
 squall had passed and the schooner was in plain sight. Still, 
 very far out, at least eight or nine miles from the station, 
 she was wallowing along under a fragment of sail, and the 
 signal for help was flying at her masthead. Calvin watched 
 her for a moment. She seemed to be still under control, but 
 if not—and she drifted before the gale—she might pass clear 
 of the Sand Hill; but unless aid came very shortly she would 
 strike upon the southern edge of the Hog’s Back, or, missing 
 that, pile up on the even more dangerous Tarpaulin. There 
 was a possible chance of reaching her in time if they started 
 at once. The slightest delay would eliminate that chance. 
 
 He ran down again. The men—with the exception of 
 Oaks, who, white faced and rigid, was standing in the door- 
 way leading to the kitchen—were already pulling on their 
 layers of sweaters and oilskins. Homer, not stopping to 
 knock or hail, threw open the door of the keeper’s room. 
 
 )Capn,’ he called...Cap'n) Bartlett,’ 
 
 Benoni was sitting by the table. He turned, and rose 
 slowly to his feet. 
 
 “Cap’n,” announced Calvin, “that schooner is signaling 
 for us. We'll have to start right off. I'll attend to every- 
 thing while you’re getting ready.” 
 
 He was hurrying out when the skipper called his name. 
 Bartlett had taken a step in his direction and was standing 
 there, his hand raised. 
 
 “What is it?” asked Calvin. 
 
 The keeper was smiling, that same odd, reassuring smile 
 which Homer had noticed at their parting of a few minutes 
 before. His heart sank as he saw it. Bartlett nodded. 
 
 “Tt’s all right, boy,” he said calmly. “It’s all right. We 
 ain’t goin’ to that schooner.” 
 
 Calvin’s ears noted behind him the sudden cessation of 
 movement as the men paused in their hurried dressing. He 
 stared at his superior. 
 
 “You’re not going—?” he repeated. “But we must go. 
 If we don’t start now we shall be too late.” 
 
 Bartlett nodded again. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he 
 
RUGGED WATER 263 
 
 said once more. “We ain’t goin’ to start. I’ve had my orders 
 and we stay here. That schooner’s bein’ looked after. We 
 don’t need to worry.” 
 
 “Being looked after? Why—” 
 
 “Sshh! Don’t worry, I tell you. God A’mighty is lookin’ 
 after her. She’s in His hands. He’s told me so, right here 
 in this room. He and I had a talk about it and I—” 
 
 Calvin waited to hear no more. He swung about and 
 faced the amazed crew. 
 
 “Get out the boat,’ he ordered. “Lively.” 
 
 For an instant there was silence. The men looked at each 
 other and at him. Then Seleucus spoke. 
 
 “Aye, aye, Cal,” he said. “Out she comes. Come on, fel- 
 lows. Sam, you and me’ll attend to the horses. Come on!” 
 
 He led the way to the outer door. Bearse started to follow 
 him, but paused. The others did not move, they were watch- 
 ing Bartlett. 
 
 The skipper had stepped forward, his hand upraised. The 
 smile had left his face. He was scowling now, and his deep- 
 set eyes were glittering. 
 
 “Stay where you are!” he growled. “Don’t you move, 
 not a man of you. Take off those oilskins and go and sit 
 down. I’m cap’n here. Sit down.” 
 
 The authority in his voice and manner had an effect. 
 Absolute obedience was a long-established habit in this vet- 
 eran crew. It was one thing to talk of mutiny. To mutiny, 
 in fact, was quite another. The men hesitated, and as they 
 did so, Wallie Oaks sprang to the front. 
 
 “That’s the talk, Cap’n,” he shouted. “That’s the talk! 
 You’re boss. All of you—here, you, Josh—you stop and 
 think what you’re doin’. Didn’t you hear Cap’n Bartlett 
 say to stay ashore? He’s skipper, ain’t he? Tain’t our. 
 business to—”’ 
 
 Calvin interrupted. He came running back, pushing his 
 comrades aside. His right fist was clenched and he raised it. 
 
 “Shut up, you!’ he commanded, fiercely. ‘““Boys—Josh, 
 Hez, all of you—this fellow is scared, that’s what ails him. 
 He was out there in the kitchen just now, almost crying, 
 
 !>? 
 
264 RUGGED WATER 
 
 and coaxing like a kid to make me promise we wouldn’t go 
 to that schooner if the skipper ordered us, because it wasn’t 
 safe and was too cold. Too cold! Think of that!” 
 
 Oaks snarled a protest. “It ain’t so,’ he cried. “It’s a 
 lie. I just said—” 
 
 Calvin’s fist caught him on the cheek and he went back- 
 wards, over a chair, to the floor. The blow, and the crash 
 accompanying Wallie’s upset, seemed to have a curious effect 
 upon the skipper. His face, which had been crimson with 
 rage, went white. He wrung his hands. 
 
 “Don’t! Don’t!” he pleaded. “You don’t understand, none 
 of you. The Lord told me not to send a boat to that schooner. 
 He was in that room there, talkin’ to me same as I’m talkin’ 
 to you—talkin’ right fo me. He says, ‘You and your crew 
 stay ashore. Those are my orders, He says. I heard Him 
 say it. [—” 
 
 Homer broke in. “What are you waiting for, boys?” he 
 shouted. “Do you want another mess like the Rosie Cahoon? 
 You'll have a worse one if we don’t start now. Ill take the 
 responsibility for going. Don’t pay attention to him. Can't 
 you see he’s crazy?” 
 
 “Crazy as a June bug,” bellowed Seleucus, from the kitchen 
 doorway. “Cal knows what he’s doin’. Come on, you darn 
 fools! Come on!” 
 
 They came then and wasted not another moment. Bart- 
 lett tried to stop them, but they pushed him out of the way. 
 Oaks remained where he was, prostrate in the corner, his 
 hand to his cheek. Bearse paused to say a word as he passed 
 on the way to the stable. 
 
 “Ain’t comin’, are you, Wallie?” he inquired. “AII right. 
 Stay where you are and think about your wife to home. 
 You'll be with her pretty soon, and to stay there, I cal’late.” 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 T HE crew of the Setuckit Station had been through 
 
 many trying experiences during their terms as surf- 
 
 men, but if you ask one of them, even now, which, 
 of all these experiences was the worst, he will unhesitatingly 
 specify the trip begun that February afternoon, under Calvin 
 Homer’s leadership, to the two-masted schooner Flyaway, 
 of Portland, bound west with a load of building sand. When 
 the lifeboat left Setuckit she was short handed. Ed Bloomer, 
 as cook, should have remained behind—was entitled to do so 
 —but he went with the rest. Oaks was not in his place, 
 nor was Bartlett. The whole affair was irregular, so one 
 more breach of regulations made little difference. 
 
 The schooner was still miles out when they left the beach, 
 but she was drifting in a diagonal direction toward Tarpaulin 
 Shoal. She was moving rather slowly, so Homer judged an 
 attempt had been made to anchor and that the anchor—or 
 anchors—were dragging. He ordered the lifeboat’s sail set, 
 three-reefed, and attempted to reach to windward of the 
 vessel. After a half hour of weary battling with the scream- 
 ing gale they dropped the sail and took up the oars. The 
 exercise was welcome, for the cold was piercing beyond 
 belief. The flying spray froze almost as soon as it struck, 
 The boat, inside and out, was soon coated with ice. The 
 men’s shoulders, their sou’westers, their eyebrows and eye- 
 lashes and mustaches were hung with icicles. Their mittens 
 were armored gauntlets hooked about the oar handles. Cal- 
 vin, swinging at the steering oar in the stern, was a glisten- 
 ing statue. The seas were so high that, in the hollows be- 
 tween them, the force of the wind noticeably abated and it 
 was not until they climbed to the next crest that it struck 
 them with the whole of its cruel force. 
 
 They made their objective at last and drew alongside the 
 practically helpless schooner. Her load of sand brought her 
 
 265 
 
266 RUGGED WATER 
 
 low in the water and the seas were breaking across her amid- 
 ships at intervals. She was a mass of ice from stem to stern. 
 Sails, ropes, windlass and gear, everything was incased in it, 
 buried under the weight of shining white. She looked like 
 a floating berg rather than a vessel. One anchor chain was 
 dragging over the stern, and that, above water, was white 
 also. 
 
 But two figures were on her deck. One was bent over the 
 wheel. The other, when Seleucus threw a rope aboard, 
 crawled from somewhere forward of the mainmast and 
 seized it. This man, so they learned when they scrambled 
 over the rail, was the skipper. 
 
 They left the lifeboat to tow astern and set to work. 
 There were six men in the schooner’s personnel. The two 
 on deck, the skipper and the hand at the wheel, were the 
 only ones able to be about. The rest were below, frostbitten, 
 helpless, and half conscious. The skipper and his com- 
 panion were for abandoning ship at once and being taken 
 immediately ashore. They had had enough; they were 
 through. Save all hands and let the Flyaway fly to destruc- 
 tion, that was their advice, given whole-heartedly. 
 
 But Calvin and his men had no such idea. The Flyaway 
 could be saved and they were there to save her. She was a 
 dingy, forlorn old craft and when the Setuckit men had made 
 a hasty examination of her and her outfit they were pretty 
 thoroughly disgusted. Homer ordered the pumps tested and 
 found she was leaking but a very little, so that was a ray 
 of comfort. But it was the only one. The next move was 
 to warm his own men and the schooner’s frozen crew, to 
 build a roaring fire in the galley and make boiling coffee, 
 and a great deal of it. But when this procedure was at- 
 tempted, the disheartening discoveries came one after the 
 other. 
 
 Both anchors had been put over; but one, chain and all, 
 was gone. The other was dragging and they let it drag for 
 the time, hoping that it might eventually catch and hold. 
 Calvin ordered the majority of his men to chop the ice from 
 
RUGGED WATER 267 
 
 the ropes and windlass, to keep the schooner on a safe course 
 down the channel, if possible, and to report if that possibility 
 became alarmingly endangered. Then he and Gammon went 
 to the galley to make the fires and boil the coffee. 
 
 Here they found a wretched state of affairs. The galley 
 was a dirty, roach-infested hole. The back of the rusty 
 cookstove was broken and was held in place by a brace of 
 plank. A thorough search disclosed no food except four 
 potatoes. There was no fuel, and but a gill of water. The 
 only kerosene was that in the binnacle light. The captain 
 of this floating ruin explained afterwards that he had in- 
 tended to run into the Vineyard and refit, and, having a good 
 wind—this was no exaggeration—had kept on with the idea 
 of making that port the previous night. Then the storm got 
 him and he tried to put to sea. What had happened after 
 that was obvious. 
 
 Phinney came down with the word that the anchor had 
 caught and seemed likely to hold—for a time, at least. He 
 added that the gale seemed to be lessening but that it was 
 colder than ever. 
 
 “Not that that makes much difference,’ he announced. 
 “When you’re froze stiff you don’t care how much stiffer 
 you get. For thunder sakes where’s that coffee, Cal? We'll 
 all die if we don’t get it. Them poor fellers in the fo’castle 
 are pretty nigh dead already.” 
 
 Calvin curtly explained that coffee was out of the question. 
 There was water, however, in the lifeboat and he ordered 
 Phinney to get it immediately. 
 
 “Send one of the men—Bloomer, I guess—down here,” 
 he added. When Bloomer came he ordered him and Seleucus 
 to chop wood for fires. 
 
 “Cut up some of the cabin berth boards,” he said. “Fires 
 we've got to have—or die.” 
 
 He left them in the cabin, tearing the mate’s berth to 
 pieces, and went on deck. The sun was setting, its redness 
 glimmering through the low-lying clouds, and it would be 
 dark before long. 
 
 The anchor was still holding and the sails, what was left 
 
268 RUGGED WATER 
 
 of them, were down on deck. The worst of the danger, 
 as far as the vessel was concerned, seemed to be over. Un- 
 less another storm developed they could save the schooner, 
 provided she did not start to leak in earnest. The hold was 
 filled with loose sand and, in that sea, there was some dan- 
 ger of its shifting, but he could not stop to worry about 
 that. What did worry him were the lives of the men aboard. 
 They would freeze to death unless warmth was provided 
 and at once. As for taking them ashore in the lifeboat that 
 was out of the question now. They would, some of them, 
 surely die before that long trip could be made. 
 
 Seleucus came up with an armful of wood. Ina few 
 minutes he reported a fire in the galley and water on to boil. 
 
 “If that durn stove don’t cave in,” he observed, “we'll 
 have somethin’ hot to load up our bilers with. Mine’s full 
 of ice just now. I can hear the chunks clinkin’ against each 
 other. Crimustee!” 
 
 Homer ordered fires built in the cabin and in the fo’castle. 
 He set Rogers and Badger at work rubbing the limbs of the 
 half-frozen sailors. Then came a yell from the cabin. Josh 
 Phinney came tumbling up. 
 
 “Ed’s hurt himself, Cal,” he panted. “Broke his arm, or 
 neck, or somethin’. He’s sufferin’ dreadful.” 
 
 What had happened was this: Bloomer had been chopping 
 the bottom boards of a berth and had rested the end of one 
 upon the second step of the cabin stairs. The ax, like 
 everything else aboard the Flyaway, was practically good 
 for nothing and, having hacked the board partially through, 
 he had tried stamping upon it to break it off. An unusually 
 heavy sea had thrown him off his balance and he was pitched 
 headlong, striking upon and dislocating his shoulder. He 
 was lying where he had fallen, his face white, and groaning 
 between his set teeth. The pain was agonizing. 
 
 Calvin made a hasty examination. Then he spoke to 
 Phinney. 
 
 “His shoulder is out,” he exclaimed, “We’ve got to get 
 it back somehow. Hold his other arm. Now, Ed, this is 
 going to hurt, but it won’t take long—I hope.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 269 
 
 His hope was more genuine than his confidence. The 
 injured man was laid flat on his back upon the floor and 
 Homer, grasping the helpless arm by the wrist, jammed his 
 rubber-booted foot close up under the armpit. Then he 
 pulled with ail his might. 
 
 It was a savage sort of surgery. The vessel was reeling 
 and rocking in the seas, the loose boards and the chopped 
 fragments of others were sliding and tumbling back and 
 forth. The perspiration poured down Bloomer’s face. He 
 was brave enough, but he could not keep back an occasional 
 groan, and Phinney groaned in sympathy. Homer, though 
 equally sympathetic, was too busy to groan. He pulled with 
 all his strength. 
 
 “Don’t hold your breath, Ed,” he panted. “And don’t 
 twist. Slack up. Give a little.” 
 
 “You’re—you’re stavin’ in my ribs,” gasped the patient. 
 “You’re killin’ me.” | 
 
 And then the shoulder snapped back into place. Bloomer’s 
 yell was a combination of agony and exultation. 
 
 “It’s in! It’s in!” he screamed. Then he fainted. 
 
 There was one berth still untouched and into it, beneath 
 the musty blankets, Bloomer was lifted. He was whole once 
 more, but very weak. 
 
 “It’s a plaguy shame, Cal,’ he murmured feebly, “when 
 you need me so. I was a fool to be so careless.” 
 
 “Never mind that, Ed. You'll be all right pretty soon. 
 Stay where you are till I tell you to turn out.” 
 
 All that night the Flyaway rolled and wallowed. Not a 
 man of the Setuckit crew slept for a moment. The fires in 
 the stoves were kept going, although Seleucus vowed he 
 cal’lated that, if he kept on, he’d have a hole chopped clean 
 through the old hooker’s broadside. The schooner’s own men 
 were all in bed now, for the captain and his only able helper 
 had collapsed when the pressing danger was over. The 
 live-savers took turns as watch on deck, coming down at 
 intervals to toast their chilled bodies by the stoves and to 
 drink scalding water by way of internal refreshment. 
 
 The morning broke as cold as ever, but clear. It was 
 
270 RUGGED WATER 
 
 still blowing hard. Badger came down to the cabin, to which 
 Calvin had descended a few minutes before to look after 
 his injured man. Bloomer declared that he was as fit as 
 a fiddle now and insisted upon getting up to do his share 
 of work. Homer was urging him to take it easy for a 
 little while longer when Badger appeared. 
 
 “Tight in the darkness, sailor,” he quoted gleefully. 
 “There’s a revenue cutter in sight. She sees us and she’s 
 headed this way. Looks like the Amgansett. If it is, old 
 Ben Higgins is in command and he’ll know how to handle 
 things. Brace up, Ed. We'll be bound back for home and 
 hot grub afore long. This bunch of trouble is pretty nigh 
 over.” 
 
 But it was not entirely over. Calvin went on deck at 
 once, saw the cutter steaming rapidly in their direction and 
 recognized, with a huge sense of relief, the well-known lines 
 of the Amgansett. Higgins, her commander, was a former 
 towboat captain, and a man of rugged common sense and 
 long experience in just such jobs as the one before him. 
 Homer, remembering Oswald Myrick’s tales of encounters 
 with some cutter captains—pompous young men with exalted 
 ideas of rank and dignity—-was glad to know that Ben Hig- 
 gins was here instead of one of these. 
 
 And then, just as the Amgansett passed: slowly by, await- 
 ing her opportunity to cast a line, the Flyaway’s anchor chain 
 parted with a bang like a cannon shot. It had held bravely 
 all night, but to expect anything pertaining to that ancient 
 craft to hold longer was too much. It broke and the schooner 
 drove off before the gale, leaving the slowly steaming cutter 
 far astern. 
 
 Homer ordered all hands on deck and bade them haul the 
 lifeboat alongside. The boat had been riding at the end 
 of its towline and was now leaping and veering along be- 
 hind the drifting schooner. They dragged it up to the rail 
 and Calvin sprang into it. 
 
 “Crimus, Cal,” roared Seleucus, “come back here! ’Tain’t 
 safe. What you doin’ ?” 
 
 Homer did not answer. He took up the steering oar and. 
 
RUGGED WATER 271 
 
 pushed the boat free. That lifeboat was the property of 
 Setuckit Station and he did not intend to have it smashed 
 if he could help it. He set the oar in its chock over the stern 
 and held the boat straight. 
 
 The cutter had turned and was racing in pursuit. It 
 caught up with the Flyaway and slackened speed. 
 
 “Stand by for a line,’ roared Higgins, through his speak- 
 ing trumpet. He was at the after rail, his cap pulled down 
 on one side of his gray head, chewing the stump of a cigar, 
 imperturbable as ever. 
 
 “Look out, you in that lifeboat,” he bellowed. 
 
 The seas were more huge than ever. The time-worn 
 description in the sea stories, of “billows mountains high,” 
 would not have been as much of an exaggeration as usual, 
 if applied to the waves that morning. Calvin, in the boat, 
 one moment looked down at the Amgansett’s deck, and the 
 next up at her stern with its threshing propeller. 
 
 “Look out! Stand by!” shouted Higgins. 
 
 A mighty sea threw the Flyaway high in air. It broke as 
 it passed her and, frothing and surging, poured down and 
 over the lifeboat. Homer had pulled in his oar and, crouch- 
 ing, clung to the after thwart. The water went over his 
 head; he was buried in it. It seemed to him that he was 
 never coming up. If the boat had not been a new one, one 
 of the recently adopted self-bailing variety, she never would 
 have risen again. But up she came at last, and with her 
 occupant still there in the stern. 
 
 Gammon and the rest, watching fearfully from the Fly- 
 aways rail, set up an exultant yell. A few minutes later the 
 cutter got a line to the schooner; one hawser and then an- 
 other was hauled aboard and made fast. The lifeboat, with 
 its drenched and rapidly-freezing man, was brought along- 
 side. They were in tow and safe. The long, wicked job 
 was done. Now they could go home. 
 
 Calvin thawed out a bit at the cabin stove and then gave 
 _ orders to start. They left the schooner’s men in the bunks. 
 They would be all right. The Flyaway was in charge of 
 Captain Ben Higgins from then on. He would tow her to 
 
272 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Vineyard Haven. The responsibility, so far as the Setuckit 
 life crew was concerned, was over. 
 
 But not the hardship. They had a twelve-mile journey 
 yet to make before they could reach dry clothes and heat 
 and food. ‘The three-reefed sail was set and they headed 
 for the station. It was long after noon before they beached 
 the boat in the cove. 
 
 Calvin had been too busy since he left the station to 
 think of anything except the work in hand. Even on the 
 way in, his steering and the burden of responsibility had 
 kept his mind occupied. But now, as, worn out and chilled 
 to the bone, he staggered stiffly through the sand to the door, 
 he began to think—and to realize. His first move, after en- 
 tering, was to go straight to the skipper’s room. Bartlett 
 was there and Oaks was with him. 
 
 “Cap’n,” began Calvin; but Bartlett interrupted. 
 
 “Don’t talk to me,” he ordered sternly. “And don’t call 
 me cap’n. I ain’t your cap’n any more. You don’t belong 
 to this station. You’re a mutineer and you’re discharged. 
 Now you get out.” 
 
 Oaks, his cheek swollen, scowled vindictively. “Cap’n 
 Bartlett and me have made out our reports,’ he announced. 
 “Your goose is cooked, Cal Homer. ... Here. Don’t you 
 touch me again.” 
 
 Calvin had no idea of touching him. His attention was 
 centered upon Benoni. He had expected to find the man a 
 stark lunatic. He had certainly been something akin to that 
 when he last saw him. Now, however, he appeared sane 
 enough. He was pale and his eyes still showed a trace of 
 their peculiar glitter, but he spoke quietly. Homer was 
 hesitating, wondering whether to say more, when Josh Phin- 
 ney and Rogers appeared in the doorway. 
 
 “Where’s that Wallie?” demanded Josh. “Oh, there yow 
 are! We've been lookin’ for you. You’re goin’ to get busy, 
 did you know it? We want coffee, and grub—and plenty 
 of both. And you’re goin’ to get ’em for us. Come on, 
 you loafer! Come on!” 
 
 Oaks sprang to his feet. “You let me alone!” he whined. 
 
RUGGED WATER 273 
 
 That was all he was permitted to say. Phinney and Rogers 
 were upon him and dragged him, profane and protesting, 
 through the mess room to the kitchen. The sound of a brace 
 of hearty kicks punctuated the scuffle. Calvin did not in- 
 terfere, nor did he attempt further speech with the skipper. 
 He turned and climbed painfully to the sleeping quarters. 
 Chips of ice fell from his oilskins as he moved. 
 
 Later, after he had changed and drunk cup after cup 
 of coffee, he tried again. But Bartlett would not talk. He 
 gruffly ordered him from the room and, as Calvin reluctantly 
 obeyed, he saw the keeper turn to his Bible reading. He 
 would not talk to any of the men, Oaks excepted, nor did 
 he issue a command or give the least attention to the routine 
 of the station. Upon Homer, therefore, fell the responsibility 
 which must be assumed by some one. 
 
 He was utterly worn out; fatigue, care and the loss of 
 food and sleep were bringing their reaction and his aching 
 muscles and tired brain refused to function clearly. Yet 
 he knew that the other men were in the same condition and 
 that the station work must go on. Oaks, under compulsion, 
 was preparing supper. Assistance along that line arrived 
 when Jemima Gammon and her brother came over from the 
 Jarvis shanty and offered their services. Jemima, after ex- 
 pressing a candid opinion concerning her husband’s lack of 
 common sense in staying on a job that didn’t pay anything 
 anyhow and was just an excuse for keeping him away from 
 home two thirds of the time and half dead the remainder, 
 shooed all hands, Oaks included, out of the kitchen and took 
 charge of the culinary operations. 
 
 Jarvis also volunteered to help in any way he could. His 
 resentment at losing the race to the Rosie Cahoon seemed to 
 have vanished, for the time, at least, and his offer was whole 
 hearted. Calvin accepted it. 
 
 “We'll have to send out patrol to-night, I suppose,” he 
 said, “but there isn’t a man fit to go, except Wallie, and I 
 wouldn’t trust him. You used to be in the service, Philander. 
 If you'll go out first, Pil follow you. When I get back I’ll 
 
274 RUGGED WATER 
 
 send some one else—Seleucus, I guess. He’s pretty tough 
 and a few hours’ sleep will fix him up. Here’s hoping we 
 don’t get another call. I don’t see how we could handle it 
 if we did. It is clear enough now, and the glass keeps rising. 
 I guess we'll have a stretch of fair weather. It is due us, 
 I should say.” 
 
 Immediately after supper—a meal in which an unbeliev- 
 able quantity of food was consumed and during which Mrs. 
 Gammon alternately urged them to eat more and made 
 pointed remarks concerning “pigs’—Calvin ordered the men 
 to their bunks. He turned in, himself, and slept like a 
 dead man until Philander, at midnight, shook him into some- 
 thing approaching wakefulness. Then he rose, donned his 
 clothes, and staggered out for his patrol. That tramp was 
 a nightmare, almost literally so, for he found himself falling 
 asleep whenever he paused for breath. Fortunately the wind 
 had gone down and the sky was clear and starlit. No vessels 
 were visible upon the sea. The great gale had cleared the 
 channel of craft, both steam and sail. 
 
 He returned at four, dragged Seleucus from his cot, and 
 sent him forth. Oaks he sent to the tower, with orders to 
 keep his eyes open unless he preferred to have them forcibly 
 closed. Wallie at first refused to go, but thought better of 
 it, and went, sullen and ugly. Homer was going to pay 
 for this, the man muttered; he’d find out before it was over 
 and done with. If there was any law anywhere he—Oaks. 
 —would have damages for being struck in the face when 
 he wasn’t looking. 
 
 Calvin tartly suggested that the damage would be im- 
 mediate and a great deal worse if he said any more at that 
 moment. Having disposed of that point, he went again to the 
 sleeping quarters and tumbled into bed. When he awoke it 
 was ten o’clock in the forenoon. The crew met his angry 
 protests with broad grins. He needed the sleep, they de- 
 clared, and they had cal’lated he should have it 
 
 Peleg Myrick’s boat was in the cove and Peleg himself 
 was below in the mess room. His nose for news had scented. 
 sensation and he had sailed down in the hope of finding it. 
 
RUGGED WATER 275 
 
 Also, he was stoutly protesting that he had known the 
 storm was coming, and had been saying so for a week. 
 
 “Aw, go on, Peleg, go on!” cackled Rogers derisively. 
 “Last time I saw you you was singin’ out nothin’ but fair 
 weather. Said it was liable to be so calm you didn’t know 
 but what *twould be good business to swap the sail of that 
 catboat of yours for an extry pair of oars.” 
 
 “T never neither,’ vowed Myrick in high indignation. “I 
 said *twas calm then, and ’twas too; but about last Saturday 
 —seems to me ’twas Saturday, might have been Sunday 
 mornin’—I got a twitch in my port laig, down in the latitudes 
 of my ankle, that fetched me right out of bed. ’Twas a 
 reg’lar pain, ’twas—sharp, as if somebody’d raked me with 
 an iyster knife.” 
 
 Seleucus offered a suggestion. “Probably ’twas that cat 
 of yours raked you,’ he observed. “Probably the critter 
 wanted to sharpen his claws and mistook your old tanned-up 
 laigs for the bedposts. They’re about the color of black 
 walnut.” 
 
 Calvin came in just here and interrupted to ask if Peleg 
 was going to Orham and, if so, if he would take a message 
 to the telegraph office. Peleg said that he would, provided 
 the message was ready in five minutes. 
 
 “T don’t know whether there’s any telegrams gettin’ 
 through yet,” he added, “but I can leave it to be sent soon’s 
 there is. Hurry up, that’s all. I ain’t got time to waste with 
 a gang like this.” 
 
 Homer wrote the message hurriedly. It was addressed to 
 Captain Kellogg at Provincetown and urged the latter to 
 visit Setuckit without delay. He gave no reasons for his 
 request. The superintendent, he thought, should learn the 
 situation from him, rather than from exaggerated gossip 
 which might leak from the telegraph office. He cautioned 
 Myrick to be silent. 
 
 “Don’t you do any talking, Peleg,” he said. “If you do 
 I shall hear of it, and you may get into trouble.” | 
 
 The skipper of the Wild Duck promised volubly, but Cal- 
 vin put little faith in his protests. Peleg was wont to 
 
276 RUGGED WATER 
 
 be long on promise, but, under stress of temptation to act as 
 a special news “extra,” inclined to be short of fulfill- 
 ment. 
 
 - Bartlett was still in his room, so the men said. He had 
 come out for breakfast, but had eaten little, and addressed 
 no word to any one of them. He looked pretty well “shook 
 up,” as Badger described it, and his hand trembled so that 
 he could scarcely hold his coffee cup. Oaks—but no one 
 seemed to know exactly where Wallie was. He was keeping 
 out of the way, they opined; perhaps he was writing to his 
 wife ashore. 
 
 But he appeared, a few minutes later, dressed in shore- 
 going togs and with a battered suit case in his hand. He 
 hastened through the group in the mess room and followed 
 Mr. Myrick to the beach. The crowd, therefore, promptly 
 followed him. Calvin went with them. 
 
 “Here, Wallie, where are you going?” he asked. Oaks 
 answered without stopping or turning. 
 
 “None of your business,” he snarled. 
 
 “Oh, yes, it is my business. Hold on there.” 
 
 Wallie threw the suit case into the Myrick dory before 
 he spoke. He picked up an oar and shoved the dory into 
 deep water. 
 
 “No, it ain’t your business neither, Cal Homer,” he de- 
 clared. “It’s nobody’s business but Cap’n Bartlett’s, and I’ve 
 told him. You may think you’re skipper here, but you ain’t 
 —not yet. There’s a whole lot of things to be said afore you 
 are, too. Go on, Peleg. What are you waitin’ for?” 
 
 Myrick, seated at the oars, was hesitating. 
 
 “Cal,” he cried, “Wallie asked me to take him up to 
 Orham along with me. It’s all right for me to take him, 
 ain’t it?” 
 
 Calvin thought for an instant. Then he nodded. “Yes, 
 take him,” he replied. “He’s no use here.” 
 
 And yet, as he thought more of the matter, he almost 
 wished that he had detained Oaks, even by force, if neces- 
 sary. The man, of course, was doing what he declared he 
 meant to do, quitting the station and the life-saving service. 
 
RUGGED WATER 277 
 
 That was all right; he was certain to be discharged, anyway. 
 But with him had gone all hope of keeping the story of the 
 mutiny at Setuckit from the eager ears of Orham. Oaks 
 would tell and what he would tell was likely to be a version 
 not in the least creditable to him, Calvin Homer, or within 
 a mile of the real truth. Kellogg, after all, would hear the 
 Oaks version first. Well, it could not be helped now. It 
 was one more straw added to the weight of trouble to come. 
 
 For the realization of how much trouble there was sure 
 to be, was—now that he was thoroughly awake and himself 
 once more—being driven into his mind. Bartlett had been 
 insane when he refused to go to the Flyaway and babbled 
 of his orders from the Almighty—there was no doubt what- 
 ever on that point. But his was a peculiar kind of insanity 
 which developed acutely under anxiety and fear, but sub- 
 sided when the crisis was over. Now, the average person 
 seeing and speaking with him, might consider him rational 
 and sensible enough. And his behavior, since the crew’s 
 return, was—Calvin was obliged to confess it—such as any 
 man, in similar circumstances, might adopt. His authority 
 had been defied and assumed by another. Therefore he had 
 since refused to reassume that authority, but was waiting to 
 tell his story to the district superintendent. Which was, to 
 all intents and purposes, precisely what Homer himself 
 would have done if placed in a similar position. 
 
 Calvin had hoped to see Kellogg before any one else saw 
 him, tell the plain truth, and await the consequences, what- 
 ever they might be. He had done right—there was nothing 
 else to be done. He and the men from Setuckit Station had 
 saved the Flyaway and the lives of those aboard her. If it 
 had to be done over again he should act in exactly the same 
 way. The men would substantiate his story. He was not 
 in the least fearful of the outcome. Kellogg was a man, 
 not an office martinet, and he would understand and ap- 
 prove. In the very unlikely event of his refusing to excuse 
 the extreme breach of discipline Calvin did not greatly care. 
 His conscience was clear. 
 
 But the thought of a distorted story, a story backed by 
 
278 RUGGED WATER 
 
 hate and revenge, being spread from one end of the Cape 
 to the other, was not agreeable. It would make matters 
 harder for Kellogg. It would have to be referred to Wash- 
 ington. It might even get into the papers. Norma might 
 read it there. Thoughts of her had been with him since he 
 rose from his bed. She had left her father in his care. 
 She had trusted him. He must get word to her, must tell 
 his story to her before she heard the other. 
 
 So, while the Wild Duck sailed toward Orham, he sat 
 down at the table beside his cot to write to her. He wished 
 now—how he wished !—that he had sent a letter, or even a 
 telegram, to her by Peleg, as he had sent the message to Kel- 
 logg. But he could have told so little in a telegram, and, at 
 all events, it was too late for that now. He would write 
 and try to get his letter up to the post office that very night, 
 somehow. 
 
 There was the unfinished letter in his chest, the one in 
 which he had begun his confession concerning Myra. He 
 thought of it, but this new complication seemed so much 
 more important—for the time, at least—that he left the 
 former letter where it was and began another. This was 
 brief, but he made it as straightforward and honest as he 
 could. He asked her to try and understand, begged her 
 forgiveness, and again promised to be as fair to Benoni Bart- 
 lett as if the latter were his own father. And he asked her 
 to write at once—or, better, telegraph—saying that she did 
 understand, in order that he might know he was forgiven. 
 
 The letter he intrusted to Hez Rogers, who was to hand 
 it to the patrolman from the Orham Station, when they met 
 at the halfway shanty, and the Orham man was to get it 
 over to the post office by the next morning, if he could. 
 After Hez had gone he thought of many more things he 
 might have said, or said better, but it was too late. For bet- 
 ter or worse the thing was done, and all he could do was to 
 wait—and hope. 
 
 The telephone lines were repaired the next day and, be- 
 fore noon of the day after that, Homer received a call from 
 the telegraph office. A message had come for him. It was 
 
RUGGED WATER 279 
 
 from Norma and was brief and to the point. “Am coming 
 the moment I can get away. Take care of father.” That 
 was all. There was no mention of understanding or for- 
 giveness. Yet she must have received his letter, otherwise 
 how could she have learned of the trouble at Setuckit? His 
 reason told him that she could say little in a telegram, but, 
 nevertheless, the brevity of the message was disturbing and 
 a little disappointing. 
 
 And, before dinner was over, his thoughts were busy with 
 other matters. Kellogg came, and wasted no time in getting 
 down to business. He greeted Calvin pleasantly but curtly 
 and went immediately to the skipper’s room, where he and 
 Bartlett were closeted for more than an hour. When the 
 district superintendent emerged he took aside and questioned 
 one member of the crew after the other., Then, at last, he 
 sought out Homer and led the latter to their former place of 
 conference—the barn. They sat together once more upon 
 the grain bin. 
 
 Kellogg produced cigars and offered one to his com- 
 panion. The latter declined. He did not feel that he should 
 enjoy smoking just then. The superintendent lighted and 
 puffed for a moment in silence while Homer fidgeted and 
 waited for him to speak. The wait seemed interminable. 
 Would he never begin? 
 
 But when he did he came immediately to the point. 
 
 “Well, Mr. Homer,’ he observed, “there’s been some 
 considerable of a mess down here, I should judge. What 
 have you got to say about it?” 
 
 Calvin glanced at him. The formality of the “Mr. Homer” 
 was somewhat ominous. 
 
 “What do you want me to say?” he asked. 
 
 “Eh? ... Well, I want you to say just as much and no 
 more than will tell me the truth. That’s what I want.” 
 
 “That was what I intended to tell you. I guess there 
 will be nothing you haven’t heard before, from the rest 
 of the fellows.” 
 
 “T’ve heard a lot. But never mind that. I want to hear 
 it from you now. Is it true that Cap’n Bartlett ordered 
 
280 RUGGED WATER 
 
 the crew to stay in the station and not to go off to the Fly- 
 away?’ 
 
 yes) sir.” 
 
 “And, in spite of those orders, you made ’em get 
 out the boat, took charge yourself, and went on your own 
 hook ?”’ 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 “You knew that was dead against the rules of the service?” 
 
 “Yes, sir, I knew that.” 
 
 “But you did it just the same. And what’s this about 
 Wallie Oaks? Wallie says that, when he tried to stand by 
 the keeper, as was his duty to do, you struck him when he 
 wasn’t looking, and knocked him down. Is that true?” 
 
 “Partly. Yes, sir. He was looking—but I struck 
 him.” A 
 “T see. Well, now tell me the whole yarn—about the 
 schooner, what you did aboard her, how things have gone 
 since you got back here, and all the rest of it.” 
 
 Calvin told the tale, omitting nothing, and excusing him- 
 self not in the least. Kellogg listened, smoking steadily. 
 The interview so far was, to all intents and purposes, a 
 repetition of the former session between these two in that 
 barn. And now, as then, when the story ended the super- 
 intendent waited a minute or more before offering a com- 
 ment. Then he took the stump of the cigar from his lips 
 and knocked off the ash with his finger. 
 
 “Humph!” he grunted. “You disobeyed the keeper’s or- 
 ders and those of the Lord A’mighty besides, eh? Seems 
 to me that was taking considerable on your shoulders. .. . 
 Eh? Wasn’t it?” 
 
 “Yes, sir, I guess it was.” 
 
 “Um-hum. Well, now that you’ve had time to think it 
 over, what excuse have you got to make?” 
 
 The answer was prompt and sharp. 
 
 “Not any, sir. If things were as they were then, I guess 
 I should do it again. Yes, I know I should.” 
 
 “And take the consequences ?” 
 
 “Ves,” 
 
RUGGED WATER 281 
 
 “Humph! Ready to hand in your resignation, are you?” 
 
 “Whenever you ask for it.” 
 
 To his surprise Kellogg laughed. 
 
 “You're different from Bartlett, son,” he observed. “I 
 hinted that he’d better get ready to hand in his and he 
 told me he’d see me damned first—or words to that effect. 
 Course he didn’t say ‘damn.’ I’d have known better how 
 to answer him if he had. He told me the Almighty was 
 looking out for his interests and that He wasn’t bothering 
 with understrappers like me. That’s what he meant, any- 
 how. Well, if he’s got the official papers to show for it, I 
 shouldn’t worry, if I were he. But, meanwhile, I’ve given 
 him a little while longer to make out that resignation in.” 
 
 Calvin rose to his feet. 
 
 “You've asked him to resign!” he exclaimed. 
 
 “T certainly have. He’s crazy, Cal, just as I knew he 
 was. ... Now, now, don’t say any more; let me finish. 
 I’ve been busy since I got your telegram. I’ve heard from 
 the Flyaway cap’n. I’ve heard from Higgins of the Amgan- 
 sett. By the way, son, old Higgins gave it to me straight 
 about how you handled that job. He praised you up to the 
 main truck, and when he praises a man that man has done 
 something. The Flyaway bunch say just as much or more. 
 Well, I guess likely they ought to. They’d every one of ’em 
 be dead—drowned and frozen, if it hadn’t been for you. 
 All the Setuckit men say the same. So does Jarvis; I talked 
 with him a spell ago. The only ones who don’t praise you 
 are Bartlett and Wallie Oaks. Wallie got after me up in 
 Orham before I came down here. Ho, ho!” 
 
 He rolled back and forth on the grain chest. 
 
 “Wallie didn’t praise you—no,” he went on, when his 
 laugh was finished. “But, so far as that goes, I didn’t praise 
 Wallie much. I[ told him that the thing I was sorriest for 
 was that I wasn’t here to see you black his eye. Ho, ho! I 
 meant it, too.” 
 
 Calvin did not speak; his emotions were in a curious jum- 
 
 ble. 
 
282 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “T told him,’ continued Kellogg, “that, even if he had 
 anything worth saying to say, I wouldn’t listen to a man who 
 ran away from the service the way he had. And when he 
 went on talking I told him to be careful or something would 
 happen to his other eye. Don’t worry about Wallie Oaks. 
 He doesn’t count and never did. I intended to discharge 
 him just as soon as I could pick up a likely man to take 
 his place. . . . Don’t worry any more anyhow, Calvin. You 
 did the right thing; the thing I would have expected you to 
 do. I’m proud of you, son, and I'll stand back of you. 
 That’s all.” 
 
 He, too, rose to his feet. Homer was still silent. The 
 superintendent regarded him keenly. 
 
 “Well’”’ he queried. “What’s the matter now? Haven't 
 you got anything to say?” 
 
 Calvin drew a long breath. “Why—why, I want to thank 
 you, sir, of course,’ he stammered. “I’m glad you think I 
 did right, and—and all that. I’m ever so much obliged to 
 you. But—” 
 
 “But you’re worried about Bartlett. Eh? Is that it?” 
 
 “Why, yes, I—you see—” 
 
 “You needn’t be. I have been expecting something like 
 this to happen. The man is crazy. He is sane enough by 
 spells; he acted sane enough when I went into his room to 
 talk to him a little while ago. But before I left he was 
 raving at me like a Bedlamite, quoting the Bible, and telling 
 how the Lord came to see him that day and told him this 
 and that—and I don’t know what all. It’s settled. If he 
 won't resign, then he’ll have to be discharged. He isn’t fit 
 to stay here and he shan’t stay. If he does I go; that’s all 
 about that.” 
 
 “But, Cap’n Kellogg, I wouldn’t want you to—” 
 
 “Never mind me. Ill get along. And—just between us 
 now, son—let me tell you that I’ve been getting ready for 
 something like this for a couple of months. The department 
 at Washington knows how matters have been going. They’re 
 prepared, and I’m willing to bet they’ll stand behind me. 
 The politicians and the newspapers have forgotten all about 
 
RUGGED WATER 283 
 
 the Setuckit Station by this time. It’s an old story with them 
 by now. They won't interfere. And, if some of ’em did, 
 it wouldn’t make any difference. Il have my way now, 
 same as I’m used to having it. Yes, sir, Benoni Bartlett 
 goes. ... And, you come in. You're going to be what 
 you should have been last November—keeper here at 
 Setuckit.” | 
 
 Calvin spoke now and with decision. This was what he 
 feared. 
 
 “No, sir—no,” he protested. “I can’t take the appoint- 
 ment. I thank you very much, I appreciate your thinking 
 of me, but—well, I can’t take it, that’s all.” 
 
 Kellogg stared in surprise. “Can’t take it?” he repeated 
 irritably. “Of course you'll take it. I want you to take 
 it. Have wanted just that all along. And so have you. 
 You told me so. Eh? Didn’t you?” 
 
 “T told you last November that I wanted to be keeper here 
 —yes. But I have changed my mind. You see—well, I can’t 
 tell you, Cap’n Kellogg—but—” 
 
 “But what? Are you crazy, too?” 
 
 “T hope not. But—” 
 
 “Oh, be hanged. You'll have to take the job—to help me 
 out, if for no other reason. . . . There, there! I can’t spend 
 any more time arguing. You can think it over; there'll be 
 time enough. And there are a few days yet before the first 
 of March. You can’t quit before then without breaking your 
 word to me. And until then, anyhow, you'll act as keeper. 
 You’ve got to. I need you.” 
 
 “But—but Cap’n Bartlett will be here.” 
 
 “Maybe he will, and maybe he won’t. That’s up to me. 
 I’m inclined to let him down easy, mainly on his daughter’s 
 account, so I’m going to give him a few days to resign in. 
 Resigning doesn’t mean much to outsiders. A man can re- 
 sign for a whole lot of different reasons. He can be fired 
 for only a certain kind, and they are the kind that hurt. I’m 
 going to forward my report and recommendations to Wash- 
 ington. He’ll have until I hear from there to resign in. And 
 I mean to write to his daughter, explaining everything, and 
 
284 RUGGED WATER 
 
 telling her to use her influence to get him to quit and save 
 a lot of talk, talk that will hurt him. I think she’ll understand 
 and do it. . . . Meanwhile, Calvin, you’re keeper here. Yes, 
 you’ve got to be. Afterwards—well, we’ll see how you feel 
 when the time comes. . . . There! that’s enough. Come on! 
 I’m going home.” 
 
| CHAPTER XV 
 (J sere letter to Norma Bartlett had been duly de- 
 
 livered to the member of the Orham Station crew at 
 the halfway house. He took it back with him when: 
 he returned from patrol. But, when he reached the sta- 
 tion, the mail had already gone over to the mainland and so 
 he put the letter on the shelf in the mess room where, in the: 
 ordinary course of events, it would have been taken on the 
 following day. But, as it happened, no one went to the 
 village that day, or the next. There was nothing very un- 
 usual in this, for often several days elapsed before the station 
 mail reached the post office. In this case Norma’s letter did 
 not leave Orham until the afternoon of the fourth day fol- 
 lowing that of the great storm. And that same afternoon 
 Norma left Fairborough for Boston, on her way to Setuckit. 
 She had read the accounts in the newspapers of the rescue 
 of the Flyaway. These accounts were brief, but in one of 
 them was a hint of trouble at her father’s station. It was 
 but a hint, derived from a local correspondent’s interview at 
 Vineyard Haven with the Flyaway’s skipper. The latter had 
 learned from one of the Setuckit life-savers a little of what 
 had happened before the lifeboat was launched, and the paper 
 printed a distorted story made up, for the most part, of 
 rumor and surmise. Captain Bartlett, keeper at Setuckit, had’ 
 not, so it said, led his crew to the helpless schooner. Instead a 
 man named Homer was in command, and this same Homer 
 was, according to the reports of the Flyaway’s men and 
 judged by the few words vouchsafed by Captain Higgins of 
 the revenue cutter Amgansett, extremely able and very much 
 on the job. But the question as to why he, instead of Bart- 
 lett, had led the Setuckit crew that day was still a question 
 at the time the article was written. There were rumors of 
 dissatisfaction, culminating in open rebellion. More par- 
 ticulars were to follow. 
 285 
 
286 RUGGED WATER 
 
 This was the tale which Norma read in the Boston news- 
 paper. It was disturbing enough and sufficiently alarming 
 of itself. She slept but little that night and made up her 
 mind, provided she heard nothing more next day, to telegraph 
 to Calvin, asking for explanation and reassurance. There 
 was not the slightest doubt in her mind of her lover’s loyalty. 
 He had promised to keep faith with her father and he would 
 do it, she was sure of that. What she feared was that her 
 father’s health had broken, that he was ill. If so she must 
 go to him. It would be difficult to leave her desk at the 
 library, but those difficulties should not matter. She would 
 go, even if it meant giving up her position there at Fair- 
 borough. 
 
 The morning mail brought no word. The papers, when 
 they came, contained none of the promised “particulars.” 
 She had not really expected Calvin to write; if there had 
 been or was serious trouble he would be too busy for that. 
 But she had hoped he might telegraph, And no telegram 
 came. 
 
 The evening mail, however, brought a letter with the 
 Orham postmark. The writing on the envelope was unfa- 
 miliar ; it was neither her father’s nor Calvin Homer’s. An 
 awkward scrawl and her name misspelled. When she tore 
 open the envelope her first glance was at the signature on 
 the final page. To her great surprise the letter was signed 
 “Walter B. Oaks.” As she read her surprise increased and 
 her alarmed forebodings changed to even more alarming 
 certainties. 
 
 Oaks, when he left the station to board Peleg Myrick’s 
 catboat, had that letter in his pocket. He posted it in Orham 
 that very night. He had written it partly at Benoni Bart- 
 lett’s dictation, but its phrasing and a large share of the ac- 
 cusations and implications contained in it were his own. 
 Bartlett, at the time, was far too agitated and irrational to 
 think or speak connectedly. He had wailed that “she ought 
 to know—Norma’s got to know,” and when Oaks volunteered 
 to write her the offer was eagerly accepted. The letter was 
 written that evening when Homer and the crew were aboard 
 
RUGGED WATER 287 
 
 the Flyaway. Wallie sat at the table in the skipper’s room, 
 while Benoni paced the floor, alternately railing at his men, 
 particularly Calvin, for their desertion and disobedience, and 
 calling upon the Almighty for self-justification and aid. If 
 Oaks had written what his superior ordered him to write, 
 the letter would have carried with it, even to as fondly 
 prejudiced a person as Norma, absolute conviction of her 
 father’s insanity. But the writer ignored all the inco- 
 herences, the quotations from Scriptures and revival hymns, 
 and wrote only what his own hatred and spite inspired. These 
 feelings, long present but suppressed, had reached their cul- 
 mination that day and Wallie, to whom the task of writing 
 an ordinary letter was drudgery, thoroughly enjoyed himself. 
 
 He overdid it a little, of course, and Norma—who had dis- 
 liked and distrusted him from the first—read the spite be- 
 tween the lines and believed only partially. But even partial 
 belief was dreadful. According to Oaks, there had been 
 open mutiny at Setuckit. Her father’s orders were flatly 
 disobeyed and, so the letter said, there had been violence and 
 blows. 
 
 “Captain Bartlett [wrote Oaks] wasn’t very well and he 
 hadn’t been for two or three days, and yet Cal Homer and 
 the rest pushed him around and would have hit him if I 
 hadn’t staved them off. Cal Homer did hit me in the face 
 when my back was turned and knocked me down and injured 
 me pretty bad. I shall see a Doctor soon as I can on account 
 of it. But I don’t mind that so much. I done my duty in 
 standing by my captain which is according to rules and regu- 
 lations. And your father was right in not ordering out the 
 boat. He was looking out for his crew and that is what 
 he is there for. But the real reeson for the trouble is way 
 back of all that. It is part of a plan that has been going on 
 for a long time to get your father in bad and make Cal Homer 
 keeper. He has been working for the place all the time 
 and doing Captain Bartlett dirt every chance he got. And 
 pretending to the district superintendent and you to I guess 
 likely that he is captain Bartlett’s best friend. He isent and 
 I have known it all along. He and Seleucus Gammon and 
 
288 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Josh Phinney are the head ones in the plan but they are all 
 in it. They will swear all sorts of lies but dont believe them 
 ‘because what I am telling you is the truth so help me god. 
 I have not got nothing to gain by telling you this for I am 
 going to quit my job here right off. I made up my mind 
 to that a long spell ago. But you ought to know what is 
 what and how Cal Homer and them have worked underhand 
 against him all the time.” 
 
 The letter was long and hard to read, but Norma read it 
 all several times. At the end of the final reading her scorn- 
 ful contempt for the writer was greater than ever and her 
 trust in Calvin still unshaken. The idea that he had offered 
 violence to her father was ridiculous and if he had knocked 
 Wallie Oaks down it was because the fellow deserved it. 
 But it was certain that something very serious had taken 
 place, that her father needed her, and that she must go to 
 him at once. He must be ill, otherwise he would have written 
 the letter himself. And, in spite of her trust in Calvin, she 
 ‘could not understand his silence. He might, at least, have 
 telegraphed just a reassuring word. He must realize that 
 she was bound to hear something concerning the trouble, and 
 that she would be alarmed and worried. 
 
 That very evening she wired him of her intention to come 
 to Setuckit, and the following day she asked for leave and 
 obtained it. When that day, too, passed with no word from 
 him her anxiety began to be tinged with a shade of resent- 
 ment. How could he be so neglectful of her peace of mind? 
 She was disappointed and hurt, and, as she brooded over 
 the matter during her journey to Boston her reflections con- 
 cerning his remissness were not too charitable. How could 
 he be so thoughtless of her? The next morning Calvin’s 
 letter reached Fairborough, but she was not there to receive 
 it and they held it at the library awaiting her return. 
 
 From Boston she telegraphed Hammond, the Orham hotel 
 proprietor and livery man, asking him to arrange for a ve- 
 hicle and driver to meet her on her arrival and to convey her 
 to Setuckit. When she alighted at the railway station she 
 ‘was surprised, and far from overjoyed, to find that the per- 
 
RUGGED WATER 289 
 
 son who stepped forward to greet her was not Hammond, 
 but a deputy, and that deputy, of all persons, Wallie Oaks. 
 
 Wallie was polite to the verge of obsequiousness. He ex- 
 plained that Mr. Hammond had “another drivin’ job on this 
 mornin’,” and therefore could not be at the depot to meet 
 her. “He’s cartin’ one of them New York hat-and-cap 
 drummers around this forenoon,’ went on Oaks, “and, bein’ 
 as I happened to stop in at the stable a couple of hours ago, 
 he asked me to take the hoss ’n’ team and come after you and 
 fetch you to the Ocean House. He’s goin’ to drive you 
 down to the station this afternoon, though. He’s fixed that 
 up all right for you, Norma. Frank’s a dependable kind of 
 feller. Him and me are chums, as you might say.” 
 
 The young lady’s reply was limited to a very brief ac- 
 knowledgment of the information. Her hitherto favorable 
 opinion of Mr. Hammond was not helped by the statement 
 that he and Wallie Oaks were “chums.” Nor was she 
 pleased to be hailed as “Norma” by the last named gentleman. 
 It was true that most of the members of her father’s crew 
 had fallen into the habit of dropping all formalities of ad- 
 dress during her recent visit, but down there, somehow, it 
 was different. And there was a certain sly implication of 
 confidential intimacy in Wallie’s use of her Christian name 
 on the present occasion which was TEENA It made her 
 long to slap him. 
 
 She yielded to the temptation to the extent of making her 
 first remark a pronounced snub, but snubs meant nothing to 
 Wallie. He led her past the loungers on the station plat- 
 form with an air of solicitous protection which was provok- 
 ing, and handed her into the buggy with a flourish. He 
 did not speak, nor did she, until, as they moved away from 
 the depot, he turned the horse’s head to the right instead of 
 the left. 
 
 “This isn’t the way to the village, is it?”’ she asked quickly. 
 
 Wallie, beside her on the seat, turned his head and 
 winked. 
 
 “Tt ain’t the shortest way—no,” he whispered. “But I 
 knew you’d want to talk with me a little mite and so I thought 
 
290 RUGGED WATER 
 
 we'd drive around by the West Main Road and come up 
 that way. See, Norma, don’t you?” 
 
 She looked at him. “I don’t know that I do,” she an- 
 swered frigidly. ‘What should I want to talk with you 
 about, in particular ?” 
 
 “Eh? Why—you got my letter, didn’t you?” 
 
 ey Gane 
 
 “Yes. Yes, I knew you must have. I mailed it right off 
 the day after—after it happened, you understand.” 
 
 The last sentence was accompanied by another wink and 
 a confidential lowering of the voice. She moved impatiently 
 on the seat. 
 
 “You needn’t whisper,” she said. “No one is likely to 
 hear us. Not that I should mind if they did.” 
 
 “Eh. .. ? Yes, that’s so. I guess maybe you're right; 
 only—only there ain’t but a mighty few that’s on to the real 
 insides of what’s been goin’ on down there to Setuckit, and 
 so I—so we have to be a little mite careful, that’s all.” 
 
 “Why ae 
 
 “Why. .. ? Say, did you get my letter?” 
 
 “T told you I did.” 
 
 “Um-hum. Well then... ! Say,’ suddenly, as _ the 
 thought seemed to strike him, “you haven’t got a letter from 
 anybody else about it, have you?” 
 
 She was on the point of saying that she had not, but she 
 would not give him that satisfaction. 
 
 “Tf I have, what of it ?”’ she asked. 
 
 “Why—why, there might be consider’ble of it. If some- 
 body wrote you a pack of lies you might have come to be- 
 lieve ’em, instead of the truth. That’s what I mean.” 
 
 “Well,” significantly, “you wrote me!” 
 
 “Eh? Yes, you bet I did! I and your father wrote that 
 letter together. He was too shook up and sick to hold a pen 
 steady and so I helped him out. He told me what to say 
 and I said it. He—” 
 
 “Wait! You said he was sick. Is he?” 
 
 “Is he? Well, if he ain’t, then he’d ought to be.” 
 
 “But is he?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 291 
 
 “T don’t know whether he is or not—now. But he was 
 next door to it then. And no wonder, the way he’d been 
 treated. If I hadn’t been there to stand up for him there’s 
 no tellin’ what that Cal Homer and the gang would have 
 done to him.” 
 
 “Did you stand up? I thought you wrote that you were 
 knocked down.” 
 
 The sarcasm was entirely wasted. Wallie’s anger was 
 boiling over at the memory of his humiliation. His tone 
 became anything but a whisper. 
 
 “Knocked down!” he snarled. “I was struck in the eye 
 when I wan’t lookin’. If I had been lookin’ there’d have 
 been somebody else knocked down instead of me. See 
 there,” pointing to his bruised cheek. ‘“That’s what Cal 
 Homer done to me. The sneakin’ scamp! He had his gang 
 around him or else—or else—eh? You see what he done, 
 don’t you?” 
 
 “Yes, I see that something must have happened to 
 you.” 
 
 “Well, he’s goin’ to pay for it. I’m goin’ to see a lawyer 
 fust chance I get. He'll spend part of his keeper’s wages 
 settlin’ damages with me, that’s what he’ll do.” 
 
 She made no answer and, turning, he became aware that 
 she was looking at him intently. It was the first sign of 
 interest she had shown and he was gratified by it. 
 
 ‘Yes, sir!’ she ‘repeated. “I’m goin’ to’‘sue’ him if it 
 takes—” 
 
 “Wait! You said something about wages—keeper’s 
 wages. Mr. Homer is a Number One man, not a keeper.” 
 
 “Humph! We ain’t none of us too sure of that. The 
 story goin’ ’round is that he’s keeper down at Setuckit Station 
 right now, and that he’s goin’ to be made the reg’lar one just 
 as soon as they fix things up to Washin’ton.” 
 
 “But my father is keeper of Setuckit Station.” 
 
 “Huh! He was keeper, but is he now? That’s a ques- 
 tion. And is he ever goin’ to be again? That’s another 
 one. The story is that he ain’t. It wouldn’t surprise me, 
 because—” 
 
292 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Stop! Do you mean that my father has been discharged 
 and that—that Mr. Homer has been given his place?” 
 
 “Well, he couldn’t get it no other way, could he? I tell 
 you, Norma, Cal and his bunch have been workin’ and lyin’ 
 and contrivin’ for it all along. Why, I wrote you that very 
 thing in my letter. I wrote you—” 
 
 “Oh,” impatiently, “I know what you wrote me! I 
 didn’t believe it, of course.” 
 
 Wallie gasped. His involuntary jerk of the reins brought 
 the horse to a walk. 
 
 “You didn’t believe it!” he repeated. 
 
 “No,” with scornful contempt, “of course I didn’t. And 
 I don’t believe it now. Tell me, is that story of Mr. Homer’s 
 taking my father’s place anything but a story? Do you 
 know that it is true?” 
 
 “Well—well, I can’t say as I know it just exactly, but 
 it’s bein’ said. There’s all sorts of yarns—” 
 
 She interrupted once more. “And they are yarns, of 
 course,” she declared. “You really know nothing about 
 it.” 
 
 “Well—well, I— Say, Norma, you don’t seem to realize 
 what’s been goin’ on down there to that station. I thought 
 I wrote you plain enough, but it looks as if you didn’t quite 
 get a hold of it. Let me tell you. That sneakin’, lyin’ Cal 
 Homer is—” 
 
 She turned on him with a swiftness that took his breath 
 away. 
 
 “Stop!” she ordered. “I. don’t want you to say another 
 word of that kind. I don’t believe you. If you try to say 
 any more I shall get out and walk the rest of the way.” 
 
 “But, say—look here—Norma—” 
 
 She leaned forward and pulled at the reins. The horse 
 —he was no fiery animal—stopped. 
 
 “Let me out,” she said. 
 
 “You—you don’t mean it, do you?” 
 
 “T certainly do—unless you are willing to drive me to the 
 hotel at once and without saying another word about my 
 father or Mr. Homer. That is precisely what I mean.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 298 
 
 Wallie glared at her. Then he hit the horse a vicious slap 
 with the end of the reins. 
 
 “Git dap!” he snarled, and then added, viciously, “By 
 Godfreys, I’m beginnin’ to believe you’re stuck on that 
 Homer, like a lot of other darn fool girls in this town. I 
 swear I do!” 
 
 She did not deign a reply and the remainder of the journey 
 to the Ocean House was made quickly and in silence. 
 
 Frank Hammond and Norma were acquainted. She had 
 stayed overnight at the Ocean House after leaving Setuckit 
 on her way back to Fairborough and he and his wife had 
 done their best to make her brief sojourn pleasant. They 
 were a kindly middle-aged couple, looked up to and respected 
 in the town, and Hammond was a member of the Board of 
 Selectmen and a man of substance in the community. Norma 
 liked them both. 
 
 Mrs. Hammond, she learned, was in Boston on a visit. 
 Her husband gave this information during dinner, a meal 
 which he and Norma shared with Ezra Blodgett, a dapper 
 and tiresome elderly person whom she had never before met 
 and soon began to hope she might never meet again; Brad- 
 dock, the local druggist; and a breezy young man named 
 Thornton, who, it appeared, was the “hat-and-cap drummer” 
 mentioned by Wallie during the drive from the railway sta- 
 tion. Norma had hoped to learn from the Hammonds a few 
 reliable particulars concerning the recent happenings at Se- 
 tuckit, but Blodgett and the drummer, more particularly the 
 latter, seemed to feel it their duty to entertain her and they 
 took charge of the conversation. The young gentleman in 
 the hat-and-cap line was so extremely attentive that he be- 
 came a nuisance and she was obliged to snub him rather 
 pointedly in order to force some realization of this fact upon 
 his mind. At another time, and under different circum- 
 stances, she might have been more tolerant, for Mr. Thornton 
 undoubtedly meant to be agreeable. But Norma’s charity 
 that day was not of the kind which suffers long and is kind. 
 She was more anxious than ever and therefore inclined to 
 be impatient. Wallie Oaks’s spiteful fabrications she did not 
 
294 RUGGED WATER 
 
 believe and had refused to hear. The little she had heard 
 she meant to forget. But, in spite of this determination, she 
 was troubled. What was the real truth about it all? And 
 why—why, if it was as serious as it seemed, had Calvin 
 neither written nor telegraphed? Unless his reason were 
 very convincing she would find it hard to forgive that neg- 
 lect. 
 
 Beside Mr. Hammond, on the seat of the buggy, as it 
 rocked and shook along the deeply rutted sandy lane between 
 the dunes, her thoughts dealt unceasingly with these ques- 
 tions. Even her worry concerning her father was tempo- 
 rarily forced into the background; she did not realize this, 
 but it was so. The rumors in the paper, the outrageous ac- 
 cusations in Oaks’s letter and those he had made that morning 
 —she could not help thinking of them. After all, she knew 
 so little of the man she loved. What did she really know 
 —except that she did love him and that he had said he loved 
 her? Suppose—and then she awoke to a realization of what 
 she was thinking and hated herself for the thought. Her 
 idea of asking her driver for particulars concerning affairs 
 at Setuckit was abandoned. No, she would wait until Calvin 
 himself told her. And she was on her way to him now. He 
 and she would be together once more; he would tell her 
 everything and she would know and understand and be happy. 
 She was happy at that moment. 
 
 And then Hammond, who, like her, had been silent for 
 some minutes, spoke. He turned to look at her and his ex- 
 pression was grave. 
 
 “Miss Bartlett,’ he said, “I don’t know as I ought to say 
 it, it isn’t any of my business in a way, but I’ve been thinking 
 not much of anything else since I got word you was coming. 
 I suppose likely you know what’s happened down at your 
 father’s station? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” 
 
 She answered his look with one quite as grave. “I know 
 something has happened there,” she admitted. “I read an 
 article in the paper, and then I got—a letter.” 
 
 “T see. From your father, of course. Well, ‘he told you, 
 didn’t he?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 295 
 
 She hesitated. “The letter wasn’t from father,” she said 
 after a moment. “It was from Mr. Oaks.” 
 
 His surprise was evident. “Oaks!’’ he repeated. “Wallie 
 Oaks ?” 
 
 Vest: 
 
 “Wallie Oaks! How in the world did he come to write 
 —you?” 
 
 She explained briefly. Oaks had written the letter because 
 he was with her father that night and the latter was too 
 nervous and ill to do it himself. 
 
 “At least that is what Mr. Oaks said in the letter,’ she 
 added. “And he told me so again this morning.” 
 
 “Humph! I shouldn’t wonder. He told you a good many 
 things, didn’t he?” 
 
 “Yes, in the letter. And he would have told me many 
 more to-day, if I had let him. I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t 
 believe him, and I said so, quite plainly.” 
 
 Hammond sniffed. “Wallie isn’t sweet enough to feed to 
 a decent pig,’ he observed. “How as smart a man as Kel- 
 logg ever let him get into the service I don’t know, and I’m 
 surprised he stayed in it as long as he did. Well, he’s out 
 of it now, and the service won’t keel over and quit on that 
 account. I was sorry I had to send him to the depot to meet 
 you this morning, but I was busy with that drummer, and 
 my regular driver is at home, sick. Wallie came loafing 
 along—looking for a job, he said—so I gave him one. I 
 beg your pardon, I do so.” 
 
 She smiled. “I see,’ she said. “I shan’t hold it against 
 you, Mr. Hammond. I detest that Oaks man, I must admit. 
 I think he is everything that is mean and contemptible.” 
 
 “I vote yes on that. Well, he told you plenty, you 
 say?” 
 
 “One of the things he told me was that you and he were 
 great friends—chums, he called it.” 
 
 Her driver shook his head. “Tut, tut, tut!’ he observed. 
 “And in spite of that you came down and had dinner along 
 with me. Your appetite must have been stronger than your 
 judgment, Miss Bartlett.” 
 
296 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Oh, I didn’t believe that any more than I did the other 
 things he told me.” 
 
 “That judgment was sound, anyhow. No, Wallie’s a liar 
 three hundred and sixty-five days in any year but leap year 
 —and even then his average don’t suffer. Just now he’s 
 loaded to the rails with spite and meanness. Calvin Homer 
 knocked him in a heap, so they say, and if Cal was runnin’ 
 for office just now he could get elected on account of it... . 
 Yes, if that was all, Calvin would be the most popular man 
 in the township limits.” 
 
 The last sentence was spoken in a tone different from those 
 preceding it. The change was slight, but she noticed it. 
 
 “Do you mean that he isn’t popular?” she queried. 
 
 Hammond seemed to be troubled about something. As 
 he did not reply she repeated the question. 
 
 “What do you mean; ‘if that were all’? she asked. 
 
 “Eh? Oh, I don’t know as I meant anything in particu- 
 lar... . Yes, I did, too, but it is nothing to do with your 
 father, Miss Bartlett. I guess Homer is popular enough, so 
 far as that goes. There are some people who don’t like him, 
 and lately a thing has come to my notice that— But that 
 wouldn’t interest you, either.” 
 
 “Anything to do with—with what has happened at father’s 
 station interests me very much. It does indeed.” 
 
 “This thing I meant hasn’t anything to do with what’s 
 happened down there, not really. Of course it might help 
 to explain—it might—well, it set me to thinking when I 
 heard it. Yes, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. 
 You know when you like a person a lot and then learn some- 
 thing about him that kind of shakes your faith—why, then 
 you get kind of mistrustful when you hear other things. You 
 begin to think up reasons, reasons you never would have 
 thought of thinking before. You say to yourself, ‘If he 
 would play a mean trick like that on one person, mightn’t 
 he be playing mean tricks right along?’ That’s what you 
 say. ... Humph! I guess likely you’re wondering what 
 I’m trying to say now, don’t you?” 
 
 She did not answer the question. 
 
RUGGED WATER 297 
 
 “So yeu don’t like Mr. Homer,” she said slowly. 
 
 “Eh? Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I always used to like him, 
 same as everybody else did. He’s a smart, able young fel- 
 low. Yes, there’s no doubt about that.” 
 
 “But you don’t like him now? You don’t trust him, you 
 said so.” 
 
 “Humph! I said more than I meant to, I guess. I do 
 hate to mistrust Calvin. Maybe I haven’t got any business 
 to. Only now, when they’re saying he has been made keeper 
 there at Setuckit— Eh? What is it?” 
 
 She had uttered a low exclamation. When he turned 
 toward her he saw that she was regarding him intently. 
 
 “What’s the matter?” he demanded. “What—’ 
 
 She interrupted. “Nothing, nothing,’ she declared. 
 “But, tell me, please—has he been made keeper ?” 
 
 He was surprised. “Didn’t you know?” he asked. 
 “Didn’t your father write?” 
 
 “Father hasn’t written me at all. This morning Mr. Oaks 
 said something about—about Mr. Homer’s being the new 
 keeper—and father’s being—well, he said discharged; but 
 I didn’t believe him; I didn’t believe anything he said. Is 
 it true? Tell me, Mr. Hammond, please.” 
 
 Hammond was disturbed. “Sho!” he exclaimed. “TI 
 thought of course you had heard from your father about it 
 and that that was why you came.” 
 
 “T came because I thought father must need me. I didn’t 
 know—but do you really know? Is it a fact? Are you 
 certain it is true?” 
 
 He hesitated and then nodded. “It hasn’t been given out 
 from headquarters,” he replied, “but—well, yes, I should say 
 that, nine chances to one, it was true. All sorts of stories 
 have been leaking out from Setuckit and the Orham Station, 
 and the gist of ’em seems to be that Cap’n Bartlett isn’t 
 cap’n any more and that Homer is in command. Whether or 
 not it’s just temporary command I can’t say—very likely ’tis. 
 But, from all I hear, if it isn’t permanent now, it is going to 
 be. I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you this, Miss Bart- 
 lett. .I thought probably you knew as much or more about 
 
298 RUGGED WATER 
 
 it than I did or I wouldn’t have dropped a hint. I’m real 
 sorry I did.” 
 
 She was trying to be calm, but it was hard work. Never- 
 theless she made a brave attempt. 
 
 “T am glad you told me,” she said. “I am glad I found 
 it out before I saw father. He must be dreadfully sick, 
 ever so much more so than I thought. If he were not he 
 never would have given up his command. It meant every- 
 thing to him. Now that you have told me so much, Mr. 
 Hammond, won’t you please tell me the rest—the whole story 
 just as it happened? Then when I see father I shall be 
 prepared. Please tell me.” 
 
 So, though with reluctance, he did tell her the story, as 
 much of it as had come to Orham. He omitted the charges 
 of cowardice on Bartlett’s part—and those charges had been 
 at least as specific as any other part of the tale—and sub- 
 stituted surmises such as, “I guess your father was pretty 
 nigh sick, same as you say.’ But, taken as a whole, his 
 narrative adhered closely to the facts. Norma heard him 
 through and, to his surprise, she seemed less troubled at the 
 end than at the beginning. 
 
 “Father was ill and I am afraid he still is,’ she said. 
 “That is it. Oh, I wish I had come sooner! But I am 
 glad he had a man like Mr. Homer to take command during 
 his sickness. I know father was glad, too. As for all those 
 ridiculous and wicked—oh, lies!—they aren’t anything else 
 —about Mr. Homer’s leading a mutiny and planning to get 
 father’s place as keeper, they are—I know they are not 
 true.” 
 
 The conviction in her tone was absolute. He did not con- 
 tradict her, neither did he make any comment. Perhaps she 
 noticed the omission, for when, after an interval of silence, 
 she next spoke, it was to return to the subject which had led 
 to his telling the story. 
 
 “You say you don’t like Mr. Homer,” she repeated. “I’m 
 very sorry. I like him and so does my father. Why don’t 
 you like him?” 
 
 Hammond moved uneasily. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go so far 
 
RUGGED WATER 299 
 
 as to say I didn’t like him,” he said. ‘“He’s able and smart 
 and—” 
 
 “Every one knows that. But you said you were beginning 
 to doubt him, or suspect him—which is the same thing. You 
 said something about a mean trick he had played which shook 
 your faith in him. I can hardly believe that, Mr. Ham- 
 mond. I think you are mistaken. He is not the kind of man 
 to do a mean thing. I know he isn’t.” 
 
 “W ell—well, maybe you are right. Perhaps it didn’t seem 
 so mean to him. Anyhow, it really hasn’t anything to do 
 with the fuss at Setuckit, so what’s the use of our talking 
 about it, Miss Bartlett?” 
 
 She was reflecting. “I think you believe it may have had 
 something to do with it,’ she said musingly. “You spoke 
 of its suggesting possible reasons for—for your changing 
 your mind in regard to other matters. I wish you would tell 
 me what Mr. Homer did that you consider mean? I may 
 be able to show you that it wasn’t. I can’t conceive of his 
 being mean to any one. Perhaps it is something I know 
 about.” 
 
 “No. No, you don’t. There’s only a few do know about 
 it. And I shouldn’t tell you or anybody. I’m sorry I men- 
 tioned it.” 
 
 “But you did mention it. And—and Mr. Homer and I 
 are friends, close friends. Are you going to give him a 
 chance to explain?” 
 
 He laughed shortly. “I don’t imagine he would thank me 
 for the chance,” he observed. “There, there, Miss Bartlett, 
 let’s forget it.” 
 
 But she had no intention of forgetting or permitting him 
 to do so. There was a flash in her eyes and a crispness in 
 her voice as she asked her next question. 
 
 “Why do you think he would not thank you for the 
 chance?” she persisted. 
 
 “Oh—oh, well,” a little impatiently, “because it isn’t one 
 of those things one man would explain to another. And, if 
 what I’ve heard is true, explaining would be a pretty hard 
 job. - I judge he didn’t bother to do much explaining to her.” 
 
300 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “To her?” 
 
 “Why, yes. .. . Look here, Miss Bartlett, I can see you 
 think I’m cut a little mite on the Wallie Oaks pattern and 
 run around spreading lies about people. That is what you 
 do think—or about that, isn’t it?” 
 
 “No, of course I don’t. But I—yes, I do think you should 
 not have hinted to me that Mr. Homer is capable of a mean 
 action, and then refuse to explain why you think so. I shall 
 —yes, | shall tell him you said it, and then I am sure he will 
 ask you for the explanation, himself.” 
 
 He stared. “You will tell him?” he repeated. “For the 
 Lord sakes why should you tell him?” 
 
 “Because I am a friend of his—and so is father. And I 
 try to be fair to my friends, Mr. Hammond. If any one 
 dropped such hints about me I should be glad if a friend 
 told me of them.” 
 
 Frank Hammond whistled between his teeth. This was 
 an unexpected development. His hint—which was merely an 
 echo of his thought, and dropped without premeditation— 
 had got him into trouble. She would speak to Homer con- 
 cerning it; it was plain that she meant what she said. And 
 the insinuation that he was unfair nettled him. His tone 
 changed. 
 
 “All right,” he said bluntly, “then I will tell you. I don’t 
 know as there is any good reason why I shouldn’t. It is a 
 sort of secret, in a way, but I’m not going to let you get the 
 idea that I tell lies about people behind their backs. I did 
 say it seemed to me that Calvin Homer had played a mean 
 trick; I meant it. If being engaged to marry a girl and 
 then writing her half a dozen lines saying he is sick of her 
 and breaking the engagement isn’t a mean trick, then I don’t 
 know what you would call it.” 
 
 He heard her catch her breath. ; 
 
 “Nonsense!” she exclaimed indignantly. “Mr. Homer en- 
 gaged to be married and breaking the engagement! How 
 ridiculous! It isn’t true.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, it is! I ain’t Wallie Oaks. I wouldn’t say a 
 thing like that if I didn’t know it was true—and about a 
 
RUGGED WATER 301 
 
 fellow I used to like as well as I did Cal Homer. He was 
 engaged to marry—well, I won’t mention any names, but the 
 girl is a relation of mine; her mother is my first cousin by 
 marriage. He and this girl had kept company for a good 
 while. I knew it, so did about everybody else. Things 
 like that are what folks, especially the women folks, talk 
 about in a place like Orham. Only a few of us knew he 
 was engaged to her, but he was. I saw the ring he gave her. 
 She never showed it to me, but her mother told me about 
 it and I’ve seen it on her finger.” 
 
 He paused, giving his attention to the horse, which had 
 strayed off the road. He guided the buggy back into the 
 ruts again and then resumed his story. 
 
 “Oh, yes, they were engaged all right,” he began. She 
 interrupted. 
 
 “When was this?” she asked. 
 
 “Eh? When did they get engaged, you mean? Oh, a 
 few months ago. I heard of it—seems to me ’twas along 
 the first of December. The idea, so her mother told me, 
 was not to say anything—not make any announcements, you 
 understand—for a while, because Calvin didn’t feel he was 
 in any position to get married, and he was hoping to get a 
 better job. What he planned to do—yes, and all hands 
 thought it would happen—was to be made keeper at Setuckit. 
 The pay isn’t so much better, but a station keeper can have 
 his wife with him. Besides I judge, knowing Myra, that 
 neither he nor she would have been contented even with a 
 keeper’s job long. She, this girl I’m speaking of’’—he was 
 quite unconscious that he had mentioned her name—“is 
 mighty clever and ambitious. She would make her husband 
 get on in the world. Well, then Cap’n Bartlett—your father 
 —was made keeper and that plan was knocked in the head, 
 for a time, anyhow. I don’t think ’twas given up—her 
 mother says neither of ’em gave it up. The idea was to wait 
 and see how Bartlett made out. If he didn’t make good, 
 why, then Cal was next in line. See?” | 
 
 He waited for a reply, but she made none. After a mo- 
 ment he continued. 
 
302 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Well, so they were engaged and she had the ring, and the 
 girl and her mother thought it was all settled; naturally 
 they would. I was surprised when I heard it, because, to be 
 honest, I wouldn’t have believed either of those women would 
 have been satisfied with anything so everyday as a life- 
 saver. They aren’t that kind. Cap’n Fuller, my cousin, was 
 an easy-going plain man enough, but his wife and daughter 
 are different. Plain things, so I’d have said, didn’t satisfy 
 either of ’em. ... Eh? What say?” 
 
 She had murmured something. Now she spoke aloud. 
 
 “So her name is Myra Fuller,” she said. “Does she live 
 here in Orham ?” 
 
 He turned in amazement. “How did you know her 
 name?’ he demanded. “Did you know about the engage- 
 ment ?” 
 
 “No.” She smiled wearily. “No, I didn’t know. You 
 told me her name, yourself, just now. You didn’t realize 
 it, but you did. . . . Oh, never mind! When was the en- 
 gagement broken?” 
 
 “Less than a fortni’t ago. Not much more than a week 
 ago, I guess. It was after you was down here the last time. 
 Sarepta—now I’ve let out so much of the names, the whole 
 of ’em don’t matter—told me about it day before yesterday. 
 ’Cording to her tell, it was pretty mean business on Calvin’s 
 part. Myra was anxious about him, on account of the wrecks 
 and all, but he hadn’t written for weeks. And he had prom- 
 ised to take a liberty day and come to see her. Next to the 
 last letter she had from him he promised that and was as 
 sweet and loving as any girl could ask. But he didn’t come, 
 and then, next thing the Fullers knew, he sent the letter 
 saying he was sick of it all and she could go to blazes, or 
 what amounted to that. Now you may not call that mean 
 treatment of a girl, Miss Bartlett, but I do.” 
 
 Again he waited for her to speak, but when she did, it 
 was far more to herself than to him. “I don’t believe it,” 
 she murmured. “Oh, of course I don’t believe it!” 
 
 He was angry. “All right,” he snapped. “If you don’t 
 believe me go and ask Sarepta—yes, or Myra. I rather think 
 
RUGGED WATER 303 
 
 they’d tell you. But I’d have you understand that I’m speak- 
 ing the truth.” 
 
 “Yes; yes, I know you think you are. I am sure of that. 
 IT beg your pardon, Mr. Hammond. It was only that— 
 that it didn’t seem possible. Mr. Homer has always seemed 
 so—so honest, and straightforward, and—and true—that—” 
 
 “Sure! It was pretty hard work for me to believe it my- 
 self. But I got it straight from headquarters, so I had to 
 believe. Course Myra won’t talk about it. She’s mighty 
 proud and when I asked her she flew at me like a wildcat 
 and vowed and declared ‘twas she who had given Cal his 
 walking papers, and not him her at all. She couldn’t say 
 hard enough things about him, how she got tired to death of 
 him, had realized her mistake long ago, and had sent him 
 packing. If she hadn’t been so darned spiteful against him 
 I might have believed her side of the story; but she called 
 him too many names. No, Sarepta’s yarn is the true one; 
 I don*t think there’s any doubt about that.” 
 
 She was thinking. “Myra Fuller,’ she said slowly. 
 “Myra Fuller. I used to know a girl of that name. She was 
 at the Bridgewater Academy when I was there. But it 
 couldn’t be that girl.” 
 
 “YT shouldn’t wonder if it was. Myra went to Bridge- 
 water ; she studied to be a teacher up there. Kind of a big, 
 fine-looking girl, with sort of reddish hair and a way of 
 looking at you with her eyes that—well, if you’re a man, 
 it kind of gets you. They’re nice eyes and she can make 
 ’em say a whole lot. Yes, and she knows it,” with a chuckle. 
 
 “That girl! And he was engaged to her!” 
 
 “Eh? Oh, yes, he was engaged to her all right. That 
 much I do know for sure.” 
 
 They drove on for some minutes without further con- 
 versation. It seemed to him that having substantiated his 
 accusation against Homer, so far as the latter’s being capable 
 of a mean trick was concerned, he had said enough. But 
 she, apparently, was not finished with the subject. 
 
 “Was she—was she very much in love with him?” she 
 asked: 
 
304 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Who—Myra? Why, yes, I guess so. More than she’s 
 ever been with anybody else, I’d say. She’s always been a 
 great hand with the boys, and some of her beaus wasn’t 
 exactly what you’d call boys, either. She did like Calvin 
 a lot, though, according to Sarepta. You see, he’s a fine- 
 looking young fellow, Cal is, and Myra don’t mind good 
 looks a bit.” He paused to chuckle again, and then added: 
 “TI wouldn’t say her heart was broke altogether. Not so’s 
 the pieces can’t be stuck together, anyhow. There’s an old 
 rooster named Blodgett—eh? Why, you saw him at the 
 dinner table this noon; he takes his meals along with us. 
 He’s willing to help with the repair job, I judge, if she'll 
 give him the chance. The story is that he’s beginning to 
 call on her fairly regular. He’s pretty well off, and—” 
 
 She did not appear to be interested in Mr. Blodgett. 
 
 “Mr. Hammond,” she broke in, “you hinted that you were 
 beginning to believe Mr. Homer might have done what— 
 what that horrid Wallie Oaks said he did, work against my 
 father and plan to get himself made keeper of the station. 
 Do you really believe that? Have you any reasons, more 
 than you have already told me, for believing it?” 
 
 He shook his head. “No, no, no,” he protested. “I 
 haven’t. And I don’t say it, either. I can’t think Cal would 
 do a thing like that. As I told you, I’d have sworn he was 
 straight as a T square if I hadn’t found out how he treated 
 Myra. That shook my confidence in him, same as ’twould 
 anybody’s. Don’t you think so, Miss Bartlett?” 
 
 She drew a long breath. “Yes,” she said. 
 
 “Um-hum. But, so far as his contriving and scheming 
 against your father behind his back goes, I won’t believe it 
 —not yet. That would be too low-down mean. Of course 
 Sarepta says that’s what he’s been doing, and so does Wallie, 
 but they’re both chock full of spite, and their testimony needs 
 considerable salt before I’d swallow it.” 
 
 He went on talking, but, if she heard, she had no comment 
 to make. She did not speak again during the drive to Se- 
 tuckit Station. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 H OMER happened to be in the tower when the Ham- 
 
 mond horse and buggy appeared among the dunes. 
 
 Through the glass he saw Norma on the seat beside 
 the driver. He was, in a way, prepared to see her; she had 
 telegraphed that she should come soon, and when he first 
 sighted the approaching vehicle he felt almost sure that she 
 was there. Now, as he watched her through the telescope, 
 his pulse quickened at the thought of seeing her again. So 
 much had happened since they parted. The care and worry 
 and responsibility had been wearing indeed. He had longed 
 for her; there was so much to tell her, so much to explain; 
 he had needed her help and understanding sympathy so 
 greatly. Now she was here. He darted to the door and 
 ran down the stairs. 
 
 At the closed door of the skipper’s room he paused. He 
 knew that Bartlett was in that room. Benoni had spent 
 practically all his time there since the day of his crew’s 
 rebellion. He came out when called to meals, but at the 
 table he said scarcely a word, and of those words not one 
 was addressed to Calvin. He ignored the latter altogether 
 and refused to answer if Homer spoke to him. Calvin, after 
 several attempts, had given it up. It was evident that Bart- 
 lett did not care to have anything to do with him. So he 
 kept out of the way of the deposed keeper and, although 
 when they met at breakfast he always bade him a respectful 
 good morning, he tried to avoid troubling him by sound or 
 sight. But now, at the door, he paused, wondering whether 
 or not he should tell him of his daughter’s arrival. 
 
 As he stood there the door opened, but it was Seleucus 
 Gammon, not Benoni Bartlett, who came out of the little 
 room. Homer was surprised. So far as he knew no one 
 save Kellogg had visited Bartlett in that room since the day 
 of Wallie Oaks’s leaving. 
 
 395 
 
306 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Gammon saw him standing there and raised a warning 
 finger. He closed the door carefully behind him. 
 
 “What is it, Cal?” he asked. “What’s up?” 
 
 Calvin explained. Norma Bartlett was coming, would 
 arrive in a few minutes, and he had thought of telling her 
 father the good news. 
 
 Seleucus shook his head. “I wouldn’t if I was you,” he 
 said. “The old man is havin’ one of his bad spells, seems 
 so. He opened that door a little spell ago and sung out to 
 me to come in; said he wanted to talk to me. It was about 
 the first word he’d said to me for three days and I couldn’t 
 guess what he wanted, but I went in. He’s in a state, I tell 
 you. Seems he’s been tryin’ to write Norma a letter, tellin’ 
 her what he calls the truth about everything that’s happened, 
 and there was sheets of scribbled-on paper all over the table 
 and on the bed and the land knows where. He wanted me 
 te hear what he’d wrote. He read some of it to me out 
 loud. Such a mixed-up mess you never heard. All full 
 of talk about the Lord and his duty as a follower of the way 
 and the light, and about bein’ tempted by the Old Harry, 
 and how the devil’s agents had worked against him, and I 
 can’t tell you what. I judge you and Cap’n Kellogg are 
 the head agents, Cal. He’s down on you especial, and when 
 I tried to put in a word on your side he jumped on me with 
 both feet. Fact is, he got so kind of wild in his talk that 
 { shut up. Thought ’twas good judgment, you understand. 
 No, if I was you, I wouldn’t go nigh him now. You’re the 
 last man ’twould do him any good to see.” 
 
 Calvin was greatly troubled. Bartlett had been morose 
 and gloomy since the break with the men, but he had shown 
 no signs of violent aberration. This was most unfortunate. 
 He dreaded the shock to Norma. 
 
 “He asked me one or two questions that kind of scared 
 me,” went on Seleucus. ‘“‘Wanted to know if I’d noticed 
 anything ’special in the noise the surf on the outer beach was 
 makin’. Said it seemed to him to be callin’ to him, singin’ 
 out, ‘Benoni Bartlett, come here! Come here!’ Said there 
 was times when he felt as if he just had to go. Yes, sir, 
 
RUGGED WATER 307 
 
 that’s what he said. That meant drowndin’ himself, as I 
 figgered it. Course I told him the surf wasn’t sayin’ nothin’ 
 but ‘Boo!’ same as it always says. I tried to soothe him down 
 best I could, but ’twas consider’ble of a job. I cal’late "twas 
 writin’ Norma that riled up his brains so. It’s a mighty 
 good thing she’s here. Maybe she can handle him. Any- 
 how, the rest of us couldn’t, least of all you, Cal. You 
 steer clear of him, that’s my advice. . . . Hello! here comes 
 the team now, ain’t it ?” 
 
 The buggy was nearing the station. The crew gathered 
 outside the door to meet it. Homer and Phinney hastened 
 forward to help Norma alight, but it was Josh’s hand she 
 took. She looked, so Calvin thought, white and careworn. 
 His eager welcome she met by a look so peculiar that he 
 stepped back aghast. 
 
 “Norma!” he cried, forgetting that none of the others 
 xnew of their intimate relation. 
 
 She turned to him, but only to ask a question. ‘‘Where 
 is father?” she asked. 
 
 “He is in his room. Shall I~” 
 
 “T am going there. . . . No, thank you, Mr. Rogers, you 
 needn’t tell him. Jl go right in.” 
 
 That was all she said; not a word of inquiry, or greeting 
 —not a smile, nor a glance implying that she was glad to be 
 with him again. And her tone was formal, almost coldly 
 so. He stared after her in hurt amazement as she hurried 
 into the station. When he entered the mess room the skip- 
 per’s door was shut. She and her father were together. 
 
 She was in that room all the remainder of the afternoon. 
 They called her and Bartlett to supper, but neither heeded 
 the call. When Calvin knocked she told him that they were 
 not hungry and that, if they should be later on, she would 
 prepare the food herself. Her tone and manner then were 
 just as coolly impersonal, and she offered no explanation nor 
 excuse. 
 
 Hammond had driven back to Orham immediately after 
 leaving his passenger. Homer tried to talk with him, think- 
 ing that perhaps she might have told him something con- 
 
308 RUGGED WATER 
 
 cerning herself, might have offered some reason, ill health 
 or anxiety—anything which might help to account for her 
 strange behavior. But the hotel proprietor’s manner also was 
 odd. Ordinarily a cheerful, garrulous man, he was now 
 almost taciturn. He seemed eager to get away and did so 
 at the first opportunity. 
 
 It was, for Calvin Homer, a wretched afternoon and eve- 
 ning. All his joyful relief at seeing her had gone and the 
 disappointment and gloom which succeeded were crushing. 
 Also, with them, came a heavy sense of impending trouble. 
 He had had care and anxiety sufficient of late, but these he 
 could face, and had. Through them he had clung to the 
 thought of her, of her faith in him, of their love and its 
 wonderful happiness. Her coming had been a burst of sun- 
 light breaking through the clouds. Now the clouds were 
 thicker than ever. 
 
 Something had happened, something was wrong—some- 
 thing—whatever it might be—had come between them. Her 
 first thought would be for her father—yes, he could well un- 
 derstand that. But why was she so cold toward him? Why 
 had she refused his hand and turned to take Phinney’s? 
 Why had she looked at him—Calvin—so strangely? There 
 had been little of trust or love in that look. 
 
 He tried to think of possible explanations. She could not 
 believe that he had been a traitor to her father. He had 
 written her the plain, unornamented truth about that. She 
 must believe his story and therefore believe in his honesty 
 and loyalty ; she would, she was so honest herself. Could it 
 be that she had not received his letter? He had sent it early 
 enough. She should have received it days before. But 
 perhaps she had not. She might think he had neglected her 
 and that would explain her attitude—partially explain it, at 
 least. Yes; yes, that must be the explanation, it must be. 
 
 His conscience was clear in that respect, but in another it 
 was not. He had not told her of his affair with Myra. The 
 letter in which he had begun his confession still remained, 
 unfinished, in his chest in the sleeping quarters. He would 
 have finished it had it not been for her telegram saying she 
 
RUGGED WATER 309 
 
 was coming to Setuckit. To tell her, rather than to write, 
 seemed so much more satisfactory. He had planned to tell 
 her the moment that he and she were alone. His determina- 
 tion to do so was unshaken. But her strange behavior 
 toward him made the telling appear more difficult than ever. 
 Nevertheless he must do it—and would. That she could 
 have heard the story already, from another, did not enter 
 his mind. 
 
 At ten the men, the patrolmen on duty excepted, went aloft 
 to turnin. Bartlett, who had given up his own room to his 
 daughter, had already gone to his bunk in the spare quarters. 
 Homer lingered in the mess room, still hopeful of seeing 
 Norma. Apparently she, too, had been waiting for that 
 opportunity, for a few moments later she came out and joined 
 him. 
 
 He rose to meet her and stepped forward, his hands out- 
 stretched. But she did not respond to his greeting and his 
 eager utterance of her name she met only with a steady look 
 of grave scrutiny. 
 
 “Norma !’’ he exclaimed. “Norma! What is it?’ 
 
 He would have taken her in his arms, but she eluded him 
 and, moving to the other side of the table, stood there, still 
 regarding him, unsmiling and aloof. 
 
 “Norma!” he cried again. She motioned to a chair. 
 
 “Please sit down,” she said. “I want to talk with you. 
 I have been waiting to do it.” 
 
 He took the chair she indicated. She took another, but 
 on the opposite side of the table. Then, with her chin upon 
 her hands, she looked at him fixedly. 
 
 “Norma,” he pleaded, “what is the matter? Why do you 
 treat me like this? What—” 
 
 She interrupted. 
 
 “Don’t,” she said hastily. “I am going to ask you some 
 questions. Will you answer them—plainly and honestly ?” 
 
 “Of course. Why do you say that? Did you think I 
 would answer them in any other way?” 
 
 She did not reply, nor did she appear to heed the surprised 
 resentment in his tone. 
 
310 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “First of all,” she went on, “I want you to tell me the 
 exact truth about what has happened here since I went 
 away. .. . Oh, yes, father has told me, and so have others, 
 but I want to hear it from you.” 
 
 “But you did hear it from me. I wrote you all about it 
 in my letter.” 
 
 This statement did have an effect. She raised her head. 
 
 “When did you write me?” she asked slowly. 
 
 “The day after we got back from the Flyaway. I wrote 
 you a long letter, telling everything just as it happened, and 
 I sent the letter to the office by way of the Orham Station. 
 Do you mean that you didn’t get that letter?” 
 
 She shook her head. “I have not heard a word from you 
 since it happened,” she said. 
 
 So his surmise was correct. Those careless idiots at the 
 Orham Station were responsible. This was the reason for 
 her coldness ; she believed he had neglected her. 
 
 “That is too bad,” he declared angrily. ‘“Confound those 
 fellows! I sent word that the letter must go right away. It 
 is a shame, Norma dear. I’m awfully sorry. No wonder 
 you thought—” ' 
 
 Again she interrupted. “Never mind,” she said. “Tell 
 me the story now.” 
 
 He had expected this and was ready. He told her every- 
 thing, as briefly as he could, omitting nothing of importance, 
 offering no excuses for his own action in disobeying Bart- 
 lett’s orders, but giving the reasons which had seemed im- 
 perative at the time. 
 
 “T hated to do it, Norma,” he declared. “I can’t tell you 
 how I hated to, but it was that or letting that schooner drift 
 on the shoals and drown every man on board. Your father 
 wasn’t well; you see how he is now. He was worse then. 
 What else could I do?” 
 
 She seemed to ponder. “And you wrote me all this?” she 
 asked. “You are sure?’ 
 
 “Sure! Why, I told you I did. Don’t you believe—” 
 
 “Hush, please! I don’t know what I believe—now. But 
 I must know. Are you keeper here at Setuckit ?” 
 
RUGGED WATER 311 
 
 He hesitated. “I ama sort of keeper, I suppose,” he ad- 
 mitted. “Superintendent Kellogg put me in charge tempo- 
 rarily. He came down here to investigate—that is his duty, 
 you know—and—’” 
 
 “Yes; yes, I know all that. But father says that he—the 
 superintendent—offered him the choice of resigning or being 
 discharged. Is that true?” 
 
 Again he hesitated; but she had demanded the truth and 
 he must tell it. “Why—yes,” he admitted. “I’m afraid it 
 is. Cap’n Kellogg told me that was what he had done.” 
 
 “And has he offered you the appointment as keeper ?” 
 
 “Yes. Of course it doesn’t rest altogether with him, The 
 matter would have to be referred to. Washington, and per- 
 haps—’’ 
 
 “Oh, don’t beat about the bush. You accepted the ap- 
 pointment.”’ 
 
 “No, I didn’t.” 
 
 “You did not... . ! Why?” 
 
 “You ought to know why.” Her sharp, almost contemp- 
 tuous, tone and manner were having their effect, and he was 
 finding it hard to be patient. “You ought to know why, 
 Norma,” he repeated. “Is it likely I could see your father 
 lose his place and then take it myself? Your father! I told 
 Kellogg I wouldn’t consider the appointment for a minute.” 
 
 Her manner changed then. The look in her eyes softened 
 just a little. He pressed his advantage. 
 
 “T said I would take charge here until a regular keeper 
 was appointed,” he went on. “Cap’n Kellogg asked me to, 
 and the men seemed to want me. I didn’t like to do it. I 
 would a lot rather have resigned myself. But some one had 
 to do it, some one that had experience. And your father 
 isn’t—well, I am afraid he isn’t sane altogether. He cer- 
 tainly wasn’t sane that day. I hate to say it. You must 
 know how I hate to say it to you, of all people. But it is 
 true. . . . And I wrote you all this, all except my being put 
 in charge here for the time—that I didn’t know then.” 
 
 ‘The scornful contempt was no longer in evidence. Her 
 eyes had lost their hardness. Now they filled with tears. 
 
312 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Poor father!” she sighed. “I—I don’t know what to say 
 —or think—about him. He was in a dreadful condition 
 when I came. He had been trying to write me and—and— 
 oh, the way he spoke and acted frightened me. I must get 
 him away from here. That is certain, no matter what else 
 may be; I must take him somewhere where I can be with 
 him, and look out for him. He is better now, and quieter. 
 He has told me the story, himself. And he says—yes, he 
 insists that you were the leader against him. If it hadn’t 
 been for you, he declares, the men would have obeyed his 
 orders,” 
 
 “But suppose they had? We saved that schooner, with 
 all hands. If we had obeyed Cap’n Bartlett’s orders the 
 vessel and her crew would have gone to the bottom. And 
 your father, Norma—did he tell you why he wouldn’t order 
 out the boat? Did he tell you about God’s coming to his 
 room there, and talking to him—and all the rest of it?” 
 
 She nodded. “He told me that,” she admitted. “I’m 
 afraid he isn’t—right. Oh, it is dreadful! But, except for 
 that, except for his religious mania—that is what it is—he 
 talks quite rationally. And he says he knows now that you 
 have been working against him all the time. That you were 
 only waiting for the chance to get him into trouble, so that 
 you might have his place. And, so he says, when that chance 
 came you took it.” 
 
 He stared at her. “You don’t believe that!” he cried. 
 “Norma, do you believe that of me?” 
 
 She shook her head. “I don’t want to believe it,” she 
 said. “No, no, I don’t believe it. It would be too con- 
 temptible. But I have heard it from others.” 
 
 “What others?” 
 
 “Well, I received a letter, a letter written from this station 
 the very day when yours—when you say yours was written. 
 It seems odd that that letter reached me and yours did not, 
 then nor since.” 
 
 The doubt, or the hint of doubt, had come back to her 
 voice. Calvin noticed it. 
 
RUGGED WATER 313 
 
 “What letter was that?’ he demanded. “Who wrote it? 
 Not your father ?” 
 
 “No. Father has been in no condition to write, I am 
 afraid.” 
 
 “Then who did write? Eh? Good Lord! was it Wallie 
 Oaks?” 
 
 She colored slightly and was confused. 
 
 “Why, yes, it was,” she admitted. “But of course—” 
 
 “Wallie Oaks! You didn’t believe that pup?” 
 
 “Of course I didn’t. But his letter came. He wrote me.” 
 
 “And J wrote you. I told you so. I’m not lying. Oh, 
 Norma dear, how can you speak like this to me? What has 
 changed you so?” 
 
 She was looking at him again, looking him through and 
 through. 
 
 “Have you been absolutely truthful to me?” she asked, 
 slowly. “Have you been loyal, in every way, to my 
 father ?” . 
 
 “Yes, indeed I have.” 
 
 “And to me? You have told me everything—everything ?” 
 
 “Ves.” 
 
 “Always?” 
 
 “Certainly.” 
 
 “Then why have you never told me about Myra Fuller?’ 
 
 He did not answer. He tried to do so, but he could not. 
 The words he wanted were not at his command, then. The 
 suddenness of her question, the knowledge that she had 
 learned the secret from other lips than his, the overwhelming 
 realization of what her learning it in that way might mean 
 —all this confounded him, made speech impossible at the 
 moment. He reddened, stammered, and stared at her aghast. 
 In her eyes he was a picture of guilt discovered. He knew 
 that he must be, and the thought merely rendered more acute 
 the general paralysis of his faculties. 
 
 She was watching him intently, waiting for his reply. It 
 did not come. 
 
 “Well?” she said, after a moment. 
 
 He caught his breath. He knew that he must say some- 
 
314 RUGGED WATER 
 
 thing, must explain—or attempt an explanation. It was now 
 or never. 
 
 “Norma,” he stammered, “I—IJ— Oh, I don’t know what 
 to say to you about that. I—I didn’t know you knew. I]—” 
 
 She broke in. “I can well imagine that,’ she observed 
 crisply. “But I do know—a little. And I think you had 
 better tell me the rest. Is it true that you were engaged to 
 marry that girl?” 
 
 He nodded, overwhelmed. “Yes,” he confessed. “I was. 
 But, oh, Norma—” 
 
 “Wait. When did you and she become engaged?” 
 
 “A good while ago, months ago. But I never really meant 
 to be. I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t really care 
 for her at all. It—it just—just happened. Oh, I know 
 that sounds foolish. Of course you wouldn’t believe it, or 
 understand, but it is the truth. I was sorry the minute after- 
 ward. I would have given anything to have been out of it. 
 . . . Oh, but what is the use! What can I say to make you 
 understand ?” 
 
 She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t 
 understand, I confess.” 
 
 “Of course you don’t. But it is true. I never did love 
 her really. She—she—” 
 
 He broke off, the hopelessness of his attempt at justifica- 
 tion heavy upon him. In the letter he had begun but never 
 finished—yes, and a hundred times before and since—he had 
 rehearsed the plea he meant to make to her. But now, when 
 she sat there opposite him, looking at him, searching him 
 through and through with that look, demanding the explana- 
 tion which it was her right to demand—now, the confession 
 of the whole truth, plain, absolute and without excuse—the 
 confession which he had determined to make—seemed as 
 hopelessly impossible of belief as the most transparent lie. 
 How could a girl like Norma Bartlett ever believe that he, 
 Calvin Homer, could have been attracted, even temporarily 
 and lightly, by a girl like Myra Fuller? 
 
 Nevertheless, in his desperation, he tried again. 
 
 “Norma,” he pleaded, “please try to believe me. I never 
 
RUGGED WATER 815 
 
 did care for her, really, at all. I didn’t. I never cared for 
 any one but you. It wasn’t until I saw you that I began to 
 understand what it meant to—to really care. I had read 
 about it, in stories, and all that, but I thought it was all book 
 nonsense. I never believed any one could—could love any 
 one as I love you. You see, J—I—” 
 
 She broke in again. “Did you say these things to—Miss 
 Fuller?” she inquired. 
 
 The chilling sarcasm of the question was like a plunge 
 into ice water. But the plunge had the effect of restoring 
 a little of his self-control. 
 
 “Of course I didn’t,’ he retorted. “I tell you I didn’t 
 care for her—never did. And when I saw you I realized it.” 
 
 “Yet you were engaged to her.” 
 
 “I was—yes. But I had made up my mind to break it 
 off. And I have done it.” 
 
 “When did you do it?” 
 
 “A little while ago; about a week ago, I think it was. I 
 wrote her a letter telling her I couldn’t marry her, that I had 
 found I didn’t care for her in that way, and that the whole 
 thing had been a mistake.” 
 
 “That was only a week ago. And when—” she paused an 
 instant; then, with a lift of her head, continued: “fand when 
 you spoke to me there on the beach, when you told me—what 
 you did tell me—then, at that very time, you were engaged 
 to another girl. Then—when you said those things to 
 me.” 
 
 He sighed. “Yes,” he admitted, “I was. And I didn’t 
 intend to say them to you, Norma. I didn’t, that is the 
 truth. I had intended to write Myra, telling her just what 
 I did tell her in the letter I wrote afterward, and then—and 
 then, perhaps, if I was ever brave enough to do it, I meant 
 to ask you. It didn’t seem possible you could care for me, 
 but—but I knew I must find out whether you did or not. 
 I had to.” 
 
 “But you did—say them to me then.” 
 
 “Yes. When I saw you there in the channel and was 
 afraid you—that you were drowning or—or hurt—I—well, 
 
316 RUGGED WATER 
 
 I said them. But I hardly knew I did. The words just came 
 of themselves. They did.” 
 
 “T see. They just happened, I suppose. As your engage- 
 ment to Myra Fuller just happened. You seem to have had 
 a number of such happenings.” 
 
 “Norma!” indignantly. “How can you say that? How 
 can you—” 
 
 “Oh, don’t! Why didn’t you tell me then about her? If 
 you had, perhaps I—but never mind; you didn’t.” 
 
 “T couldn’t. Seleucus came and you and I didn’t have a 
 word in private together before you went back to Fairbor- 
 ough.” 
 
 “Yes. Yes; that is true. But you have written me since. 
 I received a letter from you—not the one you say you wrote, 
 and which I didn’t receive, but another. There was no word 
 of your other love affair—or one of those affairs—in that 
 letter. Why wasn’t there?” 
 
 He shook his head. The hopelessness of the tangle in 
 which fate had wound him was always more and more ap- 
 parent. 
 
 “There wasn’t,” he said, “because I didn’t feel that I ought 
 to write you until I had written her or seen her. At first 
 I meant to go and see her and tell her. _ It seemed to me the 
 squarer thing to do, to tell her how I felt instead of writing 
 it. But your father kept putting me off when I asked for 
 liberty and so, at last, I did write. Then came the Flyaway 
 business, and the trouble here at the station—and I was so 
 busy that—” 
 
 “That you could not write me anything as important as 
 that. Or possibly you thought your being engaged to an- 
 other girl while you were making love to me was a mere 
 trifle in which I wouldn’t be interested. I should have been, 
 I assure you. I am not as experienced and blasé in such 
 affairs as you seem to be.” 
 
 “Norma !” 
 
 “Tell me this, then: In this second letter, the one which I 
 never got, did you tell me of—of this Myra Fuller in that?” 
 
 “No... no,I didn’t You had telegraphed me you were 
 
RUGGED WATER 317 
 
 coming here and I thought I would wait until you came and 
 then tell you. I meant to do it, would have done it before 
 now if you had let me speak to you alone, if you had given 
 meachance. But I did begin a letter to you, telling you the 
 whole story. I began it the afternoon before the big storm. 
 The storm came, and all the rest of the trouble here, and 
 afterwards you telegraphed. So the letter wasn’t finished. 
 It is upstairs now in my trunk. May I get it and show it 
 to you?” 
 
 She shook her head. “No,” she said slowly, “it is rather 
 late now, it seems to me. ‘That is all you have to say?” 
 
 “Why, yes... except that I am very sorry you found 
 this out before I could tell you myself. I should have told 
 you in my first letter, perhaps. I wishnow I had. But wait- 
 ing to break off with—with her before I told you seemed the 
 square, honest thing to do and—” 
 
 She sprang to her feet, her eyes ablaze. 
 
 “Oh, don’t—don’t!”’ she cried. “Don’t speak of honor any 
 more. Your ideas of honor and loyalty don’t seem to be 
 mine at all, Mr. Homer. And, I may as well say this: I 
 am beginning to doubt your loyalty to father. The stories 
 { have heard about your pretending to be loyal to him and 
 working against him behind his back don’t seem as impos- 
 sible to me as they did. I am by no means sure they aren’t 
 true.” 
 
 He had risen, also. His face was white. 
 
 “Those stories are lies,” he said firmly. “And you know 
 they are lies—or will know it when you think them over by 
 and by.” 
 
 “Perhaps. And you consider that you have been loyal 
 to me?” 
 
 “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t write you right off, after you 
 left. But I explained why I didn’t. I thought I ought to 
 see Myra and tell her first.” 
 
 “And do you think that you were loyal to—to her?” 
 
 “Ves. I tried to be.” 
 
 “Then, as I said, your ideas of loyalty and honor are 
 very different from mine. Good night.” 
 
318 RUGGED WATER 
 
 She turned toward the door of the skipper’s room—hers, 
 as always, during her stay. He spoke her name. 
 
 “Norma,” he said quietly. “I suppose this means the end 
 of—of everything between you and me, doesn’t it?” 
 
 She did not reply, but entered the little room and closed 
 the door. He turned wearily away. He had had his answer. 
 
 Two days later she and her father left Setuckit. Ham- 
 mond, who had been telephoned for, came for them with a 
 two-horse vehicle, and drove them to Orham. Meanwhile 
 Superintendent Kellogg had made another visit and the Bart- 
 letts’ departure was the result of it. The district superin- 
 tendent’s errand was to receive from Bartlett the resignation 
 asked for, or, failing the receipt of that, to notify him of his 
 discharge to take effect at once. The Washington authori- 
 ties had not deemed it necessary to make further investiga- 
 tion. The testimony forwarded by Kellogg seemed con- 
 clusive and they had left the matter in his hands. 
 
 The superintendent and Homer had only a brief inter- 
 view. Its brevity was entirely due to Calvin’s disinclination 
 to talk. Kellogg told him that Bartlett flatly refused to 
 resign, even though his daughter begged him to do so, and 
 railed against the treason of the crew, his Number One man 
 in particular. The tirade was interspersed with quotations 
 from Scripture, appeals to heaven, and rambling prophecies 
 as to the vengeance of the Almighty which was to descend 
 upon the heads of those responsible for his downfall and 
 disgrace. 
 
 “Tf there was ever any doubt about the man’s being crazy,” 
 declared Kellogg, “there isn’t any now. He’s clean off, and 
 even Norma had to admit as much to me. Of course she 
 thinks that his craziness is all due to the way he’s been treated 
 since he came here, and though I tried to tell her that wasn’t 
 so, I don’t think she believed me. Natural enough she 
 shouldn’t, I suppose—he’s her father. But I declare I’m 
 sorry for her. She’s a mighty fine girl, and she’s got an 
 awful proposition on her hands. The old man keeps vowing 
 and declaring he won’t go; says the Lord ordered him to 
 stay here and put this whole section of coast in his charge, 
 
RUGGED WATER 319 
 
 or words to that effect. How he’ll act when he has to go, 
 I don’t know. She don’t say much, but anybody can see 
 she realizes what she’s in for. I told her I’d like to do alt 
 I could to help her through her trouble, but she wouldn’t 
 take my help. She’s down on me, and I don’t blame her, 
 although the land knows I’m not to blame. If I’d had my 
 way you'd have been keeper here at Setuckit in the first place, 
 Cal, and all this would never have happened. I’d like to 
 hang half a dozen politicians out here at the end of the point, 
 as a warning to the rest of *em to keep hands off what ain’t 
 any of their business.” 
 
 He again asked Homer to take the appointment as keeper, 
 but once more the offer was declined. The refusal was so 
 curt that Kellogg was surprised; however, he still vowed 
 not to accept it as final. “I’m going to wait a little spell 
 longer, Cal,” he said, “and let you think it over. The sery- 
 ice needs you here, and, by holy, J need you. You'll be 
 doing me a tremendous favor by taking the job. I’ve been, 
 and am yet, a pretty good friend of yours. You can think 
 that over, too, if you have a mind to.” 
 
 The most Calvin would concede was that he would not 
 leave at once, even though the time set—March first—had 
 arrived. He would remain another week, possibly two, but 
 no longer. He would not have done that were it not for 
 Kellogg’s personal plea of friendship, with its accompanying 
 hint of obligation owed. He had no idea of staying on at 
 Setuckit as captain. He wanted to get away from ‘there, 
 as far away as he could. 
 
 He saw almost nothing of Norma during the two days of 
 her stay. He made ita point to keep out of her way, because 
 he felt that his presence, even the sight of him, would annoy 
 her. She and her father ate in the latter’s room, for she 
 left him scarcely at all. He slept in the spare room up- 
 stairs, and she in the room below, but she tiptoed up to peep 
 in at him very often during the night, and her own sleep 
 must have been fitful and scanty. 
 
 Seleucus Gammon was the only one to whom she voucfi- 
 safed the slightest intimacy or confidence. Just why Seleu- 
 
320 RUGGED WATER 
 
 cus was chosen nobody seemed to know. Josh Phinney 
 offered the surmise that it might be because he looked so 
 everlasting dumb that she didn’t mind having him around 
 any more than she would a dog. 
 
 “Come to think of it,” observed Josh, “Seleucus does look 
 like a dog. When he stares at you with them pop eyes of 
 his and wabbles that straw mustache up and down he puts 
 you in mind of one of them big poodles, the kind with 
 whiskers. You sort of expect him to set up on his hind 
 legs and say “bow wow’ for a bone, or somethin’. Probably 
 she used to own a dog once that looked like him. If she did 
 I presume likely somebody shot the critter for bein’ so 
 homely.” 
 
 Seleucus, who was, of course, within hearing when this 
 remark was made, bristled and blew out the big mustache. 
 
 “Tf they killed folks for bein’ homely,” he declared, “you’d 
 have been drownded right after you was born, Josh. It’s a 
 wonder to me they ever let you live, anyway. Probably 
 thought they could make money if they saved you and showed 
 you off in a dime show along with the rest of the outrages 
 they have in them places. Norma takes to me because she 
 knows I’ve got sense. Maybe I ain’t got much, but even the 
 least little mite is so scurse ’round here that it sticks up like 
 Bunker Hill monument.” 
 
 To Calvin he confided his fears concerning Benoni Bart- 
 lett’s condition. 
 
 “He’s in an awful state, Cal,” he said. “Norma called 
 me in there to ask if she could possibly have a little soup or 
 somethin’ for his dinner; said he wouldn’t eat much of any- 
 thing at all, and she wanted to try and tempt him. I didn’t 
 know but I might kill that old brindle hen that’s been here 
 since Kingdom Come. The critter’s too old to lay and I’m 
 darn sure she ain’t no good for ornament. If ' killed her 
 now and biled her all night I might get half a pint of soup 
 out of the ruins, don’t you think? Then you could maybe 
 use what was left of her for somethin’-—make a rubber ball 
 out of it, maybe. I cal’late ’twould bounce fust rate; she’s 
 tough enough to bounce, I bet ye. 
 
RUGGED WATER 321 
 
 “T’d get Jemima to make the soup,” he added, “only she’s 
 so prejudiced that if I told her ’twas the Bartlett girl that 
 wanted it she’d probably flavor it up with rat pison. She 
 gets worse and worse that way, Jemima does, seems so, 
 And I swear I ain’t never give her no cause,” plaintively. 
 “T don’t care about women, Cal—never did. . . . And I care 
 about ’em less every day, by crimus! I’ve got reason.” 
 
 He expressed his belief that Bartlett was a pretty sick 
 man. “I dread the time when he has to start from here,” 
 he said. “The land knows what he’ll do or how he’ll behave. 
 Lay right flat down and have to be dragged out by main 
 force, maybe. That would be tough on her, wouldn’t it?” 
 
 Homer spoke without looking at him. “If anything like 
 that should happen, Seleucus,” he said, “do everything you 
 can for her, won’t you? And—and make it plain to her that 
 she and her father needn’t go until they’re ready. There is 
 no hurry at all. Just tell her that they can stay here as long 
 as they want to. That it won’t trouble us a bit. Tell her 
 that, will you?” 
 
 Seleucus nodded. “T’ll tell her you said so, Cal,” he said. 
 Then he added doubtfully, “I wish you’d say it to her your- 
 self, but I don’t suppose you’d hardly want to. Maybe 
 *twouldn’t be best if you did. She won’t talk about you at 
 all, and she won’t let me, neither. I’ve tried over and over 
 again to show her that what happened that day of the Fly- 
 away business wan’t your fault, that you couldn’t do nothin’ 
 else, and that the rest of us was in it just as much as you 
 was. But she won’t listen, don’t seem to even want to hear 
 you named, she don’t. That’s women’s prejudice. Jemima’s 
 like that, only tuned up consider’ble more. You can’t argue 
 with ’em; all you have a chance to do is set and listen to 
 them arguin’. Norma, she’s an awful nice girl, but she’s 
 prejudiced against you, I’m afraid. Don’t seem to be much 
 doubt of it.” 
 
 Calvin walked away. “Do everything you can to help her, 
 Seleucus,” he said. . “And if there is anything I can do— 
 without her knowing it, of course—call on me. Be sure 
 you do that.” 
 
822 RUGGED WATER 
 
 He was in the tower, looking down through the window 
 where he could see without being seen, when Norma and 
 her father came out to board the Hammond two-seater. 
 Benoni was quiet and docile enough. Gammon’s fears of 
 violence and insane obstinacy had not been justified. He 
 seemed to be in a sort of daze, and to realize little of the 
 circumstances attending his departure. Norma was out- 
 wardly calm, but she was pale and looked very tired. She 
 shook hands with each of the men in turn and Hammond 
 helped her up to the back seat of the carriage. It was a 
 rather cold, disagreeable day, and the curtains of the vehicle 
 were buttoned down. Just before she closed the door she 
 glanced up at the tower. Calvin had, without realizing it, 
 moved close to the window and she saw him. Their eyes 
 met. She made no sign nor did he. Hammond picked up 
 the reins and spoke to the horses. “A moment later and the 
 carriage moved away. She had gone—gone—and to Calvin 
 it seemed that everything which made life desirable, even 
 endurable, had gone with her. 
 
 His feelings, since their final interview there in the mess 
 room, had changed. Then he had been resentful, even angry. 
 She had misjudged him, had refused to accept his explana- 
 tions, would not believe even that he spoke the truth. But, 
 afterward, as he thought it over—and he had thought of 
 nothing else—his reason told him that she had acted as any 
 self-respecting girl would have done. If he had been in her 
 place, if she had treated him as she was convinced he had 
 treated her, would he have believed and forgiven? He was 
 forced to doubt it. She thought he had been a traitor to 
 Myra, had played a double game with her, had been from 
 the first dishonorable, and, to say the least, cowardly. He 
 could not blame her for thinking so; appearances were 
 against him, his excuses must have sounded feeble indeed. 
 He had tried to do right, had meant to be honest and fair. 
 He could think now of a hundred things he might and should 
 have done—if he had insisted upon seeing her again that 
 ‘very day when the confession of his love had been forced 
 from him; if he had told her then; even if he had finished 
 
RUGGED WATER 323 
 
 the letter he had begun; if—but what was the use of “ifs” 
 now? It was too late. Fate, or ill luck, had been too much 
 for him. They had beaten him; he was down and out. 
 
 He did not even speculate concerning the manner in which 
 she had learned of his engagement to Myra Fuller. He did 
 not care. 
 
 He tried to lose himself in the responsibilities of the sta- 
 tion routine, but these were but ordinary just now; the 
 weather continued fair and clear, and there were no wrecks 
 or calls to action. Each day was like the day before, a dull 
 monotonous round of drill and minor duties; there was no 
 excitement, nothing to help him forget, even temporarily. 
 
 Peleg Myrick came to Setuckit with reports which the 
 life-savers found interesting. Benoni Bartlett had collapsed 
 entirely during the drive to Orham. He had had to be 
 helped from the carriage into a room at the Ocean House, 
 and he was there now, his daughter with him. There were 
 rumors that he flatly refused to go with her to Fairborough; 
 that he insisted the Almighty had commanded him to remain 
 in charge of the coast, and any hint that those orders should 
 be disobeyed threw him into a frenzy which endangered his 
 reason, even his life, and caused the doctor to counsel pre- 
 tended agreement and longer delay. In fact, Peleg heard 
 that Norma had resigned her position as librarian, and was 
 contemplating taking rooms, or even a small house, in Or- 
 ham and living there with her father. 
 
 “You see,” confided Myrick, “the yarn is that the old man 
 is quiet and peaceable as anybody ’d ask for so long as he’s 
 let stay down here. Frank Hammond says he’s pretty nigh 
 sensible so long as they don’t drop no hints about carryin’ 
 him off. The doctor thinks that his health—yes, and his 
 mind, too—is liable to stay fairly good if they let him have 
 his way. But if they don’t—if they start any mutiny against 
 the Lord A’mighty’s orders—then he’s apt to fly out to 
 wind’ard and flap himself to pieces like a loose jib. So 
 Norma’s goin’ to give up all her own plans and stick by 
 him so long as he holds together. That’s what they say, and 
 the story is that she’s been lookin’ over that little five-room 
 
324 RUGGED WATER 
 
 house of Obed Ryder’s down on the hill at the lower end 
 of the village, the fust one you sight on your port bow when 
 you’re drivin’ up overland from the pint here. . . . Oh, and 
 say, I forgot to tell you, there’s a whole lot of talk about 
 Ezra Blodgett’s keepin’ steady company nowadays with 
 Myra Fuller. Course Myra’s had so many beaus that all 
 hands are a little mite doubtful—you remember there was 
 one spell when folks cal’lated she had a line over the side 
 for Cal Homer—but now it does look as if ’twas old Ezra 
 that had swallowed the hook. Well, if she lands him she’ll 
 get money, but not much else except skin and bones and a 
 red necktie. You remember the yarns they used to tell 
 about Ez? Why, one time he—” 
 
 There was much more, as there always was when the 
 Myrick tongue, as Josh Phinney described it, “got under 
 way with a gale astern.” The rumors, of course, reached 
 Homer’s ears, but he asked no questions concerning them. 
 Those dealing with Miss Fuller and Mr. Blodgett interested 
 him not in the least. The others did, far too much for his 
 peace of mind. During the night following Peleg’s visit he 
 again made up his mind to resign from the service and go 
 somewhere—anywhere—where forgetting was more of a 
 possibility than he was finding it at Setuckit. 
 
 But the day after that came a southeast rain accompanied 
 by high winds, and that night a call to a coal barge which 
 had broken from its towline and grounded on the Hog’s 
 Back. There were three men aboard and getting to them in 
 time to save their lives was an adventure, and a risk which 
 came as a blesséd distraction to Calvin. His reckless daring 
 that night caused even the old timers like Gammon and 
 Phinney to grin and shake their heads. They admired and 
 liked him for it, but Seleucus expressed the general opinion 
 when he said: 
 
 “Of course doin’ your best is what you’re here for, Cal, 
 and takin’ risks is part of the trade, but there’s some risks 
 that’s foolish. You done everything to-night but walk on 
 the water, and even Saint Peter couldn’t get away with that, 
 they tell me. You acted as if you thought ’twas up to you 
 
RUGGED WATER 325 
 
 to get them coal heavers off all by yourself even if you 
 drownded doin’ it. It wan’t; there was a whole boatload of 
 us there to help you, and, besides, they wasn’t wuth drowndin’ 
 for. Two of ’em was drunk and the other would have been 
 if the whisky had held out. Take it a little easy, Cal. 
 We've had one crazy skipper here and that’s a plenty.” 
 
 Homer laughed. He was tired, actually so tired that he 
 believed he could sleep a little. Sleep, with no dreams, and 
 a few hours from the torture of bitter self-disgust and un- 
 availing regrets, were worth all the fatigue they had cost. 
 From the time the boat was launched until it had landed 
 on the beach he had been too busy to think of Norma Bart- 
 lett. There were some compensations, other than the extra 
 ten dollars a month pay, in the keeper’s job at Setuckit 
 Station. 
 
 And when Kellogg came down the next forenoon and 
 again urged him to accept that position as a permanency, he 
 hesitated. After all, why not? He liked the work, had al- 
 ways liked it. He liked the crew and they liked him. Norma 
 would, of course, consider her judgment justified, would 
 feel sure that he had been disloyal to her father, and was 
 now reaping the reward of successful treason. But she could 
 not think worse of him than she did already; she had said 
 she believed him a liar and a traitor, What did it matter? 
 What did anything matter—now? 
 
 He drew a long breath. 
 
 “All right, Cap’n Kellogg,” he said. “I'll take the job.” 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 [ve district superintendent brought with him the 
 
 news of the enlistment of two new men to fill the 
 
 ranks of the Setuckit crew, short handed since the de- 
 parture of Oaks and Bartlett. Both of these were veterans in 
 the service and one, James Poundberry, was a South Orham 
 man whom Homer had known since boyhood. The other, 
 Baxter Cahoon, was a transfer from the Wellmouth Hollow 
 Station. Both were certain to prove valuable additions to 
 the Setuckit group and their selection was pleasing to Calvin. 
 They reported for duty the next day and Philander Jarvis 
 went back to his preparation for the spring fishing, a work 
 which his partner, Alvin Crocker, had carried on at the 
 shanty up the beach. 
 
 The weather was good. The March winds were in evi- 
 dence, and the blown sand made patrol duty rather uncom- 
 fortable, but the sky was clear and traffic over the shoals 
 and past the rips uninterrupted. Homer, striving to keep 
 busy, found himself almost wishing that another storm 
 might come. So long as he had plenty to do his mind was 
 occupied. But the days were long and, although he tried 
 to keep his thoughts from dwelling upon the wreck of his 
 hopes and their cause, he could not do so. He dreaded the 
 idle monotony of the summer to come. July was certain to 
 be a long, miserable month for him. The other men were 
 already looking forward to it and planning what they should 
 do during their four weeks’ furlough, but he, as keeper, 
 would be obliged to remain there at Setuckit, with no one to 
 talk to except the occasional boatloads of summer visitors, 
 and they would expect him to talk far too much. Well, he 
 had yielded to Kellogg’s urging and was keeper now. He 
 could not go back on his word; but already he was sorry 
 that he had not obeyed his first impulse, and gone away per- 
 
 326 
 
RUGGED WATER 327 
 
 haps to Boston or New York. Yet he knew perfectly well 
 that, wherever he might be, forgetfulness would not go with 
 him. Norma’s face was in his dreams, her eyes looked at 
 him from the darkness when he blew out his lamp at night. 
 Every corner of the skipper’s room, his own room now, was 
 redolent of her. He realized that all this was quite unavail- 
 ing, that he must forget, and face the future as if the past 
 had never been. Work, hard work, was his only cure and 
 he tried to find it. 
 
 Every detail of routine was strictly looked out for under 
 his régime. Drills were performed exactly on time, and 
 with no toleration of slackness. The few calls to active duty 
 were answered the instant they came, and from the moment 
 the men were ordered to their posts until the boat was back 
 again in the station, he drove his crew like the old-time 
 master of a tea clipper. They didn’t mind. There was no 
 grumbling. They liked it. If he did not spare them he 
 certainly spared himself less. But they noticed that his 
 appetite was poor, that he was growing thin. 
 
 Seleucus spoke to him about it. 
 
 “Cal,” he said, “you’re makin’ yourself sick. There’s no 
 sense in it. That three-master we went to yesterday didn’t 
 need us no more than Peleg Myrick’s cat needs an extry 
 set of claws. All ailed her skipper was that he got lost in 
 the fog and sung out like a young one for mother to come 
 and lead him home by the hand. You know that, but you 
 went after him as if you was his mother and he was your 
 only kid. And then, when we got back here at one o’clock 
 in the mornin’, you set up till four makin’ out your report. 
 What’s the good of it? Reports ‘ll keep. You won't, if you 
 don’t sleep once in a while. Why don’t you take a liberty 
 day yourself—you ain’t had one since afore Christmas— 
 and have a cruise up to town and enjoy yourself? Play a 
 game of pool, or go to a dance, or somethin’ reckless. Say, 
 Hez tells me there’s an Uncle Tom show comin’ to the town 
 hall Tuesday night. One of them big ones with two Topsies 
 and three or four bloodhounds and a live jackass, and I 
 don’t know what all. Why don’t you go to that? It will 
 
328 RUGGED WATER 
 
 do you good to see that Lawyer Marks and—what’s his 
 name ?—Gumption Cute—and the rest of ’em cut up. I’ve 
 seen ’em myself so often I know every blesséd thing they’ll 
 do and say next, but I enjoy it just the same. I’d go quick 
 enough if I had the chance.” 
 
 Calvin smiled. ‘Well, why don’t you go?” he suggested. 
 “We can spare you all right.” 
 
 Seleucus sighed. “I don’t go,” he retorted, “for the same 
 reason a hen don’t do much flyin’, ’cause what I get out of 
 it ain’t wuth all the fuss. If I hint at such a thing my wife 
 begins heavin’ out talk about my not takin’ any liberty in a 
 thousand years when she was up to the village, but sence 
 she got here, she says, I’m always hankerin’ to take it... . 
 Ah hum. ... ! But say, Cal, you ain’t married; you can 
 do what you want to. Go—and have a change. See the 
 girls and have a good time. Only see a lot of ’em to once; 
 they ain’t any risk in that.” 
 
 Calvin laughed, or tried to. But he did not accept the 
 suggestion. Shore liberty in Orham was the least appealing 
 of all things to him. 
 
 The other men took their allowance of liberty, however, 
 and they brought back all the village news. The rumor that 
 Norma Bartlett had hired the Ryder cottage, furnished, and 
 was living there with her father, was confirmed. There had 
 been a consultation of doctors, so the story went, and they 
 had recommended Benoni Bartlett’s being committed to some 
 sanitarium or institution. But at the slightest hint of leav- 
 ing the Cape, or even Orham, the patient’s mental condition 
 became so alarming that Norma refused to consider the idea. 
 Taking the Ryder cottage was the alternative and that she 
 had done. She was there alone with her father during the 
 days and at night Elsie May—Joshua Phinney’s oldest girl 
 —came in to stay with her. It was from Josh that this au- 
 thentic bit of news was learned. He had more to tell. 
 
 “Elsie May says,” declared Josh, “that Bologny’s real 
 quiet and sensible most of the time. He ain’t well; fact is, 
 he’s gettin’? kind of feeble. The doctors say his general 
 health’s breakin’ up, whatever that means—cal’late maybe 
 
RUGGED WATER 329 
 they don’t know themselves. Elsie May says he don’t give 
 no trouble at all, night or day, so long’s the weather’s good. 
 But when there’s a gale or a storm, even a little one same 
 as we had t’other night, it seems to sort of froth up his 
 brains, and he’s all for startin’ out and doin’ all sorts of 
 things. Seems to cal’late he must order out the lifeboat, and 
 go to save somethin’ or somebody. He’s still got that loony 
 notion that God’s put him in command of all alongshore in 
 these latitudes, and he must get right on the job. T’other 
 night, Elsie says, he tiptoed past her, and was all but out- 
 door afore she noticed him. She was settin’ up, too, and on 
 the lookout while Norma tried to get a little sleep. Yes 
 sir-ee! He’d have been out in that pourin’-down rainstorm 
 with nothin’ on but his nightshirt and a sou’wester if she 
 hadn’t grabbed him and hollered for Norma. Pretty tough 
 on his daughter, ain’t it? She had a nice well-payin’ job at 
 Fairborough, they tell me, and she had to write ’em and 
 give it up. Well, I guess the old feller won’t live very long, 
 and that’s a good thing, when you think about it sensible. 
 Say, Ed, how’s Cal been while I was off? He don’t look 
 fust rate. More peaked and thin than ever. seems to me. 
 What do you cal’late ails him, anyhow?” 
 
 There were many things “ailing” Calvin just then. The 
 mental and physical strain under which he had been since 
 the day of the meeting, and the shock and agony attending 
 and following the wreck of his love affair, had brought the 
 reaction which might have been expected. The harder he 
 worked to forget, the greater the strain upon his nerves. He 
 was in what Cape Codder’s call a “run-down” condition, and 
 therefore, the wet and exposure to which he had been sub- 
 jected when leading his crew to a three-master in the fog, 
 had given him a slight cold which he, so far, had not been 
 able to throw off. In fact, it grew daily worse, and one thick, 
 threatening morning he awoke from a troubled sleep to find 
 himself shaking with a chill. 
 
 The chill was followed by fever fits, not severe but un- 
 comfortable. Seleucus—now Number One man by official 
 appointment—tried hard to keep his superior in bed, but 
 
330 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Calvin refused to heed his advice. He insisted upon getting 
 up, and he remained up all day, trying to attend to his 
 work, and succeeding after a fashion. By night, however, 
 he was worse and, at last, he was obliged to admit that, if 
 he wished to avoid real illness, he must turn in and stay 
 there for a while, at least. The wind had risen, and it 
 was then blowing steadily, sweeping before it a fine wet 
 drizzle which Seleucus called a “‘caow storm,” a combination 
 of fog and rain, which made it hard to see for any distance. 
 The barometer, however, was reassuring, nor had the bulle- 
 tins of the weather bureau indicated any protracted or alarm- 
 ing disturbance. 
 
 He slept heavily, a sleep filled with dreams, in which he 
 and Norma were again together, and she refused to listen 
 while he explained and explained, over and over, each ex- 
 planation more weird and futile than the one preceding. 
 
 He awoke to find Gammon standing by the bed. Seleucus 
 was wearing oilskins, rubber boots and sou’wester. The 
 dim light of a wet, early April dawn shone faintly through 
 the window. The panes of that window were streaming with 
 water. Calvin started and attempted to rise, but Seleucus’s 
 big hand held him down. 
 
 “Steady, Cal, steady,” ordered Gammon. “No, you ain’t 
 goin’ to get up; you’re goin’ to be sensible and stay right 
 where you be. Listen to what I’m sayin’. There’s a two- 
 master off back of the Sand Hill signalin’ us to come to her. 
 Poundberry sighted her fifteen minutes ago, when the drizzle 
 blowed clear a little mite. She ain’t in no danger, nigh as 
 we can make out; in deep water off in the channel, and 
 gettin’ along all right, seems so. Probably there’s somebody 
 sick aboard, or the skipper’s lost his bearin’s or somethin’. 
 Anyhow, they’re signalin’ for us, and we’re goin’ off to 
 her. . . . No, you ain’t goin’, There’s no need of it at all. 
 The wind ain’t much more ’n moderate, and a ten-year-old 
 kid could handle the job. It’s wet and raw and no kind of 
 weather for a sick man to take chances in. You stay right 
 where you be, and leave the rest to me and the boys. If I 
 can’t take care of it, with a crew of old timers like this one 
 
RUGGED WATER 331 
 
 to help, then I’m goin’ to quit life-savin’ and take to cro- 
 chetin’ pillow shams. You go to sleep again. We'll be back 
 in a couple of hours. Lay down and sleep, I tell you.” 
 
 Homer, of course, refused to lie down. He insisted upon 
 getting up, climbing to the tower, and inspecting the schooner 
 through the telescope. She, as Gammon had said, appeared 
 to be in no danger whatever, yet the call for help was flying. 
 He looked out at the soaking miserableness cloaking sea and 
 land and sky, and another chill set his teeth chattering. 
 Seleucus noticed his condition and pulled him toward the 
 stairs. 
 
 “You come down and turn in again,” he commanded. 
 “You’re sick now, and if you go off yonder you'll be dead. 
 A dead skipper ain’t no good to anybody but the undertaker. 
 Come on, Cal, come on! Don’t worry. It’s a kid’s job, and 
 I’m the spryest young one this mornin’ ever you see. You 
 turn in and leave it to me. There’s no use arguin’, because 
 you ain’t goin’, The boys are all agreed on that; they'll tie 
 you in bed afore they let you. Use your sense, Car. You 
 don’t want another mutiny here at Setuckit, do ye?” 
 
 The chill had been succeeded by a flash of fever. Calvin 
 gave it up. He would be no help aboard the lifeboat, and 
 it was likely to be an easy job. 
 
 “All right,” he muttered reluctantly. “Go ahead then. But 
 take all hands with you. You may need them, and I cer- 
 tainly don’t need any one here with me.” 
 
 “You sure? It’s Phinney’s cook week, and he’s got the 
 right to stay ashore, you know.” 
 
 “Right or not, he’s got to go, if I don’t. And I guess it’s 
 as you say, Seleucus; I should hinder more than I helped. 
 Hurry now! Get her out. Good luck to you.” 
 
 “Don’t you cal’late I’d better telephone for the doctor?” 
 
 “Don’t be foolish. Clear out—and hurry.” 
 
 He waited there in the tower until he saw the lifeboat leave 
 the shore and swing off over the lines of surf. Then he 
 stumbled down the stairs and, partially dressed as he was— 
 for he had donned some of his clothes before leaving the 
 room—tumbled into bed once more. This time he did not 
 
332 RUGGED WATER 
 sleep, but lay there, watching the dim light brighten the 
 window, and worrying about the safety of the schooner and 
 his own men. It seemed as if he should have gone—but 
 how could he? 
 
 The telephone bell rang. It rang again. He crawled from 
 the bed, and, going into the mess room, took down the 
 receiver. It was Nelson, keeper of the Orham Station, who 
 was calling. He had news. 
 
 “Who is it?” he asked. “Oh, that you, Cal? Why ain’t 
 you off with the crew? I saw the boat leave a spell ago and, 
 of course— Oh yes, yes! I see. Sorry to hear it. This 
 ain’t any day for a sick man to be out in, that’s a fact. And 
 I don’t cal’late there’s much the matter with that schooner. 
 Cap’n’s got the toothache or has run out of chewin’ tobacco 
 or somethin’, . . . Yes, I was goin’ to tell you. We’ve just 
 had word from Orham that Benoni Bartlett’s run off some- 
 wheres in the night. Eh? Yes, run off is what I said. 
 You’ve heard how the least little mite of wind or rough 
 weather kind of goes to his head, and makes him wild ... ? 
 Um-hum. Well, seems he began to act funny last evenin’ 
 when it commenced to breeze on and rain. Norma—that’s 
 his daughter—she was worried and she stayed up with him 
 till two o’clock or so and then, as he’d turned in and seemed 
 to be sound asleep, she took a little nap herself, in her own 
 room, you understand. She left the Phinney girl—that one 
 of Josh’s—to set up and keep watch in the settin’ room. 
 Well, seems the young one dozed off, and when she woke 
 Benoni’d gone. ... Eh? No, they don’t know where. ' 
 He’d put on his ileskins and boots and sou’wester, so they 
 figger he might have got the notion of cruisin’ down the 
 beach here somewheres, to Setuckit, maybe. You know he 
 still hangs to the idea that the Lord’s ordered him to look 
 after everything up and down the shore or in the channel. 
 They phoned for us to watch out for him and notify you 
 folks. . . . You ain’t seen anything of him, ’tain’t likely, 
 have you, Cal?” 
 
 Homer had quite forgotten his chills and fever flashes. 
 The aches in his head and limbs had gone. The thought of 
 
RUGGED WATER 3335 
 
 Norma—her frightful anxiety and dread and fear; she alone 
 there, while her crazed and sick father was wandering in 
 the cold and rain, no one knew where and upon no one knew 
 what insane errand—these thoughts had driven all others 
 from his mind and all pains and discomfort from his body. 
 He poured question after question into the telephone. Nel- 
 son did his best to answer. 
 
 “No, they ain’t found a trace of him so far,” he declared. 
 “He don’t seem to be anywheres around his part of the town. 
 He’s either trampin’ the beach, they think, down this way 
 or back towards Trumet; or else he may be out in a boat. 
 ... Eh? Yes, boat’s what I said. There’s a chance he’s 
 done that. There’s half a dozen catboats and a dozen dories 
 down there by the wharf and, crazy as he is, he may have 
 took one of them. No tellin’ what a loony will take it into 
 his head to do, that’s a fact. Cooper, he went up to the 
 tower when he come in from patrol, to see how you folks 
 was gettin’ along with that schooner, and he see a sailboat 
 off in the bay, headed down, with what looked to be one 
 man aboard. He couldn’t see plain, but he took it for granted 
 *twas Philander or Alvin Crocker gettin’ an early start. It 
 thickened up right off and since then it’s been so thick you 
 can’t see nothin’ on the bay side from here. You better take 
 a look yourself; you’d ought to be able to see better from 
 where you are. Anyhow, I’d keep my eye peeled. Let me 
 know if you do see anything looks suspicious. ... Yes; 
 sure I’ll keep you posted.” 
 
 Homer waited to hear no more. He dropped the receiver 
 into its socket and hastened to the tower. The hurry of his 
 ascent caused his head to swim giddily, but he clung to the 
 door jamb until the dizziness became less acute and then, 
 whirling the telescope toward the windows facing the bay, 
 opened one of those windows, and peered through the glass. 
 
 Rain—fine, thick, and driving at a steady slant—with gray 
 water showing dimly through it, this was all he saw at first. 
 He swung the outer end of the glass as far as possible to 
 the west, and then moved it slowly back, searching the bay 
 —or the little he could see of it—for a boat. 
 
334 RUGGED WATER 
 
 The rain was so heavy and close that, looking through it, 
 especially at that early hour, was as unsatisfactory as trying 
 to look through a succession of gauze curtains. The beach 
 and cove showed plainly enough, but out, beyond them, the 
 dimness increased with every rod. There was nothing to 
 the west, or southwest, so far as he could see. Nothing 
 afloat on the rips at the end of the point. Yet if Bartlett 
 had left Orham as early as two, or even three, he should, 
 with that wind, have been well out into the bay by now. If 
 it was Setuckit he was making for he should be almost at 
 his destination. Of course it was possible—even most prob- 
 able—that he had not taken a boat at all. Calvin devoutly 
 hoped he had not. 
 
 He moved the end of the glass in its half circle until, 
 through it, he glimpsed the blotch of white water which 
 indicated the outer edge of the Scallop Flat, the shoal a mile 
 or so out in the bay to the northwest of Peleg Myrick’s 
 shanty, and perhaps three miles in a direct line from the 
 Setuckit Station. At low tide the Scallop Flat was dry, but 
 at high water the larger part of it was navigable for the 
 average sailboat, and the waves, breaking along the outer 
 boundary, marked the danger line. It was just past high. 
 water now; the tide was beginning to ebb. 
 
 And in the midst of that white and troubled water he did 
 see a boat. A catboat she looked to be, and aground on the 
 edge of the flat. Her reefed sail was swung off to leeward, 
 apparently at the end of a loose sheet, and she was heeled 
 down against the high bar at the edge of the shoal. He 
 could not make out whether or not there was any one aboard. 
 If there was he was not moving, was not making any ap- 
 parent effort to get his craft afloat. Calvin gazed intently. 
 Then a squall drove a thicker curtain of rain across the view 
 and he could see her no longer. 
 
 Nor, did he wait to see. He had little doubt that the 
 stranded boat was the one in which Benoni Bartlett had left 
 Orham. She was in no great danger as she lay, and if she 
 was as firmly aground as she appeared to be, the ebbing 
 tide would soon leave her high and dry. But there was a 
 
RUGGED WATER 335 
 
 ie 
 
 possibility that the increasing strength of that tide, with the 
 wind to back it, might swing her off again into deep water. 
 There she would be in real danger, she might careen and 
 sink. Bartlett—if he was aboard her—was certainly doing 
 nothing to help himself or to insure the boat’s safety. In 
 all probability, if he was there, his exertions had already 
 been too much for him and he was prostrated. A sick man, 
 an insane man, helpless, in that drenching rain! And that 
 man was Norma Bartlett’s father! 
 
 Calvin, his own brain spinning in giddy circles, ran down 
 the stairs to his room. There were certain obvious things 
 to be done, and, had he been his normal self, he would have 
 done them. He would have telephoned the Orham Station, 
 told Nelson what he had seen, and a squad from that station 
 would have started immediately to the rescue. He might 
 have gone to the Jarvis shanty and enlisted Philander’s aid. 
 But Homer, just then, was far from normal. The fever 
 was blazing in his veins, and thinking and acting clearly and 
 sensibly were beyond his capabilities. Norma’s father was 
 out there in that boat, alone, helpless, and in danger; these 
 were the essential facts, and the only ones he seemed able to 
 grasp. 
 
 He donned his wet-weather rig—he had sufficient com- 
 mon sense for that—but even this was done automatically 
 and afterward he could not remember doing it. He ran out 
 of the station and down to the shore of the cove where, 
 hauled up on the beach, were two or three dories, Philander 
 Jarvis’s among them. 
 
 Launching that dory was an amazingly hard struggle. 
 There was no reason why it should be, for the beach had 
 an easy slope, and the tide was high. But it seemed to him 
 that he would never get her afloat, that she fought against 
 him with the obstinacy of a living thing, and spun around 
 and around—alJways around and around—instead of going 
 ahead. But she was afloat at last, and he scrambled, or fell, 
 aboard, took up the oars, and began to row. He headed 
 down the beach, keeping close to land. The wind was off- 
 shore, and the shoal water was scarcely rippled. 
 
336 RUGGED WATER 
 
 At first the exertion of rowing seemed to clear his brain, 
 and he began to realize more clearly what he was doing, 
 and what must be done. The first mile he covered at a 
 good clip, rowing the short, deep strokes always used by one 
 accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of that touchy, but depend- 
 able craft, the fisherman’s dory. Then the rowing became 
 harder, his shoulders were shot with pain, there was a pain 
 in his chest, each breath hurt, and his brain again became 
 a sort of merry-go-round. He set his teeth and pulled and 
 pulled and pulled. 
 
 He saw, just ahead of him, the lines of tumbling water 
 which indicated the inshore edge of the Scallop Flat. At this 
 stage of the tide, however, there was more than depth enough 
 to float the dory, so he kept on over what, a few hours later, 
 would be stretches of white sand. Then he turned and rowed 
 out toward the bay. Another quarter of a mile, and the 
 growl and surge of the breakers on the bar sounded near 
 at hand and, peering through the rain ahead, he saw the 
 stranded catboat. She was there, just where he had seen 
 her through the glass. She had not gone adrift. 
 
 As he drew near to her on the windward side, he shouted. 
 There was no answer, and as shouting caused the pain in 
 his chest to become more acute, he gave it up. He gave a 
 final stroke, then drew in the oars and, as the dory shot 
 alongside the upturned rail of the catboat, he seized the 
 rail and held fast. He shouted again, but no one answered. 
 
 He picked up the rope which, coiled in the dory’s bow, 
 was attached to her anchor, and, with the loop of rope in his 
 hand, scrambled over the rail into the catboat. He pulled 
 the anchor aboard after him. The dory, of course, swung 
 away at the end of the line, but the anchor in the larger craft 
 held her fast; she could not get away. 
 
 There was a man lying on the floor of the catboat’s cock- 
 pit. His feet were toward the wheel, and his body stretched 
 between the centerboard box and the thwart, on the starboard 
 side. That side was lower than the other and she had 
 shipped some water. The man was lying in a pool. The 
 rain was driving down upon him. He was dressed in oil- 
 
RUGGED WATER 337 
 
 skins, and the strap of a black sou’wester was buttoned be- 
 neath his chin, Calvin, bracing himself by the centerboard, 
 stooped over the figure and pulled back the brim of the 
 sou’wester. The man lying there, his beard in the water, 
 was Benoni Bartlett. Calvin was not surprised; he had been 
 practically certain of it from the first. 
 
 He grasped his former skipper by the arm and dragged 
 him a little way out of the puddle of salt water. Then he 
 tried to shake him into consciousness. 
 
 “Cap’n Bartlett!” he shouted. “Cap’n Bartlett!” 
 
 For at least a minute his shouts and shakings had no ef- 
 fect. Then Bartlett stirred and groaned. Homer gasped in 
 relief. There was life there; the man was not dead. 
 
 “Cap'n!” shouted Calvin. “Cap’n Bartlett! Here! Get 
 up! You must get up!” 
 
 Bartlett’s eyes opened, he rolled over on his back, leaning 
 against Calvin’s knee. 
 
 “Aye, aye, sir!’ he muttered. “Comin’. On deck in a 
 minute.” 
 
 Calvin put his hands under the other’s armpits and, exert- 
 ing all his strength, dragged him from behind the center- 
 board box until his shoulders rested against the closed lower 
 half of the cabin hatch. Then, holding him steady, he 
 strove to awaken him to full consciousness. 
 
 “Cap’n Bartlett,” he urged. “Wake up! Wake up and 
 listen to me. You’re all right now, aren’t you? You aren’t 
 hurt ?” 
 
 Benoni moved again, tried to rise. 
 
 “Who said I was hurt?” he demanded feebly. “I’m all 
 right. What are you standin’ here for? Turn out the crew. 
 Get out the boat. Don’t you hear me? Get her out!” 
 
 Homer, his own brain almost as queerly muddled as that 
 of his companion, still had sufficient comprehension of the 
 situation to try and humor him. “All right, skipper,” he 
 said cheerfully. “The crew are getting her out all right. 
 Now you want to hurry or you'll keep ’em waiting. Can 
 you stand up? Sure you aren’t hurt?” 
 
 Bartlett could not have stood alone, but with Homer’s 
 
338 RUGGED WATER 
 
 arm about him and clinging to the rail, he managed to do 
 so. His wanderings took a new turn. 
 
 “Got all hands off her, boy?” he queried. “Saved all of 
 ’em, have you? That’s good! that’s good! That’s accordin’ 
 to the Lord’s orders. He says to me, ‘Benoni,’ He says— 
 that’s how He calls me, by my first name; that shows how 
 I stand along of Him—‘Benoni,’ says He to me, ‘here’s an- 
 other call for you. You save that bark,’ He says. ‘Turn 
 out and go off to her.’ I did it, too. I didn’t let Norma 
 know. She don’t know I started, but—eh? Where is 
 Norma? Ain’t she to the station?” 
 
 “Yes, yes; of course she is. You’ve saved everybody, 
 Cap’n. Now you sit down on that thwart a minute and 
 then we’ll get aboard the lifeboat. . . . That’s it. Sit down 
 and wait—just a minute.” 
 
 He forced Bartlett down upon the bench bordering the 
 upper edge of the tilted cockpit. It required little force. A 
 hand upon his shoulder and the rescued man’s knees gave 
 way, and he sank in a huddled heap by the rail, his chin 
 upon his breast, muttering disjointedly. Calvin crawled for- 
 ward, loosened the halyards, and let the sail go by the run. 
 It fell into the water, but he did not heed that. Somehow 
 he felt an extraordinary responsibility for that catboat. He 
 must make sure of her safety before he left her. That cat- 
 boat—but was she a catboat? Cap’n Bartlett had said she 
 was a bark. Well, it did not make any difference, he must 
 make sure she did not get adrift again. He found the anchor, 
 cast it loose, and threw it overboard. She would hold. And 
 now he must get Bartlett ashore. 
 
 He drew the dory alongside and held it there. Then fol- 
 lowed a long, tangled argument. Which side of that argu- 
 ment was the more insane it would have been hard to say. 
 Benoni was babbling about the bark and the bark’s crew, 
 of his responsibility to the Almighty, and his doubt concern- 
 ing Norma’s whereabouts. Homer answered all his ques- 
 tions, and agreed with him whenever possible. The one 
 point upon which he insisted was that they must get aboard 
 the lifeboat—that is, the dory. And, at last, his insistence 
 
RUGGED WATER 339 
 
 prevailed. Bartlett climbed over the rail, Calvin holding 
 him tightly by the arm, and sank down in the dory’s stern. 
 His rescuer, the anchor of the smaller craft in his hand, fol- 
 lowed him. Then he took up the oars and rowed toward 
 the beach. 
 
 The tide had ebbed somewhat, of course, but there was 
 still water enough on the flat. The row in was a long one, 
 but, to Calvin, it seemed to last forever. He swung back 
 and forth automatically, the pains in his chest and shoulders 
 causing him agony; and wondering why they had not been 
 seen from the Orham Station before this and help sent. Had 
 he been able to think clearly he would have understood. The 
 rain—Gammon’s “‘cow storm’’—had ceased to fall, and had 
 left in its place a fog so thick that objects a hundred yards 
 off were invisible. Nelson and his men had been watching 
 from the tower, but they could not see even the bay shore, 
 to say nothing of the Scallop Flat. 
 
 Calvin tugged at the oars. He had lost all ideas of time 
 and place, and was conscious only that he must row and 
 keep on rowing. Consequently the dory’s bow struck the 
 beach with such force as to throw him backwards, off the 
 thwart, and into the bottom of the dory. Bartlett, too, had 
 been upset, but he did not seem to be aware of it. He lay 
 where he had fallen, muttering, and singing a verse of a 
 hymn. Homer. got to his feet, climbed wearily over the 
 boat’s side and pulled her as far up the shore as his depleted 
 strength would allow. Then, after a struggle, and more 
 argument, he managed to get his passenger out of the dory. 
 Benoni could walk, but scarcely that; Calvin’s arm supported 
 him, and his weight leaned heavily upon the latter’s shoulders. 
 
 It was obvious, even to Homer’s cloudy brain, that to at- 
 tempt the long, circuitous tramp over the dunes and through 
 the sand to Setuckit was out of the question. Bartlett could 
 not walk so far, nor could Calvin carry him, for the sup- 
 port amounted to that. The Orham Station was, perhaps, a 
 little nearer, but it, also, was too far. Calvin, desperately 
 trying to consider possibilities, remembered Peleg Myrick’s 
 hut. That was a long mile down the beach, but one mile 
 
840 RUGGED WATER 
 
 was better than two—or four. And Peleg would look out 
 for them, if he was at home. If he was not the shanty was 
 certain to be unlocked, and they could get in and find rest 
 and warmth. 
 
 So, down the beach toward the hermit’s shanty the pair 
 started. Bartlett leaned more and more heavily as they 
 walked and appeared to be oblivious of what was going on. 
 At first he had muttered or shouted orders to the crew he | 
 evidently imagined himself leading, but soon he ceased to 
 do even that. Calvin, alarmed by his silence, and his labored 
 breathing, spoke to him occasionally, but received no reply. 
 
 The hermit’s shanty loomed through the gray fog, a spark 
 of yellow lamplight in its window. Evidently Peleg was up 
 and stirring. Calvin pantingly staggered up the slope of the 
 beach, his companion’s head bumping against his shoulder. 
 He turned the corner of the little building and, seizing the 
 latch of the weather-beaten door, shook it. 
 
 “Peleg,” he gasped. ““Peleg.” 
 
 Inside the shanty a chair was pushed back. An instant 
 later the door was opened. Mr. Myrick, in a state of ex- 
 tremely careless negligée, his scanty hair tumbled, blinked 
 at them. 
 
 “For thunder mighty sake!” exclaimed Peleg. “What—” 
 
 Homer interrupted. “Help me with him—quick,”’ he 
 ordered. “Get him in there. I—I can’t hold him up much 
 longer.” 
 
 Between them Benoni Bartlett was assisted into the shanty. 
 They put him in a chair, removed his boots and hat and 
 oilskins. Then they carried him into the adjoining, and only 
 other, room and laid him on the bed. He made no objec- 
 tion; his eyes were closed and he did not speak. If it had 
 not been for his stertorous breathing Myrick declared he 
 would have thought him dead. 
 
 “But where’d he come from, Cal?’ Peleg demanded, 
 “How’d you get aholt of him? What’s it all about?” 
 
 Calvin’s explanation was as brief as it could possibly be. 
 A cup of the hermit’s horrible coffee, already prepared for 
 breakfast, had in a measure warmed his chilled interior and 
 
RUGGED WATER 341 
 
 cleared his swimming brain. The pains in his chest and 
 shoulders and limbs were as severe as ever. 
 
 “Don’t ask me any more questions,” he ordered irritably. 
 “Give him some of that hot coffee, if you can make him 
 swallow it, and cover him up warm. Then you hustle across 
 to the Orham Station and tell Nelson you’ve picked him up, 
 and that he’s here and needs to be looked after. Tell them 
 to get word to Norma right off. Now don’t talk any more. 
 Go!” 
 
 “But what you cal’late to do, Cal? Say, you look mighty 
 well beat out yourself. Hadn’t you better turn in, too? I 
 can fix up a shakedown for you on the floor, and a—” 
 
 “No, no, no! I’ve got to get back to my own station. 
 The boat’s out and I ought to be there this minute. I’m 
 going now. But you do as I tell you. Be sure they get 
 word to Norma.” 
 
 “T’ll see to that. But, Cal—” 
 
 “Be still, can’t you? You tell them that... . But—but 
 don’t you let them tell her anything about me. No, and 
 don’t you tell them either. There is no need of it. Tell 
 them you saw that catboat—it’s Taylor Gould’s, I guess, by 
 the look of it—tell ’em you were the one who sighted her 
 off on the flat, and went off and picked Cap’n Bartlett up. 
 Tell them you did it, and don’t mention my name at all. 
 That’s what I want you to do. Understand?” 
 
 “But I never picked him up, Cal. You done it. What 
 should I tell all that pack of lies for?” 
 
 “Because I tell you to. I want you to. See here, Peleg, 
 you leave me out of this. You’ve got to. I don’t want 
 anybody but you to know I was mixed up with Benoni Bart- 
 lett. There has been enough talk about me already—too 
 much.” 
 
 “But—but he’ll tell ’em himself, won’t he?” 
 
 “T’m afraid he’ll never tell any one much of anything 
 after this. And, if he should, no one would pay any atten- 
 tion; he is out of his head. You say you found him and 
 brought him here, Peleg. You’ve got to promise me you'll 
 tell everybody that; do you hear?” 
 
342 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “There, there, Cal, don’t fly up this way. You look half 
 crazy, yourself, I declare if you don’t. Course I'll tell ’em 
 if you say so. But I don’t see why. ’Tain’t nothin’ to be 
 ashamed of, as I see it. More t’other way ’round. And as 
 for talk about you and Benoni, why—” 
 
 “Shut up!” Oh, why did this idiot persist in opposing his 
 every suggestion? “Don’t you see?” he demanded. “I’ve 
 left my station all alone. I don’t want any one to know I 
 did it. That’s it—that’s the reason. Now you get it, don’t 
 you? Bea good fellow, Peleg, and don’t say a word about 
 me.” 
 
 Peleg nodded. “Oh, now I cal’late I do get you, Cal,” 
 he said. “I don’t believe anybody’d find much fault on ac- 
 count of your leavin’, considerin’ what made you leave... . 
 But there, there! don’t fly up again. I'll tell all the lies you 
 want, if it suits you better. I’m a pretty fair average liar 
 when I set my mind to it. But have you got to go right 
 now’ Won’t you have some more coffee? Won’t you—” 
 
 But Homer had gone. He was already plowing through 
 the sand, on his way back to Setuckit. When he entered 
 the hermit’s shanty he had had no idea of forbidding its 
 owner to tell of his part in the rescue of Benoni Bartlett. 
 The conviction had come upon him suddenly, out of the 
 whirl of queer thoughts in his fever-stricken brain. It was 
 a brilliant thought, too—he was certain of that, and proud 
 of it. And the real reason prompting it had nothing what- 
 ever to do with his leaving the station unguarded. That 
 was a trifle of no importance. The important thing—yes, 
 that was it, the important thing—was to prevent Norma from 
 hearing his own name; she must not again be troubled with 
 any thought of him. He had troubled her enough. She 
 was trying to forget him, probably had forgotten him al- 
 ready and must not be reminded. He was a traitor—and 
 disloyal—and—and— It was hard to remember what he 
 was, hard to remember anything at that moment—even the 
 way to Setuckit—and he must remember that. 
 
 He did remember it somehow and staggered into the mess 
 room to the accompaniment of a tinkling of bells. It was 
 
RUGGED WATER 343 
 
 queer that they should ring the dinner bell so early in the 
 morning. And queerer still considering that there was no 
 dinner bell in the station. But the bell continued to ring 
 and, after a while, he decided it must be the telephone bell. 
 It was, and Nelson was speaking from the Orham Station. 
 
 “Hello, Cal!” hailed Nelson. “That you finally? Asleep, 
 I presume likely. Sorry I turned you out. Hope you’re 
 feelin’ better. I just thought you’d like to know the news. 
 Peleg Myrick’s been here, and he’s got Benoni Bartlett over 
 to his shanty. The old feller was agrourid in somebody’s 
 catboat on the Scallop Flat and Peleg sighted him and went 
 off in the dory and fetched him in. We’ve telephoned and 
 they'll get word to Norma. Some of the men have gone 
 across to Peleg’s already and I’m goin’ ina minute. Benoni’s 
 in pretty bad shape, so Myrick says, but it’s a mercy he 
 isn’t at the bottom of the bay. Good thing old Peleg was 
 awake and had his eyes open. ... Yes... Yes,,1 told 
 you we'd sent word to his daughter. I'll let you know how 
 things go with ’°em. Take care of yourself and—” 
 
 Calvin had hung up the receiver. He scarcely knew that 
 he did it. The door to his room looked a long way off, but 
 he reached it, and threw it open. When, an hour later, the 
 crew returned from an entirely unnecessary trip to the two- 
 masted schooner, Gammon found his skipper lying upon the 
 bed in that room, dressed in dripping oilskins and boots, 
 groaning with pain and delirious. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 RR eocirs se fever—that is what the old-fashioned 
 
 doctors used to call it—is not a cheerful disease. 
 
 They give it another name nowadays, but the 
 change does not make it less painful. Calvin Homer was 
 a sick man and a sick man he remained for weeks. Seleucus, 
 Phinney, and Hez Rogers held a consultation that morning, 
 and, as a result of it, Doctor Palmer, the Orham physician, 
 was telephoned for, and he drove to Setuckit that afternoon. 
 Calvin was not dangerously ill, so the doctor declared—that 
 is, there was no immediate danger to be apprehended—but 
 he must be kept in bed, and he should have constant atten- 
 tion and care. His removal to Orham was out of the 
 question. 
 
 “He ought to have some one with him all the time, night 
 and day,” declared the doctor, “and who that somebody will 
 be I’m sure I don’t know. There is a good deal of sickness 
 up in the village, and about every available woman who goes 
 out nursing is busy. I might get a nurse from Boston, but 
 it will take some coaxing to find one who will come down 
 and stay at a place like this.” 
 
 “Couldn’t you get a man that would do?” inquired 
 Phinney. 
 
 Doctor Palmer shook his head. 
 
 “T can’t think of one,” he said. “Can you? Old Henry 
 Pepper is the only one who does that sort of work, and he 
 is sick, himself. Besides, the last patient of mine that 
 Pepper took care of swore he had rather be alone. It was 
 Cap’n Tom Doane. Henry is deaf, you know, and Cap’n 
 Tom vowed that the exertion of yelling every time he wanted 
 anything made him sicker than going without that thing. 
 And, so the cap’n said, Pepper had a habit of dropping 
 asleep on watch, and once asleep no amount of yelling would 
 wake him. Then Cap’n Tom had to climb out of bed, and go 
 
 344 
 
RUGGED WATER 345 
 
 and shake him and howl into his ear what it was he needed. 
 ‘He makes me so darned mad, Doc,’ says the cap’n, ‘that, 
 if | wasn’t so weak, I’d have killed him afore now. Then 
 you'd have been called into court to swear ’twas justifiable 
 suicide.’ He meant homicide, of course; he’s a dry old 
 chap, Doane is. But I had to admit that Pepper, as a 
 nurse, was a little worse than nobody. And, even if he 
 was good for anything, he is out of the question now. Isn’t 
 there some one down here you could get?” 
 
 Rogers suggested Peleg Myrick. Seleucus expressed 
 doubt. 
 
 “T don’t believe Peleg would take the job,” he observed. 
 “He’s independent as an eel in a grass channel, and he’ll do 
 what he cal’lates to do and nothin’ else. Besides, the season 
 for clammin’ and quahaugin’ is just openin’ up and that’s 
 when he makes what little money he needs. Oh, yes, yes, 
 I know he could make maybe as much by nursin’ Cal, but 
 that wouldn’t be any argument with Peleg. He’d say no to 
 begin with, and after that he’d stick to it just out of stub- 
 bornness, same as he sticks to his weather prophesyin’. He'll 
 come down here, with the sun shinin’, and swear it’s a howlin’ 
 snowstorm only we ain’t got sense enough to find it out.” 
 
 Phinney grinned. “Yes,” he agreed, “and if he did come 
 he’d want to fetch that fiddle of his and his old Sou’west cat, 
 and then there’d be the Old Harry to pay. His cat wouldn’t 
 get along with our cats, and between cat fights and that 
 fiddle squeakin’ poor Cal would wish he was dead, even if 
 he lived through it. No, my vote goes in against Peleg— 
 hard.” 
 
 “We'll think it over, Doctor,” said Rogers. ‘“‘And, while 
 we're thinkin’, we'll take turns lookin’ out for Cal. It’s 
 comin’ spring, so we ain’t likely to be very busy.” 
 
 Doctor Palmer said he would come again next day, and 
 would telephone that evening. He left medicine and direc- 
 tions for the care of the patient. He must hurry now, he 
 declared, to the Orham Station and Benoni Bartlett. He 
 had stopped there on the way down. Asked concerning 
 Bartlett’s condition, he looked grave. 
 
346 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “He is in bad shape,’ he admitted. ‘“Doesn’t seem to 
 know much of what is going on and I am inclined to think 
 he may have had a slight shock. His daughter came down 
 with me. We are going to try and take her father back 
 with us when we go; that is, if he is in a condition to stand 
 the trip.” 
 
 After the doctor’s departure the entire crew discussed the 
 situation. No one had a satisfactory suggestion to make as 
 to a possible nurse for Homer. But when Seleucus next 
 went over to the Jarvis shanty his wife offered one very 
 much to the point. 
 
 “What’s the matter with me?” she asked tartly. “I don’t 
 set up to be any trained nurse, as I know of, but I guess 
 likely I could do as well as old Henry Pepper. If I couldn’t 
 I’d sell out cheap.” 
 
 Her husband, much surprised, pulled at his mustache. 
 “Why—why, I never thought of you 'Tcmima,” he admitted. 
 
 “No, ’tain’t likely you would. I’m the last one you think 
 of. If I was Olive Myrick or that Norma Bartlett—if I 
 was anybody else but your own married wife, you’d think 
 of me. I know that.” 
 
 “Eh? Now, Jemima, don’t talk foolish, You’re always 
 thinkin’ I’m thinkin’ about other women. That’s silly, that 
 is. Look at me! Crimustee, look at me! What do you 
 cal’late a woman’s liable to see in me?” 
 
 “T don’t know, I’m sure. J must have seen somethin’ in 
 you or I wouldn’t have married you. That was a long spell 
 ago, though, and my eyesight was always poor. But I can 
 take care of Calvin Homer, and whatever the pay for doin’ 
 is I can find ways to use it. Besides, I’d just as soon spend 
 my time over in that station as not. There must be somethin’ 
 turrible attractive about it, or you’d leave it oftener than you 
 do. I have to use main strength afore you’ll come home long 
 enough to split me a mess of kindlin’ wood. ... Yes, and 
 while you’re strainin’ your brains thinkin’ up reasons why 
 I shouldn’t take the nursin’ job, you can be splittin’ some 
 right now.” 
 
 Mr. Gammon, obediently chopping, did venture one or two 
 
RUGGED WATER 34:7 
 
 possible objections. They were not weighty—the weighty 
 ones were so intimately personal that he kept them to him- 
 self. He wished to know who would look after Philander’s 
 cooking and housework if she took up residence at the station. 
 Jemima soon disposed of that. Her brother, she declared, 
 would be at the weir shanty most of the time. “And, be- 
 sides,” she added, ‘“‘Philander is used to lookin’ out for him- 
 self. He ain’t so helpless as some folks. He can get along 
 without a woman to wait on him; yes, or one to tag around 
 after, either.”’ 
 
 Seleucus, badgered into silence at home, reluctantly car- 
 ried the news of his wife’s offer to Phinney and the others. 
 They accepted it with enthusiasm. “Fine!” “First rate!” 
 Why had they not thought of it themselves? 
 
 “Good stuff! exclaimed Josh. ‘A woman is the only 
 kind of a nurse that’s good for much and Jemima’s right 
 here on deck. Besides,’ with a wink over his shoulder, 
 “it'll be such a nice thing for you, Seleucus, to have her 
 with you every minute of the time. All the comforts of 
 home, as you might say.” 
 
 So that very evening Mrs. Gammon came to the station 
 and took charge of the sick man. Hers were no light duties. 
 Calvin’s pain was incessant and agonizing, his fever made 
 him delirious, and he groaned and muttered. When, in his 
 delirium, he attempted to turn in bed, he shrieked with pain. 
 Several times that night Seleucus was called by his wife to 
 come and help her with the patient. His own temper was 
 severely frayed by each successive summons, but Jemima’s 
 was so much worse that he swallowed his wrath and meekly 
 obeyed orders. 
 
 “Kind of hard work, ain’t it, Jemima?’ he said with a 
 sigh, 
 
 Mrs. Gammon _- sniffed, “Hardil* #ushe™ repeated: 
 “?*Twouldn’t be so hard if you was like some husbands, and 
 was willin’ to set up and do a little of it yourself. But all 
 you want to do is sleep.” 
 
 “But I never got to sleep till after twelve. I was out 
 on patrol.” 
 
348 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Yes, and if I’d set up as late as that I’d just as soon 
 stay up the rest of the night. I’d be used to it by then.” 
 
 “Well, you was up, wan’t ye? I heard you up when I 
 come in.” 
 
 “Oh, don’t talk so foolish! Course I was up. Tve been 
 up all night, ain’t I?” 
 
 “Um-hum. I suppose you have. But you said somethin’ 
 about bein’ up till twelve makin’ you used to it. Seems to 
 me—”’ 
 
 “Oh, mercy on us, do go to bed again! I don’t know what 
 they’ll pay me for doin’ this, but whatever ’tis I’ll earn it.” 
 
 She was a faithful nurse, and never neglectful of her 
 duties, although the exacting nature of those duties rendered 
 her a difficult problem for the life-savers to contend with. 
 One or the other of the men relieved her during the hours 
 in the middle of the day when she went back to the Jarvis 
 shanty for a scanty measure of rest and sleep. Doctor 
 Palmer came regularly, rain or shine. The journey down 
 and back was a hard one, but a country general practitioner, 
 in those pre-automobile days, was accustomed to hard 
 journeys. 
 
 The doctor pronounced Homer’s condition satisfactory. 
 There was little to do except ease his pain as much as pos- 
 sible, keep careful watch, and let the disease take its course. 
 Calvin was young and strong and, barring accidents—that 
 is, provided his heart was not affected—he was, so Palmer 
 said, almost sure to come out all right. The days and nights 
 passed, with their round of fever, pain and delirium. Super- 
 intendent Kellogg visited Setuckit, inquired solicitously con- 
 cerning Homer, and placed Seleucus in temporary charge of 
 things at the station until the regular keeper should again 
 be fit. 
 
 These visitors—and Peleg Myrick, when he came— 
 brought news from Orham. Benoni Bartlett was still alive, 
 but little more than that. The doctor’s surmise that he had 
 suffered a slight paralytic stroke was confirmed. They had 
 taken him back to the little Ryder cottage, where he_ now 
 lay, attended by Norma, the Phinney girl, and occasional 
 
RUGGED WATER 349 
 
 volunteers among the kindly neighbors. He was conscious 
 only at rare intervals and then only partially so. 
 
 “He may slip off any minute,” Doctor Palmer confided to 
 Seleucus. ‘““That is the truth. And, for his own sake, not 
 to mention Norma’s, the sooner he does the better. His 
 mind is gone, and he is paralyzed. Who could want him to 
 live in that condition? That girl of his is a wonder. She 
 shows what she has been through, but she doesn’t complain 
 and won’t talk about herself. She’s spunky—by George! 
 she is!” 
 
 This statement was made at the door of the sick room, 
 just as the doctor was leaving. Jemima, in the room 
 with Calvin, heard it. She tiptoed forward and asked a 
 question. 
 
 “Have you told her about’—with a motion of her hand 
 toward the bed—‘“about him bein’ so sick?’ she asked 
 eagerly. Something in her tone caused her husband to 
 glance at her in surprise. Doctor Palmer, however, noticed 
 nothing unusual. 
 
 “Oh, yes, I told her that first day when we took Cap’n 
 Bartlett back to town,” he replied. 
 
 “T see. Um-hum. Kind of interested, was she?” 
 
 “Yes. Of course she was. As much as any one in her 
 position just then was likely to be. Her father was almost 
 dead and most of her thoughts were taken up with him. 
 But she was interested, I guess. She asked a good many 
 questions about Homer.” 
 
 “Um-hum. Asked some since, has she?” 
 
 “Yes. I always tell her how he is getting on when I go 
 there. But everybody is interested. The whole business is 
 keeping Orham talking nowadays. By the way, has any- 
 body found out what Calvin was doing after you fellows 
 left him here at the station that morning? Where he went 
 —and why he went? You left here, you say, Seleucus; and, 
 when you came back he had evidently been out in the rain, 
 for he was wet through. Have you any idea what got him 
 up and out-of-doors—a sick man, in such weather ?” 
 
 Seleucus shook his head. Those were questions over 
 
350 RUGGED WATER 
 
 which he and his fellow surfmen had puzzled and speculated 
 much. 
 
 “No,” he admitted. “Cap’n Nelson, down to the Orham 
 Station, says that soon as they got word to him that Bologny 
 —Cap’n Bartlett, I mean—had got loose and might be 
 trampin’ the beach or adrift in the bay, he telephoned here. 
 He says Cal answered the phone. Cal told Nelson he was 
 sick and we’d had to go to the schooner without him, and 
 seemed to be dreadful interested about Bartlett. After 
 Peleg had fetched Bologny ashore to his shanty and had left 
 there and hustled over to the Orham Station, Nelson tele- 
 phoned again. Cal answered that time, too, but Nelson said 
 he couldn’t get much out of him, or make much sense of 
 what he said. When we found Cal he had his ileskins and 
 boots on, and the water from ’em had run all over the 
 floor. We sort of figger—we fellers here—that he might 
 have been down to the shore maybe, trying to see if he could 
 catch sight of Bologny, or a loose boat or somethin’. That 
 sounds the most reasonable of anything we can think of. 
 Of course we ain’t asked him about it. He’s out of his 
 head a lot of the time and when he ain’t he’s too weak to 
 bother with questions. Ain’t said nothin’ to you about it, 
 has he, Jemima?” 
 
 Mrs. Gammon’s answer was prompt. 
 
 “No,” she declared. “He says enough, land knows. He’s 
 jabberin’ away half the time, but it’s mostly about—well, 
 tain’t about that.” 
 
 Palmer smiled. ‘Peleg Myrick has made a hit without 
 knowing it,’ he observed. “His sighting the Gould boat 
 and getting off to it right away were the saving of Bart- 
 lett’s life, for the time, anyhow. The man would have died 
 from exposure in a little while, there is no doubt about 
 that. Old Peleg is quite a hero. Did you read the piece 
 in this week’s Item about him? And there was a story in 
 one of the Boston papers, too. The hermit business will 
 be good this summer, I imagine, and Peleg will grow fat 
 on it. He dearly loves to show off before the summer 
 people.” 
 
RUGGED WATER 351 
 
 Seleucus laughed. “I bet you!” he agreed. “Crimus! how 
 he will strut and lie! The yarns he’ll tell will grow and 
 spread like the green hay tree in the Bible. By the end of 
 next August he’ll have saved half of Cape Cod and: only 
 just missed savin’ the other half. Funny thing he won’t 
 talk to us about it. He’s down here every other day to ask 
 how Cal’s gettin’ along. He’s took a turrible shine to Cal, 
 seems so. We've asked him a lot of questions about how 
 *twas he come to be up and sight the boat, but he shies 
 every time. Preach his head off about his fool weather 
 prophesyin’, and name over every bone and jint he’s got 
 aboard himself; but he won’t talk about pullin’ Bologny out 
 of the drink. Savin’ that up for the city folks, I guess 
 likely.” 
 
 After the doctor had gone Seleucus asked his wife what 
 she meant by asking if Norma had seemed interested in 
 Homer’s condition. She smiled—a knowing smile, it seemed 
 to him—but refused to give him any satisfaction. 
 
 “Maybe I didn’t mean anything,” she said. “And, then 
 again, maybe I did. Anyhow, it ain’t any of your affairs, 
 as I know of.” 
 
 “But you did mean somethin’, Jemima. I could tell you 
 did. I’ve lived along with you enough to tell when you’ve 
 got somethin’ up your sleeve.” 
 
 Mrs. Gammon sniffed. “Most of the time you’ve been 
 livin’ with me,” she observed, “‘you’ve been doin’ your best 
 to keep away from me. Just now you want to hang around. 
 You trot off and attend to some of that work you’re forever 
 tellin’ me about. J don’t need you. I ain’t Olive Myrick, 
 nor the Bartlett girl, nor any of the rest of ’em. I’m just 
 your wife and I’m used to doin’ without you.” 
 
 So Seleucus went, but, as he went, he thought. And, al- 
 though he did not mention his thoughts to any one, he con- 
 tinued to think. His provoking better half certainly had 
 some reason for her coupling of Calvin Homer’s name with 
 that of Benoni Bartlett’s daughter. As he told her, he had 
 lived with her a long time, and that air of sly triumph and 
 smug. satisfaction meant something. She had learned some- 
 
852 RUGGED WATER 
 thing which he and the others did not know. And it must 
 be something concerning Calvin and Norma. 
 
 Mr. Gammon had heard, as had all Orham and its neigh- 
 borhood, the rumors of Homer’s “keeping company” with 
 Myra Fuller. He did not approve of the match, for al- 
 though every Setuckit life-saver, married or single, was 
 willing to agree that Myra was “some girl” and a “pippin,” 
 her name was usually mentioned with a grin and a wink. 
 If Calvin was cal’latin’ to marry her, they opined, he was 
 in for a lively and watchful future. They hoped, for his 
 sake, that she might not get him. And now it appeared that 
 she had given up any idea of getting him. Ezra Blodgett 
 was reported to be the latest candidate for Miss Fuller’s 
 favor and a successful one. In fact, Cooper, of the Orham 
 Station, had told Ed Bloomer that his wife heard from 
 some one else, who had learned it from another some one, 
 that Ezra and Myra were engaged. 
 
 But Seleucus had never seriously dreamed of the possi- 
 bility of a love affair between Calvin and Norma. Those 
 two had known each other but a little while, and that .qnly 
 during her visits to Setuckit. She had at first seemed to 
 like him, but, for that matter, every one—Oaks and. Bart- 
 lett excepted—liked him. She had asked questions about 
 him; she had talked with Seleucus about him, or, rather, 
 had led Seleucus to talk. And, that foggy afternoon, when 
 Bartlett had sent the latter out in search of his daughter, 
 and he had come upon the pair at the edge of the cut through, 
 for just a moment his suspicions had been aroused. They 
 had seemed a little embarrassed or confused, Calvin es- 
 pecially. Yes, then, and for a short time thereafter, Mr. 
 Gammon had wondered and speculated, although he had 
 kept his speculations to himself. 
 
 But the idea that Calvin Homer and Norma Bartlett might 
 be keeping company—Seleucus never, even in his thoughts, 
 designated the relation in any other way—did not last long. 
 Norma’s behavior on the occasion of her final visit to Se- 
 tuckit settled that, he believed, conclusively. She was very 
 cool to Calvin; she had kept out of his way, had not talked 
 
RUGGED WATER 353 
 
 with him, nor would she permit Seleucus to talk about him. 
 As he told Homer, she seemed prejudiced against him, and, 
 greatly as Seleucus regretted the prejudice, nothing he could 
 say changed her attitude. He had been forced to believe 
 she shared her father’s mistaken conviction that Calvin was 
 at least partially responsible for Bartlett’s disgrace and the 
 loss of his position. 
 
 Therefore any surmise of attachment between those two 
 seemed ridiculous and impossible; but it was the only ex- 
 planation he could think of to account for his wife’s peculiar 
 questions and manner. She must know something, but, if 
 she did, he would be the last one she would take into con- 
 fidence. 
 
 But the very next day he learned the secret himself. 
 Jemima had gone to the Jarvis shanty for her midday allow- 
 ance of sleep and Seleucus took her place as watcher in the 
 skipper’s room, by Calvin’s bedside. 
 
 Of late, and as a usual thing, Calvin’s days were com- 
 paratively quiet. Any one who has endured the long tor- 
 ment of the disease from which he was suffering knows that 
 the daylight hours are, for the patient, the comparatively 
 easy ones. The sunshine and the movement in the room, 
 the sense of safety and watchful care which they bring, tend 
 to lull the tortured nerves and quiet the fevered fancies. 
 Calvin dozed much during the day and, when awake, was 
 very weak, but usually rational. It was at night that he 
 moaned and muttered and talked aloud in his delirium. 
 
 This day, however, it was different. He had passed a 
 more comfortable night, and was awake when Mrs. Gammon 
 left him. Then he dozed again and from the doze awoke 
 to call a name and to carry on a long conversation with 
 some one whom he fancied to be present. He was making a 
 plea, an earnest, agitated plea for forgiveness for some wrong 
 he had done. He made it over and over again, in a half- 
 dozen different ways, and Seleucus, listening, began to com- 
 prehend. He had found the answer to the riddle. He 
 was learning what, he was sure, his wife had learne’ 
 already. 
 
354 RUGGED WATER 
 
 He turned, to find Jemima ‘standing in the doorway, 
 She nodded, a grim smile on her thin face. 
 
 “Humph!” she sniffed. “So you’re gettin’ it, too, be you} 
 Well, it’s a wonder to me you, or some of the rest of ’em, 
 haven’t picked it up long afore this. If you’d been here 
 with him nights, same as I have, you’d have got it long ago. 
 This is the way he’s been about every night since I come 
 with him. ‘Talkin’ about her all the time, ain’t he?” 
 
 Her husband nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “He was 
 sleepin’ quiet as you’d ask for, and I guess likely I was half 
 asleep myself. All to once he sung out ‘Norma! Norma!’ 
 and I jumped as if a crab had nabbed hold of me. . . . Shut 
 that door, Jemima, won’t ye? We don’t want anybody else 
 to hear. He wouldn’t want ’em to, that’s sartin.” 
 
 Mrs. Gammon, obedient for once, closed the door. She 
 crossed to the bed and proceeded to give the patient a dose 
 of the quieting medicine left by the doctor. 
 
 “Tt’s the aches and pains that starts him goin’,” she de- 
 clared. “They come on to him by spasms. I don’t know 
 what this doctor stuff is, but it generally soothes him down 
 and gets him to sleep again. Some kind of morphine or 
 such dratted trash, I presume likely. Well, ’tain’t none of 
 my business, but I tell you this, if twas you I wouldn’t give 
 it to you. I don’t believe in dopin’ sick folks. No, sir, you’d 
 have to groan it out.” 
 
 Seleucus shuddered. “I’m darn glad it ain’t me,” he an- 
 nounced fervently. “You sure that door’s shut tight? I 
 wouldn’t want none of the boys to hear the kind of talk 
 he’s been firin’ off. Say, you don’t cal’late any of ’em 
 have heard it, do you?” 
 
 His wife tossed her head. “It’s a wonder they ain't,” she 
 said, “but I guess they haven’t. If they had they’d be talkin’ 
 about it. They’re like you and about every other man I 
 ever run acrost. You can’t any one of you keep a thing to 
 yourself. It takes a woman to keep her mouth shut, and 
 her ears open. I’ve been sittin’ here listenin’ and learnin’ 
 and if folks in Orham knew what I know there’d be tongues 
 awaggin’, now I tell you.” 
 
 ~ | 
 
RUGGED WATER 355 
 
 “But what do you know, Jemima?” 
 
 “T know that he’s plumb crazy about that Bartlett girl, 
 and that there’s been things goin’ on between ’em that no- 
 body ever suspected. As nigh as I can find out she was as 
 gone on him as he was on her—for a spell, anyhow. And 
 then they had a rumpus and she gave him his walkin’ papers. 
 Just why I ain’t quite sure, but I am almost. ’Twas some- 
 thin’ to do with Myra Fuller.” 
 
 “Myra Fuller! What on earth could she have to do with 
 it? How you talk, Jemima!” 
 
 “Humph! You ought to hear him talk when he gets 
 goin’. There’s been nights here, when he was the worst, 
 that he just chattered, chattered, chattered till I thought the 
 top of my head would come off. I guess ’twould if I hadn’t 
 been so interested. Nigh’s I can get at the truth from his 
 crazy jabber he and Myra Fuller was goin’ ’round together 
 and was engaged to be married.” 
 
 “Jemima, how you do talk!” 
 
 “Mercy on us, do stof tellin’ me that! I know how I talk 
 and what I’m talkin’ about. He and Myra was engaged or 
 what amounted to that. And I judge that when this Norma 
 come along he forgot all about Myra and tock up with her. 
 But he didn’t tell her about Myra; there was where the 
 trouble come in. And, somehow or other, she—the Norma 
 one—found it out from somebody else. That settled Mr. 
 Calvin, and no wonder. ‘Tryin’ to keep two strings to his 
 bow. Humph! that sort of trick is always found out, sooner 
 or later—and generally sooner.” 
 
 “But—but, Jemima, did Cal tell you all this?” 
 
 “He didn’t know he was tellin’ it, of course, and he didn’t 
 tell it right straight along. I had to pick it up a little bit 
 here and there, and piece it together, same as a body might 
 string rags for a mat. She won’t have anything to do with 
 him, nigh’s I can find out, but he is as gone on her as he 
 ever was. Keeps beggin’ her to forgive him and listen to 
 what he’s tryin’ to tell, how it happened he never told her 
 about Myra afore, and the like of that. Such a lot of mushy, 
 soft-soapy talk J never heard. I declare there’s been times 
 
356 RUGGED WATER 
 
 when I’ve been glad I was blessed with a strong stomach. 
 All that sugar and syrup is enough to upset anybody’s appe- 
 tite for their meals. And over a stuck-up, highfalutin’ chit 
 like that Norma Bartlett, too. My soul!’ 
 
 “Why—why now, Jemima! Norma ain’t stuck up. She’s 
 a real nice everyday kind of girl. Everybody thinks so.” 
 
 “Oh, I know you think so. She ain’t your wife, so of 
 course she’s lovely. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
 I’m ashamed for you. Now don’t you tell a soul I’ve told 
 you this. If you do I’ll—I don’t know what I'll do to you.” 
 
 “Eh? Why, of course I won’t tell. ’Tain’t likely I would, 
 is it? Crimus! it makes me kind of ashamed to think I let 
 you tell it to me. ’Tain’t a thing I ought to have heard— 
 no, nor you either. I—I ’most wish you hadn’t heard it, 
 Jemima.” 
 
 “What! You do, eh? I want to know! Well, I’m glad 
 I heard it. It’s kept me from dyin’ of the fidgets those long 
 lonesome nights. I have heard it, and I mean to hear more. 
 There is more. Somethin’ about a letter he started to write 
 her, tellin’ her the whole yarn, and never finished. There’s 
 spells when he gets goin’ about that letter and goes on and 
 goes on. He must finish it—he’s got to finish it; that’s 
 what he keeps sayin’. He’s got that letter somewheres, 
 I'll bet you. I wish I knew where it was. If I could read 
 that letter then I would know what was what for sure.” 
 
 Seleucus jumped from his chair. “Jemima Gammon!” 
 he cried, aghast. “You—you wouldn’t read that letter, would 
 you? Course you wouldn’t! You're foolin’.” 
 
 “Foolin’? Why? Why shouldn’t I read it? Id read 
 it quick enough if I got the chance. *Twould be mighty 
 interestin’, I guess... . And he’d never know I read it; 
 I’d take care of that.” 
 
 For the first time her husband showed signs of rebellion 
 —active, open rebellion. 
 
 “Don’t you read that letter,” he commanded. ‘Don’t you 
 dast to read it! That letter ain’t any of your business. 
 How’d you like to have anybody else read your letters?” 
 
 “Humph! If it was one of your letters to me it wouldn’t 
 
RUGGED WATER «857 
 
 take long to read. And the letters you write me are so 
 scurse that a person wouldn’t be able to find more than one 
 or two in a lifetime. Don’t you talk to me like that, either. 
 Tellin’ me what I dast to do! The idea! You get right 
 out of here now, and if you whisper a single word about 
 what I’ve just told you I’ll—oh, you'll see what I’ll do! 
 You go right along.” 
 
 The rebellion was crushed in its infancy. Mr. Gammon 
 sighed. “I didn’t mean to order you around, Jemima,” he 
 explained, with unconscious humor. “I’m sorry I spoke so. 
 But when you told me you was cal’latin’ to read a letter that 
 —that Cal here wrote to his girl, I—I—well, of course I 
 know you don’t mean it.” 
 
 “Never you mind what I mean. I’m sorry I told you as 
 much as I did. And,” triumphantly, “I haven’t told you the 
 whole, either. There’s somethin’ else, somethin’ about that 
 night when Benoni Bartlett got adrift in the bay. You’d 
 give your head—if it was worth anything and anybody’d take 
 it—to know what I’m findin’ out about that, too. . . . No, 
 I shan’t tell you a word. You get out of this room. You— 
 a married man—tellin’ your poor wife she don’t dast to do 
 this or that! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?” 
 
 Seleucus, as usual, obeyed orders. He left the skipper’s 
 room under fire. But during the weeks which followed his 
 newly acquired habit of thinking grew upon him. What he 
 had heard from his wife explained much. He was tremen- 
 dously fond of Calvin Homer. He liked him, admired him, 
 and was grateful to him for his own advance in the service. 
 These feelings had grown and deepened during their com- 
 radeship at the station. And he liked Norma Bartlett. If 
 matfriage was a necessary, although disagreeable, part of life 
 —and it did appear to be—then Norma was the sort of girl 
 a man like Calvin ought to marry. And Myra Fuller, whom 
 he had never liked—she had a superior way of patronizing 
 and poking fun which he resented—was not the right sort 
 at all. It troubled him to think that Myra had come between 
 his two friends. He devoutly wished there might be some 
 way in which he could help them. But he could not think 
 
358 RUGGED WATER 
 
 of any. He tried several times to learn more particulars 
 from his wife—to find out if she had learned more—but she 
 would not vouchsafe another word on the subject. She 
 seemed to regret having told him anything. 
 
 April went and May came. Good weather almost every 
 day, and few calls from the sea for the help of the Setuckit 
 life-saving crew. These few were of little consequence; the 
 season for severe storms and serious disasters was passing— 
 had practically passed already. Calvin began to improve and 
 to regain strength. His fever left him, and he began to sit 
 up and develop an appetite. Doctor Palmer told Phinney 
 that his recovery would be much more rapid if his spirits 
 were better. 
 
 “He doesn’t seem to take much interest in anything,” con- 
 fided the doctor; “not even in getting well. He used to be 
 good-natured and cheerful enough, but now he doesn’t seem 
 to care whether school keeps or not. What has happened to 
 put him so far into the dumps? Does anybody know?” 
 
 Seleucus knew, but he could not tell. Jemima knew, but 
 she merely looked wise and there was an air of malicious 
 triumph about her which her husband noticed and distrusted. 
 That letter of Calvin’s—had she found and read it? He 
 could scarcely believe she would do such a thing, but experi- 
 ence had taught him that if there was one thing in the world 
 which his wife loved it was to burrow into the intimate de- 
 tails of other people’s affairs. She did not gossip more, nor 
 perhaps as much, as some of her Orham acquaintances. She 
 seemed to find the keenest satisfaction in knowing things 
 which others did not know, hiding them in her thin bosom, 
 and gloating over them like a crow over a hoard of glittering 
 odds and ends. 
 
 By the middle of May Calvin was strong enough to get 
 out-of-doors and sit in the sunshine for short periods on 
 pleasant days. An important item of news had come to 
 Setuckit, an item which the men, at Gammon’s suggestion, 
 did not impart to their commander. Benoni Bartlett was 
 dead. He had never recovered from the night of exposure 
 and the paralysis which followed. He grew gradually 
 
 —— eee 2. 
 
RUGGED WATER 359 
 weaker, spoke scarcely at all, and never naturally, and at 
 last died, quietly and without suffering. He was buried in 
 the Trumet cemetery beside his wife. Norma, after the 
 burial, came back to Orham, but she was not going to remain 
 there. Her former position in the Fairborough library had 
 been offered to her and, after a week of rest—for she was 
 very tired—she would, so people said, close the Ryder cot- 
 tage and go away for good. 
 
 One morning, two days after the Bartlett funeral, Seleu- 
 cus and Peleg Myrick had an interview which developed con- 
 sequences. Peleg had been up to town early and, taking 
 advantage of a good breeze, sailed down to Setuckit in the 
 Wild Duck. He was freighted with the Orham gossip, the 
 rumors concerning Norma, the village guesses as to the 
 amount of Benoni’s life insurance, and the news that Wallie 
 Oaks and his wife had had a violent disagreement, and that 
 she had gone over to her mother’s at Denboro—people said, 
 never to return. : 
 
 “Nobody blames her much,” declared Mr. Myrick. “Wal- 
 lie ain’t done a real lick of work since he quit life-savin’, and 
 I guess likely she got tired of takin’ in washin’ so’s he could 
 eat three square meals a day, and sleep and talk between 
 times. Him and Cap’n Kellogg run afoul of each other at 
 the post office, and the superintendent told him a few things 
 about himself that made all hands happy—all hands but Wal- 
 lie, 1 mean. Obed Halleck says he never heard anybody get 
 such a goin’ over as Wallie got from the cap’n. Says ’twas 
 more fun than the Uncle Tom show, and the whole post- 
 office crowd was invited free. Dear, dear! I wished I’d 
 been there.” 
 
 His wish was shared by the station men. Peleg delivered 
 his usual consignment of prognostications concerning the 
 weather, but he seemed to have something even more im- 
 portant on his mind. He inquired particularly about Mr. 
 Gammon. “Where’s Seleucus?” he wished to know. “I 
 want to see him a minute.” 
 
 Seleucus, as it happened just then, was over at the Jarvis 
 shanty. He and his wife were concluding an argument based 
 
360 RUGGED WATER 
 
 upon the question of his going to Orham. There were cer- 
 tain station errands to be done in the village and Homer, not 
 yet strong enough for the trip, had suggested his Number 
 One man’s making it in his stead. Seleucus was willing, but 
 Jemima was not. Her patient was now able to get on with- 
 out her care during the day, although she still spent her 
 nights at the station. 
 
 “No, you ain’t goin’,” she told her husband. “Let Josh 
 Phinney or Hez Rogers or some of the rest of ’em go, if 
 somebody’s got to. You say right here where you belong. 
 When I was up there you could find excuses enough to keep 
 from comin’ to see me, but now you’re crazy to get away. 
 What for? That’s what I want to know. What for?” 
 
 “TI told you what for, Jemima,” pleaded Seleucus. “Cal 
 asked me to go, and he’s my boss, ain’t he?” 
 
 “He ain’t my boss, and I say you shan’t. You’re altogether 
 too anxious. Want to cruise around and see how your pre- 
 cious Norma’s gettin’ along, I presume likely. That’s one 
 place you was goin’, wasn’t it?” 
 
 Seleucus tried hard not to appear confused, but the at- 
 tempt was a failure. He stammered and hesitated. 
 
 “Why, I was cal’latin’ to stop there just a minute,” he 
 admitted. ‘The boys wanted me to. Her father’s dead, 
 and she’s goin’ away, and it did seem as if some one of us 
 had ought to say good-by, and tell her how sorry for her 
 we all was, or—or somethin’.” 
 
 “Yes,” sarcastically. “I knew that was it. You can’t fool 
 me, Seleucus Gammon. You'll stay right here, that’s what 
 you'll do.” 
 
 “But what’ll I tell Cap’n Cal?” 
 
 “Tell him—well, you needn’t tell him anything... . 
 Say,” suspiciously, “he hasn’t given you any message to take 
 to that Bartlett girl, has he?” 
 
 “No, course he ain’t.” 
 
 “Hasn’t finished that precious letter he started to write so 
 long ago?” 
 
 “T don’t know whether he has or not. Why should I?” 
 
 Mrs. Gammon chuckled. “J know he hasn’t,” she ob- 
 
RUGGED WATER 361 
 
 served. “Not that one, anyhow. Tell me,’ she added 
 quickly, “has he said anything to you about—about missin’ 
 anything? Anything out of his trunk—or anywheres ?” 
 
 Seleucus stared at her. “Missin’ anything?” he repeated. 
 “What do you mean? What would he be likely to miss?” 
 
 “Oh, nothin’—nothin’ at all. If there is anything missin’ 
 he’ll find it again pretty soon, I shouldn’t wonder. . . . Now 
 don’t stand there with your mouth open like a codfish. Clear 
 out. I’m busy.” 
 
 But her husband still continued to stand and stare. 
 
 “Jemima,” he said slowly, “what is it you’re talkin’ about? 
 You don’t mean to tell me that you took anything out of 
 Cal Homer’s trunk? ... Jemima, you didn’t take—” 
 
 He was interrupted by a strident hail from without the 
 shanty. It was Peleg Myrick, who shouted his name. Mrs. 
 Gammon seized the opportunity to end the interview. She 
 opened the door. 
 
 “There, there!’ she called to the hermit. ‘Don’t holler 
 any more, he’s here.” Then, turning to her husband, she 
 ordered, “Go out and see what he wants, why don’t 
 you?” 
 
 Seleucus went. Mr. Myrick greeted him with an air of 
 relief, but also with a certain air of embarrassment and 
 secrecy. 
 
 “Seleucus,” he whispered, “are you busy just now? I’ve 
 got to be startin’ home right off. Got to make another trip 
 to Orham, I have, and I wanted to talk with you a little 
 spell afore I went.” 
 
 Gammon sniffed. Whatever Peleg had to talk about was 
 not likely to be important, and he was in a troubled state 
 of mind. 
 
 “All right, here I be,” he said rather impatiently. “Go 
 ahead, get it off your mind.” 
 
 But Myrick still hesitated. “It’s—it’s kind of—er—what 
 you might call a secret,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t want 
 nobody else to hear it. I ain’t sure as I’d ought to tell even 
 you, but seems ’s if I’d got to tell somebody. It’s about— 
 about. Cap’n Cal, and I know you’re about the best friend 
 
362 RUGGED WATER 
 
 he’s go. down here. Can’t we—well, walk acrost the beach 
 a little ways while I tell it to you?” 
 
 Seleucus’s interest was aroused. He took the hermit by 
 the arm. ‘“‘Come on,” he ordered. “We'll walk over towards 
 the outer beach, and you can talk while we’re doin’ it. What 
 about Cap’n Cal?” 
 
 Peleg glanced over his right shoulder, then over his left. 
 “T snum I don’t know’s I ought to tell you,” he confided. 
 ‘‘He made me swear I’d never tell anybody. . . . I ain’t so 
 tari 
 
 Gammon’s patience had been much tried that morning. 
 “And it don’t look as if you was liable to tell me in this life- 
 time,’ he observed tartly. “Come on, come on! Jf you’re 
 goin’ to tell—tell. What is it all about, anyway?” 
 
 His companion breathed heavily. “It’s about my goin’ 
 off to Taylor Gould’s catboat that mornin’ and fetchin’ 
 Benoni Bartlett up to my shanty,” he said. “You see—you 
 see, Seleucus, I never done that.” 
 
 Seleucus stopped short and gazed down into the leathery 
 face at his shoulder. 
 
 “You never done it!’ he repeated. ‘Then who did?” 
 
 “Cal Homer done it. ... Yes, he did. ’Twas him that 
 took Philander’s dory and rowed off to the Scallop Flat and 
 got Benoni. The first I knew of the whole mess was when 
 Cal pounded on my shanty door, and I went there and see 
 him holdin’ Bartlett up. I cal’late Benoni’d have fell down 
 flat if Cal hadn’t been holdin’ him by main strength. They 
 was both of ’em all in—I could see that—but, afterwards, 
 when Cal made me promise I’d never tell ’twas him done 
 it, I didn’t realize he was sick and kind of out of his head. 
 Since then l’ve thought of it and thought of it, and—” 
 
 Gammon stopped the flow of words with a shake. ‘Never 
 mind what you thought,’ he commanded. “Begin at the 
 beginnin’ and tell me the whole yarn. The whole of it. 
 Crimus ... ! Crimustee ... ! This makes it plain where 
 Cal had been that mornin’, Nobody knew, and we ain’t 
 dared mention it to him. . . . Well, heave ahead! Go on!” 
 
 Myrick told his story, rambling and commenting and pro- 
 
RUGGED WATER 363 
 
 testing, but dragged back to essentials by Seleucus’s shakes 
 and orders to hurry up. 
 
 “So I kept my word to Cal,” concluded Peleg, “and ain’t 
 told anybody. When all hands was praisin’ me up for bein’ 
 30 smart and findin’ Benoni when nobody else could, I felt 
 consider’ble mean and foolish, but I never said a word. But 
 yesterday afternoon Norma Bartlett, she run acrost me up 
 on the Main Road, and she commenced to praise me up, and 
 tell me how thankful she was to me for savin’ her poor pa 
 from dyin’ off there in the cold and wet. I declare, Seleucus, 
 I felt as if I’d been caught stealin’ hens’ aigs! I did so! 
 And she was in mournin’, you know, and looked so sort of 
 white and—and sorry, that—that—well, by Godfreys, the 
 more I thought of it the meaner I felt. Thinks I, ‘When I 
 go to Setuckit to-morrer I'll tell the whole yarn to Seleucus 
 and see what he says.’ Course I could have kept it to my- 
 self ; twas kind of nice when they printed them things about 
 me in the newspapers and all; but—but—” he paused, and 
 then added ingenuously, “I realized that some day they 
 might find out I never done it, and then ’twouldn’t be so 
 nice, you see. That’s how ’twas, Seleucus. Of course I 
 promised Cap’n Cal, and—” 
 
 But Seleucus had heard enough, quite enough. 
 
 “Sshh!” he ordered. “Hush, be still! Let me think, can’t 
 you... ? You say Norma don’t know a thing about this? 
 She thinks ’twas you saved her father that time?’ 
 
 “Why, course she-does! Why wouldn’t she?” 
 
 “She don’t know that *twas Cal, and she’s goin’ away, to 
 stay, believin’ that— By crimus! she’s got to know! She 
 has, somehow. Say, Peleg, are you startin’ right back to 
 Orham ?”’ 
 
 “Just soon’s I can get to the Wild Duck.” 
 
 “All right, you get aboard. But don’t you start till you 
 hear from me. Get sail on to her, if you want to, but don’t 
 you haul anchor till I give the word. Understand that?” 
 
 “Hey? Sartin I understand. . . . What you goin’ to do? 
 Where you goin’ ?” 
 
 Seleucus was not exactly sure what he was going to do, 
 
364 RUGGED WATER 
 
 but he intended to do something. And, at that moment, he 
 was on his way to find Calvin Homer. What he should say 
 to the latter when he did find him was another matter. He 
 had not thought as far as that. 
 
 He strode across the eighth of a mile of sand which he 
 and Myrick had traversed in their walk and hurried in at 
 the side door of the station. Calvin was, at that moment, 
 strolling along the edge of the outer beach, faithfully carry- 
 ing out the doctor’s orders concerning daily exercise. This 
 Seleucus did not know. He hastened through the mess room 
 and, without knocking, opened the door of the skipper’s 
 room and entered. 
 
 Homer was not there, but some one else was. Mrs. Gam- 
 mon was there. She was kneeling on the floor before the 
 trunk, or chest, which belonged to Calvin and in which he 
 kept his spare clothes and personal property. Jemima was 
 kneeling before that trunk and fitting a key into the lock. 
 Beside her, on the floor, lay several sheets of note paper 
 with writing upon them. 
 
 When her husband made his hurried entry she started 
 violently, sprang to her feet, and leaned against the wall in 
 the corner behind the trunk. She was pale and during their 
 long and tempestuous married life Seleucus had never seen 
 her as taken aback or at a loss for words. 
 
 “Eh?” he exclaimed. “What are you doin’ in here 
 all alone? What makes you look like that? What ails 
 you?” 
 
 Jemima did not answer. A look of relief came to her 
 face. Evidently she had not expected to see her husband. 
 but had expected—and feared—to see some one else. She 
 was still pale and agitated, however. A thief, caught in the 
 act, could not have looked more guilty. She did not speak 
 and Seleucus suddenly transferred his stare from her counte- 
 nance. to the trunk and then to the sheets of paper beside it. 
 Upon the upper sheet—it had never been folded—he could 
 read from where he stood the words, “My own dearest 
 Norma.” And he recognized the handwriting. An inkling 
 of the truth flashed to his brain. 
 
 SS = — 
 
RUGGED WATER 365 
 
 “Crimus!” he cried. “My crimustee! That letter of Cal- 
 vin’s! You was—you was takin’ it out of his chest!” 
 
 The color came back to Jemima’s face, came with a rush. 
 Her voice returned also. 
 
 “TI was not,” she retorted shrilly. “I wasn’t. I was 
 puttin’ it back. Don’t you tell him I took it. Don’t you 
 tell him I ever saw it. Don’t you dare! Get right out of 
 here!” 
 
 She made a dive for the letter, but her husband dived in 
 the same direction. Her hand seized the letter first, but 
 Seleucus’s huge paw clutched her wrist and held it tight. 
 
 “Let go of me!” she cried, twisting and struggling. “You 
 —you oh, you let go of me!’ 
 
 But he did not let go. Instead, holding her wrist with 
 his right hand, he bent her fingers back with his left, and 
 took the letter from them. Then, clutching it, he turned to 
 the door. Frantic, she sprang after him and caught him by 
 the arm. 
 
 “You give me that! You give me that!” she shrieked. 
 
 Seleucus swung about and picked her up in his arms. It 
 was the first time he had ever dared to assert himself in his 
 dealings with his wife, and, so far as is known, he never so 
 dared again—but the assertion, although short and tem- 
 porary, was complete. He bore her, struggling and kicking, 
 across the room and deposited her forcibly upon the bed. 
 
 “You stay where you be,” he ordered. Then he ran from 
 the room. 
 
 The mess room was untenanted at the time, for the men 
 were all down at the shore, amusing themselves by teasing 
 Peleg. Rogers and Cahoon had pulled his dory up on the 
 beach during his absence, and the crowd was enjoying itself 
 watching his struggles to get it afloat unaided: He had at 
 last succeeded, however, and now, with oars in place, paused 
 a stroke or two from the shore, to express his candid opinion 
 of his tormentors. 
 
 The first hint of disturbance at the station was brought to 
 the group by Seleucus himself, who came plunging toward 
 them like a charging rhinoceros. They demanded to know 
 
866 RUGGED WATER 
 
 — 
 
 what was the matter, but he neither stopped nor answered. 
 He was wearing, not rubber boots, but a thin pair of canvas 
 shoes of the variety called “sneakers.” In spite of this he 
 dashed into the cold water, waded above his knees to the 
 dory and clambered, heedless of Myrick’s frantic pleadings 
 to “look out,” over her side. 
 
 “Lay to it,’ he panted. “Row!” 
 
 Peleg began rowing toward his anchored catboat. Then, 
 from the doerway of the life-saving station came a series of 
 shrieks in a shrill and angry female voice. The men heard 
 
 them and turned to look. Peleg heard them, too, and might 
 
 have ceased rowing if his passenger had permitted. 
 
 “Go on!” roared Seleucus. “Go on, or I'll heave you over- 
 board! Faster! Lay to it!” 
 
 The Wild Duck was reached and boarded. Myrick sprang 
 to the halyards, Gammon to the anchor rope. The sail rose, 
 so did the anchor. 
 
 From the beach came a shout. 
 
 “Hi, Seleucus! Seleucus!” bellowed Bloomer. “Your 
 wife wants you. She says for you to come back.” 
 
 And then Mr. Gammon gave utterance to an answer which 
 was destined to be added, one of the choicest gems in the 
 collection, to the history and traditions of Setuckit Station. 
 
 “She can go to hell!” roared Seleucus. Then he went to 
 Orham., 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 S ELEUCUS returned late that evening. Myrick brought 
 
 him down as far as his—the hermit’s—hut on the 
 
 beach, and he had walked the rest of the way. The 
 members of the crew were already in bed when he entered 
 the station. Calvin was in his room and asleep. Mrs. 
 Gammon, for the first time, was not sitting in that room— 
 nor, as she had since his convalescence, in the mess room, 
 awaiting a possible call from him. Her attendance was no 
 longer really necessary and, even if it had been, he would 
 have been obliged to do without it that night. Jemima, after 
 her husband’s hurried departure, went straight to her 
 brother’s shanty, and there she stayed. The men, after 
 watching the Wild Duck sail away, found the lady gone 
 when they came up to the station. They were loaded with 
 curiosity and dying to ask questions, but she was not there 
 to hear or answer them. They talked about her, however. 
 Her husband’s amazing performance, and his final order, 
 the shouted suggestion that she might journey to a distant 
 and tropical port, were topics which prevented that evening 
 from dragging. The exclamations of delight and the roars 
 of laughter must have been heard at the Jarvis dwelling, but, 
 if they were, the occupant of that dwelling made no sign. 
 Philander was away, down at the weir shanty, but a lamp 
 burned in his sister’s room, and was still burning when the 
 Setuckit crew went aloft to turn in. 
 
 “She’s settin’ up for him,” announced Phinney, peering 
 out at the light. “She’s there waitin’ for him... . Oh, 
 my! oh, my! And when he does come home—Whew !” 
 
 Bloomer, looking over Josh’s shoulder, hummed a verse 
 of a sentimental ballad. 
 
 ““There’s a light in the window 
 Burns brightly for me’ ” 
 367 
 
368 RUGGED WATER 
 
 he sang. “Humph! Do you suppose he'll ever come home? 
 I wouldn’t if I was him. No sir! If it was me that told 
 Jemima Gammon to go to Tophet I’d go there myself afore 
 I’d come back where she was. ’Twouldn’t be any hotter one 
 place than the other, and I’d ruther face the Old Harry 
 than that woman. What did he do it for? Was he drunk? 
 Was he crazy? Has he caught the fever, now Cal’s got 
 rid of it, and gone off his head ?” 
 
 Calvin himself had offered a reason for Seleucus’s going 
 with Myrick to Orham. He had asked him to go there be- 
 cause there were certain errands to be done. This might 
 explain the going, but it did not explain the manner of Mr. 
 Gammon’s departure, nor his public defiance of his wife. 
 Nothing explained that. 
 
 “If I hadn’t heard it with my own ears I wouldn’t have 
 believed it,’ declared Hez Rogers. “No, and I don’t be- 
 lieve it yet. I’ve been dreamin’. Pinch me, somebody, 
 so’s I’ll wake up. . . . Ow! Consarn you, Josh, you needn’t 
 pinch so hard!” 
 
 Phinney paused at the skipper’s door on his way to the 
 stairs. He opened the door and peeped cautiously in. Homer 
 heard him and stirred. Josh was conscience stricken. 
 
 “There now!” he exclaimed remorsefully, “we’ve been 
 makin’ so much noise you couldn’t sleep, Cap’n. I’m sorry. 
 We ought to had more sense. But since Seleucus blew up 
 and went loony I cal’late it sort of touched the rest of us 
 in the head. I’m sorry enough. You all right? Anything 
 we can get you?” 
 
 Calvin declared he was perfectly all right, and would 
 probably fall asleep soon. He asked questions about the 
 weather, told Phinney to call him if anything happened and 
 bade the latter good night. He was all right, so far as his 
 bodily health was concerned; although still weak, he was 
 quite free from pain, and was traveling back to normal at a 
 satisfactory rate. But as for sleeping—that was not easy. 
 The doctor had told him that he must, that sleep was the 
 finest tonic in the world, and he did try to obtain that tonic. 
 But, while trying, he invariably fell to thinking, and his 
 
RUGGED WATER 369 
 
 thoughts were dreary and pessimistic. He must do his best 
 to get well, completely well; he supposed it was his duty 
 to do so. But, facing the situation, there alone with his 
 thoughts, he realized that he cared little what happened to 
 him. 
 
 He was still awake when Mr. Gammon tiptoed into the 
 mess room. Seleuctts meant to be very careful, but in his 
 nervousness he bumped against a chair and Calvin heard 
 him and called. Seleucus opened the door and fearfully 
 thrust in his head. 
 
 Pas ype queried. “That iyou,; Cap) Cals. POR 
 with a sigh, apparently of relief, “you’re all alone, ain’t ye? 
 She—Jemima, I mean—she ain’t here ?” 
 
 Homer informed him that his wife had not been there 
 since his departure. “I think she is over at the shanty,” 
 he added. “You'll go over, I suppose? You aren’t on duty 
 to-night.” 
 
 “No-o. No, I ain’t. Unless,” hopefully, “there’s some- 
 body that—that ain’t feelin’ well—or—or somethin’. Then 
 I could go on patrol for ’em. Id just as soon as not.” 
 
 “No, all hands are first rate. You go and see your wife. 
 She must be expecting you. . . . I hear you left in a hurry.” 
 
 “Eh... ? Um-hum. Yes, I did. Er—you see—well, 
 Peleg was goin’ up to the village and—and I thought maybe 
 I’d better go along with him. Didn’t know when I’d get 
 another chance, you see.” 
 
 “T see. Well, what did you do up there?” 
 
 “Eh? ... Oh, I done the errands all right. I don’t think 
 I forgot nothin’. The stuff from the store ‘Il be down to- 
 morrer or next day. Peleg’s got some of it aboard his boat 
 right now, and he’ll fetch it to-morrer—I mean this after- 
 noon; it’s after twelve, ain’t it? There was a little mail, and 
 I’ve got that in my pocket. Nothin’ for you, Cal. . . . Well, 
 I guess that’s all. I—I presume likely I might’s well go up 
 aloft and ‘turnin... .. Eh?” 
 
 “Wait a minute. Did you hear any news up there?” 
 
 “News. .. ? Why, no, I guess not... . Pll be gettin’ 
 on now. . . . Good night.” 
 
370 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “Wait. Who did you see up there? Where did you go?” 
 
 Mr. Gammon uneasily shifted his feet. He was thankful 
 that the room was dark. 
 
 “Oh, I just went—er—around,” he said vaguely. “Just 
 kind of ’round and—and around. I see the fellers at the 
 store and the post office, of course.” 
 
 “Didn’t you go anywhere else?” 
 
 “Who? Me.... ? Why, where was there to go? 
 There ain’t anything stirrin’ up to the village, no town-hall 
 time nor nothin’... . Well, I guess I’ll go aloft. That is, 
 unless, you bein’ sick, you’d like to have me stay here and 
 keep watch.” 
 
 “I’m not sick. And it’s a fine clear night. You'd better 
 go over to the shanty and see your wife. She’ll be expecting 
 you. Tell her all the Orham news.” 
 
 “There ain’t no news—that is, none she don’t know 
 already.” 
 
 “Well, go and see her, anyway.” 
 
 Seleucus shifted his feet again. “It seems too bad to— 
 er—disturb her, don’t it?” he stammered. “She—she don’t 
 like to be waked up, you know.” 
 
 “She probably is awake now. She'll be glad to know 
 you’re back. Go and see her.” 
 
 “We-ll,” doubtfully, “if you think I better. I suppose— 
 Say, sure you don’t need me to set up along with you? Give 
 you your medicine or somethin’ ?” 
 
 “Of course not. I’m not taking any medicine to speak 
 of. And, if I do, I don’t need any one to give it to me. 
 Go on. I must get some sleep.” 
 
 The door slowly closed. Seleucus, alone in the mess room, 
 sighed. Then he pulled at his mustache, looked at the clock, 
 and sighed again. Sighing did not help matters. He walked 
 to the window and looked out. The lamp in the Jarvis 
 shanty burned brightly. Mr. Gammon’s next sigh was ac- 
 companied by a shiver. He tightened his belt, groaned 
 aloud, and went out into the night. A minute later he en- 
 tered the Jarvis living room. Jemima was there, waiting 
 for him. 
 
RUGGED WATER 371 
 
 The patrolman—Baxter Cahoon—returning after mid- 
 night saw the Jarvis window still illumined. From behind 
 the drawn shade the sound of a voice, a shrill, animated 
 voice, drifted across the stillness. It was Mrs. Gammon’s 
 voice. Cahoon, lingering at the corner of the station to 
 listen, could. not hear what she was saying. Her husband, 
 apparently, was saying nothing. 
 
 And yet Seleucus did say something, something which 
 came to him in the nature of an inspiration, and which, like 
 a life preserver thrown to a man who had fallen overboard, 
 was destined to keep him afloat for many days to come in the 
 stormy seas of his life as Jemima Gammon’s husband. 
 Whenever those seas threatened to go over his head and 
 drown him, he took a firm grip on that life preserver and 
 the fury of Jemima’s wrath was thwarted for the time. 
 
 He had listened silently and hopelessly to the tirade with 
 which she greeted his appearance in the Jarvis living room. 
 He bore her reproaches meekly, acknowledged that maybe he 
 had been a “little mite rough” when he threw her down 
 upon the bed in Homer’s room at the station; he was 
 “dreadful sorry” for that, he confessed and for consigning 
 her to perdition when aboard the Wild Duck at the moment 
 of departure. “I guess likely I hadn’t ought to said that, 
 Jemima,” he admitted, abjectly “but, you see, I was all sort 
 of het up. Peleg had just told me somethin’ that—that 
 upset me—and then when I see you with Cal’s letter, it— 
 it just—” 
 
 She interrupted. “Where is that letter?” she demanded. 
 “You give me that letter this minute.” 
 
 “Why—why, Jemima, you see—” 
 
 “Give it to me! Hand it right over, do you hear?” 
 
 Seleucus groaned. “I can’t,” he confessed. “I ain’t got 
 it. I—I give it to—to somebody else.” 
 
 She sprang from her chair. ‘“You—you give it to some- 
 body else!” she repeated. “You give itto— What! Seleu- 
 cus Gammon, did you give that letter to—to her?” 
 
 Mr. Gammon nodded. ‘“That’s what I done, Jemima,” 
 he said, in complete surrender. “You see, ’twas her letter— 
 
372 RUGGED WATER 
 
 Cal was writin’ it to her and—and, bein’ as she was goin’ 
 away so soon—for good—I—I—well, I went right up to 
 where she lives soon’s I got ashore and give it to her... . 
 Whether ’twas the thing to do or not don’t make any differ- 
 ence now. We can’t change it; Norma’s got the letter.” 
 
 His wife’s face had been crimson; now, it turned 
 white. 
 
 “Did you—did you tell her how you got it?” she cried. 
 “Did you tell her about—about me?’ 
 
 Seleucus shook his head. “I never mentioned your name, 
 Jemima,” he declared. “Course I didn’t. She don’t know 
 you ever see it. She thinks J—I found it on the floor in 
 Cal’s room. That’s what she thinks.” 
 
 Jemima caught her breath. 
 
 “She—she better think so,” she declared, with savage em- 
 phasis. “If you ever let her think anything else—if you 
 ever tell one soul that I took that letter out of Cal Homer’s 
 trunk, PI—VIl—_ O-o-oh, if you ever do!” 
 
 And it was here that inspiration came to Seleucus. He 
 raised his head; there was a new note in his voice. 
 
 “T shan’t, Jemima,” he said, slowly; “I shan’t tell, never— 
 unless—”’ 
 
 “Unless! Unless what?” 
 
 “Why, unless you make me desperate, same as you done 
 over there this morn. If you keep on pitchin’ into me and 
 —and layin’ me out same as youre doin’ now, if you get me 
 all worked up and—and reckless—why, you can’t tell what 
 I might do. You couldn’t tell what any man might do if 
 he was drove half crazy. So long’s you treat me—er—kind 
 of decent and—and reasonable Ill never tell a soul, you 
 can bet on it. But if—if I get where I can’t stand it any 
 longer, I—I’’—with earnest solemnity—“I might blow up 
 and tell all hands. I wouldn’t swear I wouldn’t. A desper- 
 ate man ain’t responsible for what he does or says in them 
 cases. You'll have to be—er—kind of—well, considerate 
 of me, Jemima.” 
 
 Mrs. Gammon’s face was crimson again, and now, as she 
 struggled with her emotions, it became purple. She choked, 
 
RUGGED WATER 373 
 
 panted, and stared at her husband. Seleucus remained 
 silent, but there was determination in his look and attitude. 
 
 Jemima’s clutching fingers slowly straightened 
 
 “Oh, go to bed!” she gasped. “Go to bed!” 
 
 Mr. Gammon gratefully obeyed the order, but he hugged 
 the life preserver to his breast. It could be used again— 
 even, perhaps, again and again. 
 
 A weary and silent Seleucus Gammon appeared in the 
 mess room at breakfast time. He was warmly greeted. His 
 comrades were very glad to see him back, they said so. They 
 said many things, but Seleucus was noncommunicative. He 
 would not talk, but apparently would have been quite willing 
 to fight. In fact, his manner became so truculent, and his 
 few remarks so personal, that the men, acting upon a hint 
 from the keeper, let him alone. 
 
 “He’s had trouble enough, boys,” said Homer. “And he 
 is a good fellow. Don’t nag him into punching somebody. 
 We've had all the trouble down here we need. I have, at 
 any rate. Let him alone.” 
 
 So, for the time, they did let him alone; but the surcease 
 was but temporary. As long as he remained in the service 
 he was destined to be favored with casual reminders of his 
 one assumption of power as head of his household. 
 
 ““Now—now—now, Seleucus!”? one man or another would 
 protest. “Don’t get up on your high horse. Don’t try to 
 bully the rest of us around the way you do that poor little 
 wife of yours. We can’t stand it; we’re scared of you. Be 
 easy on us as youcan. Save your bullyraggin’ and cussin’ 
 for Jemima.” 
 
 Seleucus pretended to ignore these jocularities and bore 
 them with fortitude. There were times when, in spite of 
 the life preserver, he almost wished he had been less eneretic, 
 certainly less public, in his one outbreak against petticoat 
 tyranny. But there were other moments when the memory 
 of the uprising was pleasant to dwell upon. It had been 
 wonderfully comforting while it lasted. 
 
 Spring, real and genuine, came to Setuckit a few days 
 
374 RUGGED WATER 
 
 later. One morning the sun rose in a sky unsmirched by 
 the smallest cloud. The wind, blowing lazily from the south, 
 was almost warm. The great sea gulls, their wings glistening 
 in the light, dipped and sailed and circled above their fishing 
 grounds along the edge of the point rip. Where the long 
 sand flat thrust a yellow fringe out into the cove the terns— 
 “mackerel gulls” or “kyaks,”’ the life-savers called them— 
 were clustered in bunches that, from a distance, looked like 
 banks of snow. The roofs and steeples of Orham rose in 
 clean-cut outline above the eastward horizon. The entire 
 crescent of sea, from Broad Rip back to the Crow Ledge, 
 was dotted with white sails or black tugs and scows. 
 
 “She’s come, boys,” declared Ellis Badger, stretching him- 
 self luxuriously before the door of the station. “Here she 
 is. Reg’lar spring weather and no make-believe. No more 
 no’theasters for a long spell. No more icicles on your eye- 
 winkers when you go for a little cruise off yonder in the 
 channel.” 
 
 “Not till next winter, anyhow,” agreed Josh Phinney. 
 “Well, it’s time we had it fair and smooth. We've earned a 
 rest, we fellows here at Setuckit. We've hauled the old boat 
 through a whole lot of mighty rugged water since last fall.” 
 
 “It’s pretty nigh time,” went on Badger, “to think about 
 plantin’ garden up home. My wife’s cal’latin’ to pick con- 
 sider’ble many strawberries this season. She done pretty 
 well last year, but the bed’ll be better now. Strawberries and 
 cream! How’s that notion set on your digestion, eh, old 
 galt-hay mustache?” smiting Mr. Gammon a mighty thump 
 on the back. 
 
 Calvin went out after dinner that forenoon for a walk 
 along the outer beach. Doctor Palmer had examined him 
 the day before and pronounced him well. “I shan’t come 
 again unless you send for me,” said the doctor. “All you 
 need now is to keep out-of-doors in good weather and inside 
 when it is bad. Eat—or try to eat. And don’t let the sta- 
 tion work fret you. The busy season is over; there won't 
 be any storms to amount to anything, and if a vessel should 
 get into trouble, let Gammon handle the boat. “Another 
 
RUGGED WATER 375 
 
 month, and you can do it yourself; but what you need now 
 is strength. I’ve told Cap’n Kellogg that and he told me 
 that those were his orders to you. He is coming down to 
 see you pretty soon, and he’ll give them to you himself. And, 
 one other thing! Cheer up! Get hold of your nerves. Grin 
 once ina while. You’ve got a lot to be thankful for. Don’t 
 go around looking as if you’d lost your last friend. You 
 haven’t, you know.” 
 
 To Calvin, however, it seemed that he had done just 
 that. The one friend that counted—who had been so much 
 more than friend—had left him and her leaving was his 
 fault. He wondered what she was doing, how she was get- 
 ting on with her sick father. The tidings of Bartlett’s death 
 and burial had been carefully kept from his ears. “Don’t 
 tell him yet awhile,” commanded the doctor. “This rumpus 
 down here was, more than anything else, responsible for his 
 getting into the condition where he was ready for any sort 
 of sickness that came along. He worries over it. I think 
 he is afraid people may say he put Bartlett out so as to get 
 the keeper’s place. Everybody knows he didn’t—every one 
 worth while, that is—but don’t tell him Benoni is dead. Wait 
 until his nerves are stronger.” 
 
 Seleucus, too, was very insistent on that point. “Cal 
 thought consider’ble of the old man,” he declared. “Yes, 
 he did, even if he did stand up against him when he had to. 
 If we tell him Bologny’s petered out he'll figger he helped 
 kill him. We'll break it to him by and by, when he 1s better. 
 Maybe Kellogg’ll tell him when he comes; Kellogg or—or 
 somebody.” 
 
 So Calvin remained in ignorance of this additional blow 
 which had befallen Norma. His memories of the strenuous 
 morning when he rescued his former captain from the 
 stranded catboat on the Scallop Flat were still rather vague, 
 almost as foggy as that morning had been, but they were 
 coming back to him. He remembered forcing Peleg Myrick 
 into promising to keep silent concerning the fact that it was 
 he who had brought Bartlett ashore. As he thought of it 
 now he wondered why he had been so stubborn in that mat- 
 
376 RUGGED WATER 
 
 ter. There was no essential, sensible reason why Norma 
 should not have known that he found and saved her father. 
 Nevertheless, he was glad she did not know. It would only 
 remind her of him, and she would not wish to be reminded. 
 Yes, he had used common sense even when half crazy. 
 Strange, for he could, even now, remember next to noth- 
 ing of what had happened after he left the hermit’s door. 
 The telephone message by which Captain Nelson informed 
 him that Peleg had reported Benoni’s presence at the shanty 
 he had forgotten altogether. And yet he had taken down 
 the receiver and listened to that message. 
 
 He walked on, by the water’s edge, in the glorious sun- 
 shine of that May morning, thinking these thoughts and 
 others, until he reached the end of the point. Then he 
 turned up the beach and sat down upon the sand at the 
 foot of a high bank, which—the lightly waving beach grass 
 fringing its top—shut him from view from the station, even 
 from the tower. There was no intention in his mind of 
 getting out of sight; the bank cut off the breeze, that was 
 all, and the sunlight was warmer there. 
 
 He sat there for some time. If he had not been so lost 
 in his thoughts, none of them too agreeable, he would have 
 heard the rattle of a vehicle approaching over the rutted 
 road leading between the dunes to the station. He did not 
 hear it and it was only when he chanced to look up and 
 glance down the beach that he became aware some one was 
 walking toward him, following the footprints he had left 
 in the moist sand just below high-tide mark. He looked— 
 and looked—not believing the evidence of his eyes. Then 
 he sprang to his feet. 
 
 The person walking toward him, now only a little way off, 
 was the one person whom he had never expected to see 
 again—Norma Bartlett. 
 
 She saw him, too, and waved her hand. He stood there, 
 weak and pale and trembling, his newly and partially re- 
 zained strength scarce proof against the shock. Norma! 
 She was here—-at Setuckit! Why had she come? What 
 could her coming mean? 
 
RUGGED WATER 377 
 
 And, as she drew nearer, he noticed something strange, 
 something different, in her appearance. She was in black— 
 a small black hat, a black shirt, a white shirt waist. Not a 
 touch of color about her anywhere. Why, she was—she 
 must be in mourning! And then the truth came to him. 
 Her father must be dead. Bartlett must have died while he, 
 Homer, was sick, and, because he was sick, they had not 
 told him. 
 
 The realization of this obvious truth and of the grief she 
 must be suffering, made him forget even the tremendous 
 surprise at seeing her there; he ceased to wonder why she 
 had come. He stepped toward her, holding out his hands. 
 
 “Norma!” he cried. “Norma! Oh, I’m so sorry! So 
 sorry for you. It—it is your father, isn’t it? He—” 
 
 She took his hands. Her acceptance of them was, of 
 itself, something quite different from what he might have 
 expected—-would have expected if he had had time to think 
 clearly. He looked into her face and she into his. 
 
 “Oh, how white and—and tired you look!” he exclaimed. 
 
 She smiled bravely. Yet, as she looked at him, her eyes 
 grew wet. 
 
 “You are so white and thin,” she said. “And you have 
 been so sick, haven’t you?” 
 
 “Oh, I’m all right now. Yes, I am all right. But you— 
 it is your father, of course? When—” 
 
 “A week—yes, nearly ten days ago. But I thought you 
 didn’t know. They said no one had told you.” 
 
 “No one had. But when I saw you—dressed like this— 
 I guessed. I knew it must be. I am so sorry. You believe 
 that, don’t you? It... . I think perhaps I had better sit 
 down again. I am a little shaky on my pins still, and this— 
 this seems to—” 
 
 She put her hand upon his arm. “Yes, sit down,” she 
 urged. “Please sit down.” 
 
 He hesitated. “But you—you won’t go—” 
 
 “No, I will sit beside you. ... You are all right now? 
 You are not going to—to faint, or anything?” 
 
 He laughed, weakly, at the idea. “Faint!” he repeated. 
 
378 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “T never did faint and I never saw any one do it but once. 
 That was when Ed Bloomer keeled over after we pulled his 
 shoulder into place. No, I shan’t faint. I was dizzy, that’s 
 all. That confounded rheumatism took it out of me, I sup- 
 pose, and that 1s why I am acting like a kid. . . . But you? 
 You have been through all that and I didn’t know! Why 
 didn’t they tell me? They ought to have told me!” 
 
 He flushed angrily at the thought. She saw his agitation, 
 and, sitting beside him, put her hand upon his, 
 
 “T am very glad they didn’t tell you,” she said gently. “It 
 would only have worried you and you have had worry and 
 trouble enough on our account—poor father’s and mine. 
 Calvin, I came here to-day to ask your forgiveness. Can 
 you forgive me?” 
 
 He gazed at her. ‘Forgive you!” he repeated. “J forgive 
 you. .. | Norma, why—why—’” 
 
 “Hush! Don’t look like that. You frighten me. I shall 
 think you are going to be ill again. Listen, please. I have 
 so much to tell you.” 
 
 “Yes—yes, I’ll listen, of course. But, Norma, why did 
 you come? How did you get here? What—?” 
 
 “Please be quiet and listen. Please! I'll tell you all about 
 it. Captain Kellogg brought me. I rode down with him. 
 Mr. Gammon said you were walking here at the point and 
 IT came, as soon as he told me, to find you. Captain Kellogg 
 has been very, very kind to me. He has been a wonderful 
 friend when I needed friends so much. And he is your 
 friend, too. Sois Mr.Gammon. We both have good friends, 
 Calvin. And oh, how much we owe to them!” 
 
 She had called him Calvin again. And her tone, her look, 
 her manner toward him! Why— _ He seized her hand in 
 both of his. 
 
 “Norma!” he cried once more. 
 
 “Hush! Remember you promised to listen. And there 
 is so much to tell. Calvin, I have treated you dreadfully. 
 I realized it—I think I began to realize it almost that very 
 day after father and I went away from here. But I wouldn’t 
 admit it, even to myself. You see, I—well, I was jealous, 
 
RUGGED WATER 379 
 
 I suppose. Yes, I know I was. I couldn’t understand how 
 you could ever possibly have cared for that Fuller girl. I— 
 I never liked her and—oh, she isn’t nice! I—but there, we 
 won't talk about her, will we?” 
 
 He colored and looked away. “I don’t wonder you can’t 
 understand that,” he said. “I don’t understand it, myself, 
 now. She—she—well, what I told you was the truth. I 
 never did care for her really, and—oh, I am ashamed of it 
 all... ! But there! it was all my fault. You did the right 
 thing in getting rid of me. I have never blamed you in the 
 least. Any decent girl would have given up a fellow who 
 treated her as I did you. And then, when I wasn’t man 
 enough to tell you—” 
 
 She leaned toward him. “Don’t!” she pleaded. “You 
 mustn’t say that. You did tell me. You tried to tell me.” 
 
 “Yes, after you found it out from some one else.” 
 
 “No, before that. In the letter you wrote me. Calvin, I 
 have read that letter.” 
 
 He turned and stared. “Which letter?” he asked. 
 
 “Both of them. The letter you wrote to me at Fair- 
 borough; they forwarded it to me afterward.” 
 
 “But there was nothing about—about her in that.” 
 
 “No. But there were ever so many other things, about 
 father and your reasons for taking out the boat when he 
 told you not to. Everything you told me you had written. 
 I was almost happy when I read that letter; or I should 
 have been if I had not been so ashamed of myself. I—you 
 know I had doubted whether you ever wrote it. I had.” 
 
 “T don’t wonder you did. You had reason enough to doubt 
 my doing anything decent and honest.” 
 
 “No. No, I hadn’t. I should have known—for I knew 
 you. But I was jealous and hateful and generally wicked 
 just then. But I thought and thought—and grew more 
 sensible, I hope, and when they told me how ill you were, I 
 —well, I think I should have come to you even then, if it 
 had not been for father. ... And then, when I got the 
 other letter—” 
 
 “Other letter! What letter ?” 
 
380 RUGGED WATER 
 
 “The one you began to write me and never finished. The 
 one in which you told me the whole truth about—about her. 
 When I got that—” 
 
 “But wait—wait! I didn’t send you that letter. It was 
 in my trunk. I was writing it the night before your father 
 —before the trouble happened. You couldn’t have got that 
 letter.” 
 
 She smiled. “Yes, I did,” she said. “Mr. Gammon 
 brought it to me three days ago. He came to the cottage 
 with it. He said he had found it on the floor of your room 
 and saw my name at the beginning of it and brought it to 
 me.” 
 
 “But—but it wasn’t on the floor of my room. It couldn’t 
 have been. It was locked up in my trunk. How could he 
 have got it?” 
 
 “Hush! hush! You mustn’t excite yourself so. Never 
 mind how he got it. I think, myself, there is some mystery 
 about his getting it; he was very much fussed and behaved 
 queerly enough when he was there. But what does it mat- 
 ter? Why should we care about that? I read it as soon as 
 he had gone, and I have read it I can’t tell you how many 
 times since... . And that wasn’t all he came to see me 
 about. He told me that it was you, and not Peleg Myrick, 
 who went out in that storm, as sick as you were, and found 
 father and brought him to the shore. . . . Oh, what is it? 
 Are you feeling badly? Shall I call some one?” 
 
 She would have risen but he held her hand and prevented 
 her doing so. 
 
 “No—no!” he protested. “I’m all right. These things 
 are coming pretty fast, that’s all. They make my head 
 swim. ... Let me get it straight. Seleucus told you that 
 J—Seleucus told you that?” 
 
 “Yes. He told me all about it.” 
 
 “But how did he know? No one knew that but Peleg, 
 and Peleg promised me he wouldn’t tell. He must have 
 told, though. Confound him, of course he did!” 
 
 “Yes, he did, he told Mr. Gammon. Oh, you mustn’t blame 
 him. He didn’t tell for ever so long, but when, so Seleucus 
 
RUGGED WATER 381 
 
 says, I met him on the street in Orham and thanked him 
 for saving father, he couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. 
 His conscience troubled him.” 
 
 “Humph! Conscience! I guess the real reason was he 
 was afraid some one might find it out, and he would get into 
 trouble. Well, he is in trouble now. Wait until I see him, 
 that’s all. And Seleucus, too.” 
 
 “Hush! You mustn’t say that. Can’t you understand 
 how grateful I am to both of them? Suppose I had found 
 it out, afterwards. Long afterwards, after I had gone away. 
 Suppose I never found it out, any of it, but had gone away 
 thinking—what I did think. ... Calvin, why didn’t you 
 want me to know? Tell me, please.” 
 
 He did not answer. It was something else she had said 
 which caught his attention. 
 
 “Going away,” he said, slowly. ‘Where are you going?” 
 
 “T am going back to Fairborough. They have offered me 
 my position—the one I used to have—in the library. I must 
 go, you know. I must earn something. Father’s sickness, 
 and all the rest, have taken almost all the money I had 
 saved. I must get back to work at once.” 
 
 He did not speak. She was watching him intently, and 
 she saw his expression change. 
 
 “T shan’t try to thank you for—for doing that for father,” 
 she said. “You were ill, and—and you risked your own 
 life. . . . Don’t say you didn’t. I know you did. Of course 
 you did. And, because you did, you—you almost lost it.” 
 
 She paused. Then, after a moment, she continued. 
 
 “But why did you make Mr. Myrick promise not to tell?” 
 she asked. “Calvin, why didn’t you want any one to know? 
 Tell me that, please.” 
 
 He was not looking at her, and he stirred uneasily. 
 
 “Oh, it was just a crazy notion of mine,” he muttered. 
 “T guess I must have been half crazy that morning, anyway.” 
 
 “But you had some reason, you must have had. What 
 was it?” 
 
 He smiled, rather bitterly. “Well,” he confessed, “I 
 thought—I suppose ! thought you had had trouble enough 
 
382 RUGGED WATER 
 
 on my account. You wanted to forget me, and you should, 
 of course. If you heard 1 was mixed up with finding your 
 father it would remind you of me again, and only make more 
 trouble for you. You might think you ought to thank me, 
 perhaps—think it was something you had to do. I didn’t 
 want you to feel that way.” 
 
 He heard her draw a quick breath. “Thank you!” she 
 exclaimed. “Surely you couldn’t believe I wouldn’t want 
 to thank you!” 
 
 ‘There is no reason why you should. Looking after people 
 and boats that have gone adrift is part of my job, that’s all. 
 That’s what they pay me my seventy-five a month for. Don’t 
 say any more about it, Norma. And you shouldn’t have 
 come way down here for that.” 
 
 She, too, was silent, for an instant. Then she said quietly, 
 “But I didn’t. That wasn’t why I came. I think—yes, I 
 am almost sure I should have come even if Mr. Gammon 
 had never brought me your letter or told me of your saving 
 father. I think I should have come, anyway. Or, perhaps, 
 written you to come to Orham and see me.” 
 
 He looked at her now. The color came to her cheeks 
 as he did so, but her eyes met his, brave and unfaltering. 
 
 “Why?” he demanded. 
 
 “Can’t you imagine why? I should think it was plain 
 enough.” 
 
 He did not try to imagine. 
 
 “Why did you come?” he insisted. 
 
 “I came because—oh, because I was ashamed of myself! 
 And I wanted you to know it. I don’t believe I could have 
 gone away without telling you so. IJ—’” 
 
 But now he interrupted. He put his arms about her, 
 quickly, almost roughly, and drew her to him. 
 
 “Norma!” he cried, ““Norma, do you mean—do you care 
 for me now? Do you? Do you?” 
 
 She looked up at him, then down. 
 
 “TI should think that was almost apparent,’ she said. 
 “This looks as if I did, doesn’t it?” 
 
 There was an interval here, a rather long interval. She 
 
RUGGED WATER 383 
 
 ae 
 
 was the first to speak; perhaps she would have spoken sooner 
 if she could, if he had permitted it. 
 
 “Calvin dear,” she said, “don’t you think you had better 
 go back to the station now? You have been out here a long 
 while. And you have been sick, you know.” 
 
 Sick! He laughed aloud. “I’m better this minute than 
 I’ve ever been before since I was here,” he declared. “And 
 I’m not going yet. Why, I’ve got a million things to say to 
 you, and that I want you to say to me... . Did you—did 
 you really come way down here just to tell me that you were 
 willing to forgive me? Did you?” 
 
 “No, of course I didn’t. I came to tell you how ashamed 
 I was of myself, and how proud I was of you—-and some 
 other things, perhaps, although I rather hoped you might 
 tell them to me first.” 
 
 He told them then; as a matter of fact, he had been telling 
 them over and over again for five minutes or more. She, 
 however, seemed willing to listen to the repetitions. But, 
 at last, she insisted upon their discussing other, although 
 less important, matters. 
 
 “We have so much to say,” she declared, “and such a 
 little time to say it in. You must go back to the station— 
 you must. They will be coming to look for you pretty 
 soon.” 
 
 He looked at his watch. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly, 
 “IT suppose I must. It is almost drill time—and Kellogg is 
 there, isn’t he? But we’ve got a few minutes yet. Norma, 
 you believe I never really cared at all for Myra Fuller, 
 don’t you?” , 
 
 She put her hand to his lips. “Hush!” she said. “You 
 and I are not going to mention that person’s name again— 
 ever. Are we?” 
 
 “You bet we aren’t!” he declared, and meant it. 
 
 “No. And now we must be very sensible and talk about 
 ourselves and our plans. I am going to Fairborough day 
 after to-morrow. ... Oh, yes, I must! And you must 
 stay here, and do your work, of course. We will write 
 each other every day and, perhaps, see each other once m 
 
384 RUGGED WATER 
 
 a while. And we must work very hard and save all we can, 
 because—well, you know why, don’t you, dear?” 
 
 He nodded. “I'll work, you may be sure of that,” he 
 declared. “But I’m not going to be satisfied with this kind 
 of work long. I’m going ahead now; I’ve got something to 
 work for. Life-saving is the best fun on earth, for me, 
 anyhow—but I’ll get fun enough out of something with a 
 better future and that pays better. I shall stick here until 
 Kellogg can find another keeper. I hope he’ll give the chance 
 to Seleucus; he is a good fellow, and an able man, although 
 his reports might be hard to read. I shall stay at Setuckit as 
 long as the superintendent feels he can’t do without me. I 
 owe him that much. But, while I’m here, I shall be putting 
 over my lines for something worth while. Why, he told me, 
 himself—Cap’n Kellogg did—that, if I really wanted it, 
 he guessed he could place me with one of the Boston and 
 Savannah steamship lines. It might not be so much of a 
 job to start with, but I’ll make it more in a hurry. You 
 watch me, Norma. With you to work for, if I don’t earn 
 money and get ahead, then—” 
 
 She laughed happily. ‘Hush! hush!” she said. “Good- 
 ness, how excited you are! Of course you will get ahead. 
 There isn’t a bit of doubt about that. And as for the money, 
 I shall earn some myself. And, after all, what does all that 
 matter to you and me—now? It doesn’t seem to me that 
 anything really matters now—except this. . . . And we must 
 go back to the station.” 
 
 He rose to his feet. She, too, rose and stood beside him. 
 He drew a long breath. She was right, absolutely right. 
 With her beside him he could—and would—get on in the 
 world. He was young and, therefore, for him that world 
 was full of opportunities. The harder the fight the better 
 he should like it. And it would be for her that he fought. 
 They would be together. That was the essential thing, the 
 only thing that really mattered. 
 
 He squared his shoulders, and, figuratively speaking, 
 snapped his fingers at the future. He, Calvin Homer, 
 twenty-six years old, and, at present, keeper of the Setuckit 
 
RUGGED WATER 385 
 
 Life-Saving Station at a wage of seventy-five dollars a month 
 and found, had that future conquered, or as good as con- 
 quered, already. Twenty-six, and the girl he loved beside 
 him! Why—it was easy! 
 
 He pulled his cap down upon his head. 
 
 “Now watch me handle that boat drill,’ he announced 
 triumphantly. 
 
 (6) 
 
 THE END 
 
Wega oat 
 
 rl ‘bot ¥ 
 
| oe 
 
 ‘a 
 
 Wee 
 dah Bre ‘ : 
 . Me | 
 
 ) ae 
 
 ree 
 
 — eee 
 
 > 
 
 oe 
 
ek. 
 o7gter tieteiers). 
 
 } 
 
 wpe SoS 
 
 ene 
 . 
 
 ft 2 
 ot i